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There was the sound of shuffling, metal scraping against stone. Finally, the eyes tracked the movement, and confusion flooded through me at what they found. Ma stood between two men in emerald uniforms, their gloved hands locked around her arms as they dragged her forward. Her silver-streaked hair had fallen loose from its knot, and hibiscus stains still dotted her hands as they forced her to her knees below the throne.

I wanted to run, to scream, to move—to do anything to stop what was about to happen. But I remained frozen, trapped in this body that wouldn't respond to my desperate commands.

"Maladea Thiston. State your crimes against the Crown." The voice dripped with malice, almost gleeful in its accusation.

Ma's face twisted into a scowl as she looked up, then spat in the direction of the throne. The glob of saliva landed inches from the pristine marble steps.

The room gasped. Steel hissed against leather as swords cleared their sheaths.

"If the traitor won't accept or deny her charges, then I'm afraid she leaves me no choice." A pause hung in the air, heavy with anticipation. "Maladea Thiston. You are hereby charged with the murder of King Sydian."

Shock rippled through the crowd like a wave before the room went deathly quiet. My heart thundered so hard I thought it might break free of this borrowed ribcage.

"You were tasked with providing the Sídhe Guard with tonics meant to ease their fight against our enemy. We trusted you with our lives, our people, and the future of this realm. And yet, you were pulled into the darkness by the young girl who used to work for you."

Ma's jaw clenched, but she remained silent, defiant.

"You slipped a bottle of poisoned wine into our most recent shipment, one addressed to the King himself."

Gasps tore through the crowd, voices crying out in horror and rage. But Ma just glared toward the voice, unmoving, her shoulders straight despite the guards' grip.

"For such an offense, I have no choice other than to sentence you to death."

My blood ran cold, veins turning to ice.

No. No. No.

Cheers erupted throughout the room, bouncing off marble and glass until they became a deafening roar.

Rage threatened to burn me alive.

"Those who stand before the throne, turn to face me." The voice cut through the chaos. "Who will volunteer to carry out the deed?"

Slowly, each guard, including the one whose body I inhabited, turned toward the throne. As my borrowed eyes lifted, time seemed to still.

The woman perched on the golden throne wore Queen Ophelia's crown, draped in the familiar emerald silks of Sídhe royalty. Her blonde tresses cascaded down her shoulders exactly as I remembered from the palace halls.

But those eyes.

Haunting. Onyx. Eyes.

No.

Staring down at me, was the face of Vilda Valtýr, as young and vibrant as she'd appeared in my last dream.

I thought back to the girl that was never allowed to attend balls, who was always sinking into the shadows of her Duskbound sister.

And then I thought of how I'd never learned what her tether was.

The realization hit me like a blow to the chest. My mind refused to accept what was right in front of me, even as the pieces crashed together with devastating clarity.

Oh Esprithe.

Vilda Valtýr wasn't dead. She was the siphon.

The shock of it rippled through me, and even in this borrowed body, I felt my control slipping. Laryk advanced forward from the line of guards. Every step he took tore silent screams from my throat.

No.