CHAPTER 15
Not everyone taken by the Shadow Guard dies.
That conversation has haunted me ever since.
Not because I suddenly believe Onyx. I don't—not completely.
But I can't seem to convince myself that he's lying, either, because he’s never lied to me.
His words have taken root, digging into every story Elvora ever told me and forcing cracks straight through the middle.
If the Shadow Guard does not always kill magical people, where do they take them? And why? What secrets does Thorin hide in this palace?
The door opens behind me, and I glance over my shoulder to find Mazelle standing there in her perfectly tailored black uniform. I roll my eyes, thoroughly tired of her intrusion every morning.
“You could knock,” I say.
“I did not need to.”
“Don’t you have anything better to do than harass me?”
Her dark eyes sweep over me once, lingering on my bare feet, the loose curls spilling over my shoulders, and the blanket wrapped around me. She looks thoroughly unimpressed.
“Get dressed.”
“Why does everyone in this palace enjoy ordering me around?”
Honestly, I'd like one day where no one tells me what to do. Maybe I want to stay in bed, wrap myself in this blanket, and quietly rot for a few hours.
“Because you rarely do anything useful without instruction.”
I blink. That one lands. Not because it hurts—I refuse to give her that much satisfaction—but because it's genuinely clever, and I resent finding her amusing.
I push the blanket off my shoulders and stand. “Is His Majesty sending me back to the dead garden? I can’t resurrect the garden, I don’t know why we keep trying.”
“No, we are not doing that today.”
My irritation falters. “No?”
“It appears you are hard of hearing. Shall I summon a healer?” She pauses, her expression perfectly blank. “Ah. I forgot. You are the healer. A pity you can't mend your own ears. It would save me the inconvenience of repeating myself.”
“Ah yes, I imagine it must annoy you to no end.” A sly grin crosses my face as she shifts, and I catch the glint in her eyes. She looks cheerier than usual. That has to be a bad signal for me. “Has the garden recovered because of my magic?”
“As you so confidently pointed out, the garden is dead. Your magic remains ineffective there.”
“How rude of it.”
Ignoring me, Mazelle walks past the hearth to my armoire and pulls out a neatly folded bundle of black leathers. She sets them on the bed before turning to face me.
“What is this?” I ask, staring at the black leathers before looking back at Mazelle.
“Training attire.” One dark brow arches. “Is your eyesight failing as well?”
My suspicion rises immediately. “I don’t usually wear this type of training attire.”
“You have clothing suitable for the gardens. Today is different.”
My ears perk up immediately. Different is not a comforting word in this palace. Different usually means inconvenient, painful… or both.
Mazelle’s expression remains as unreadable as ever, which does absolutely nothing to reassure me.
“What kind of training?”
“Physical. Can you stop your line of questioning?”
I stare at her. Look at the clothes. Look back at her.
“...Are you feeling well?” Her eyebrows crease with concern as she steps closer to examine me.
“No, in fact I think I’m coming down with a terrible illness. Very sudden. Possibly fatal.”
Her brow lifts. “Really? How inconvenient. Heal yourself.”
“Do people here not understand when someone is clearly implying no?”
“For you, no. You do realize that refusing is not an option?”
“It’s always an option, Mazelle. Rarely a successful one, but still.”
Mazelle folds her hands neatly in front of her.
“Your body must be strong enough to preserve your mind. Magic does not only draw from power; it draws from endurance, pain, fear, and discipline. If your body fails, your mind follows. If your mind breaks, your magic will not ask permission before it destroys everything within reach.”
For once, I have no immediate response, because she is right. I hate that. She seems to know it too.
Her gaze sharpens, almost satisfied. “You think your magic is separate from you because you have spent your life hiding it. That is not control. That is avoidance.”
My jaw tightens. “Did Thorin tell you to say that?”
“No,” she says. “I have eyes, and I use them.”
I dislike that answer because, annoyingly, it's a fair assessment.
Mazelle turns toward the door. “You know how much time you have. I’ll see you shortly.”
Then she leaves.
* * *
I stand there for a long moment, staring at the training clothes and trying very hard not to feel unsettled.
Physical training I understand in theory.
I know how to run. I know how to fight dirty when cornered.
I know how to use a dagger well enough to surprise arrogant men who assume my size makes me harmless.
I have survived Elvora, the woods, hunger, and Onyx’s personality. Surely I can survive Mazelle.
Probably. Maybe. She is the Lieutenant of the king’s guard. Gods, I might be in trouble.
The clothes fit surprisingly well, molding to my figure without feeling restrictive.
The trousers hug my legs comfortably, the fitted tunic laces neatly at my waist, and the leather boots are so soft I can't help but wonder how I spent twenty-one years walking around in ragged ones.
I gather my curls into a loose braid, but stubborn silver strands escape before I even finish tying it off.
Fine. Let them escape. At least one part of me should.
Mazelle is waiting outside my chambers with Onyx, Briar, and Riven when I step into the corridor. Briar shoots me a sympathetic look. Riven, on the other hand, looks far too pleased with himself, as though he'd love nothing more than to see me knocked on my ass.
I point a finger at him. “Don't look so excited.”
Riven's eyes widen with practiced innocence. “I would never, Lady Tarethyn.”
“You absolutely would, and you fucking know it.”
“Enough,” Mazelle says, already striding down the corridor.
I fall into step beside her, resisting the urge to drag my feet like a child being marched toward punishment.
The guards follow a few paces behind us, their armor clinking softly with every step.
I can't decide whether they're here because Mazelle expects me to run...
or because she wants witnesses for what is almost certainly about to become the most embarrassing moment of my life. Knowing Mazelle, possibly both.
We don't head toward the Sacred Gardens this time. Instead, Mazelle leads me through a lower level of the palace I haven't seen before. Granted, that isn't saying much. I've seen embarrassingly little of this palace.
The corridors widen as we descend, the stone floors scuffed in places where countless boots have worn them smooth. The air smells different here. Less fragrant, more iron, sweat, and oil.
We emerge onto an enclosed training court open to the gray sky.
High black walls surround the arena on every side, with a stone walkway running along the top where guards stand watching below.
Their eyes follow us as we step onto the dark sand, making it abundantly clear that whatever is about to happen is expected to be worth watching.
Several guards are training in pairs across the yard. They stop immediately when Mazelle enters. That tells me far more than any title could.
Mazelle strides into the court like she owns it, and perhaps in some terrifying way, she does. Every soldier straightens. Riven moves to the side wall, arms crossed, watching with quiet interest.
Onyx slows just enough to murmur as he passes, "Don’t let her get close to you." Then he keeps walking toward the wall with Briar close on his heels. I should probably be worried.
Mazelle stops in the center of the yard and turns to face me.
“What exactly are we doing?” I ask.
“Establishing how much work you require.”
I grimace. “That sounds insulting. I’m not that bad with hand-to-hand combat.”
“If you took it as an insult, that speaks to your confidence, not mine.” She smirks, settling into a defensive stance.
I glance around the yard, noting the number of guards watching.
“And this requires an audience?”
“They are training.”
“No, they’re staring. There’s a difference. I don’t need spectators for training.”
“We’ll just call it multitasking.”
I narrow my eyes. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Immensely.”
There it is again. That almost-humor. That tiny sliver of personality beneath the severe uniform and colder-than-death expression. I would like it more if I were not almost certain she is about to hurt me.
Mazelle removes her gloves and hands them to the closest guard. The gesture is simple, but the guards nearest us shift subtly, attention sharpening. Riven’s expression brightens.
Oh. Oh no.
I look at Mazelle with a flat expression. “You're not going to go easy on me, are you?”
“Why would I?” she asks. “I am here to see what you're made of.”
I blink. “So...you're training me.”
She sighs, sounding thoroughly exhausted by my inability to keep up. “Yes.”
“With what weapon?”
“None. You will become the weapon.”
I stare at her. She rolls her shoulders once, loosening them with effortless grace. “If someone gets close enough to disarm you, your blade alone might not be enough to save you. Your magic may not be, either—especially if you panic. You need to learn how to stay on your feet.”
I frown. “I’m excellent at standing.”
“You nearly collapsed onto the rug your first day here.”
I scoff, deeply offended. “I was emotionally overwhelmed by the architecture.”
Mazelle’s mouth twitches, then she moves.
She’s fast. Too fast. One moment she’s several feet away, the next her hand catches my wrist and twists.
Pain flashes up my arm, sharp enough to steal a gasp from my throat.
I react on instinct, stepping with the pressure instead of against it and trying to hook my foot behind her ankle. It almost works. Almost.