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The Queen needed no more coaxing, and she drew against his skin, cutting a gash down his palm. The blade ran darkly red, his blood like syrup, coating the sword.

“Here,” Ronin said, staring into Adalen’s shattered face. The sun glowed through, its rays swirling with dust so thick they seemed solid enough to touch. The wizard did just that, reaching out a white hand to run it through the sunbeams, his fingers trembling as he did.

Taristan reclaimed the sword without a word, both hands wrapped around the hilt. He stalked to Adalen’s window and raised it high, like a woodsman before a tree.

The Spindleblade cut through open air, the sun flashing against it for a second as it crossed through the rays.

And then the light itself splintered, shattering like the stained glass, into shards of yellow and white. A crackling filled the air, the sound of a red-hot iron plunging into water, or the soft tear of silk, or the ripping of parchment—Erida could not say. It was nothing she knew, nothing she’d heard before. The sound echoed in the air, in her bones, rattling up her spine until she felt she might choke on it. The air on her face seemed to prickle, tingling her cheeks like the first breath of frost. Her mouth dropped open, gasping, and she tasted iron and blood both.

She had imagined a Spindle all her life, like most children. The stories varied; the histories were vague. It had been a thousand years: only Elders remembered, and they had not been forthcoming these last centuries. Even now, she pictured a great column like a lightning bolt, veined purple, frozen in its brilliance, with an archway to the next realm. An open doorway. A pillar. Something gigantic and beautiful enough to hold such rare power.

She was wrong.

The thread hung in the air, seven feet high, slim as a needle, and easy to miss at the wrong angle. It glimmered, gold then silver, wavering as sunlight on the surface of gentle water.

Taristan stared, transfixed, the thread reflected in his coal-black eyes, splitting their darkness. He didn’t bother to clean his sword, sheathing it back at his hip before running a hand as close to the Spindle as he dared. It bowed, arcing toward his skin, coming within an inch.

The Queen clenched her jaw and took a small step backward. Anything might come through, and it would not be loyal to her. She swallowed hard, trying not to show fear.

Her husband felt her discomfort anyway. He looked away from the Spindle, finding her face. She felt herself pale.

“Have I frightened you?” he said, his voice too soft. “You are not foolish, and only a fool would be unafraid.”

Erida wanted the lie. Admitting weakness was not a luxury queens enjoyed.

“I’m terrified,” she forced out.

The Spindle gleamed at her, beckoning. Her insides twisted in reply, every nerve singing a warning. The gold and silver flashed. Within them, there was another color. At first she thought it to be black, but on closer inspection it proved to be darkest, most lethal red. She felt it like breath on skin, gentle and foreboding. A promise. It was watching.

What Waits.

She raised her chin. “And I intend to use that terror to my advantage.”

“Good.” Pride laced through Taristan’s face, and he dropped his hand. “Fear should never be ignored, only controlled. I learned that lesson long ago. It’s good I don’t have to teach it to you.”

“Where does this doorway lead?” she asked, taking another step. This time forward again, her feet moving of their own accord even as her mind flew through all the reasons to stay far away. The Spindle set the hairs on her neck on end. “What comes? Another army?”

She stared at it, closer now, expecting to see a sliver of what lay beyond. But she saw nothing, not even the red presence. The Spindle hissed, a snake warning away enemies.

“The blessings of What Waits,” Ronin murmured.

He shifted so he stood alongside Taristan. The man of Old Cor dwarfed him, but Ronin did not seem small despite his slight frame. The Spindle filled him with something, a power Erida could not name. He nudged Taristan.

“Take what is offered,” the wizard said, urging him on.

The Spindle glowed in Taristan’s eyes. He stared, unblinking, and plunged a hand into the thin, shining thread.

Erida expected the Spindle to burn or cut, to harm him in some way. Instead his fingers passed through it as easily as the divide in a wall of curtains, pushing aside the planes of this realm to reach the next. Then his hand disappeared, and his wrist, until he was well past the elbow of his arm. On the other side, there was nothing but empty air.

His mouth tightened, his teeth clenching together as his body jerked once. If he was in pain, he did not show it.

“Taristan,” she heard herself murmur. To the Queen’s surprise, she grabbed his opposite shoulder, fingers working into his leathers, trying to pull him out.

The Spindle gave him back without difficulty.

Diamonds, big as eggs, flawless and without peer, spilled from his hand, rolling over his fingers and onto the grass. At first Erida thought they were blocks of ice, some rough, some clear, too massive and too many to be jewels. She grabbed one, expecting it to be frozen. Instead she felt hard stone, heavy on her palm.

“Irridas,” Ronin breathed, stooping to inspect the stones. “The dazzling realm.”