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Morgana

I ’m on my knees, tears streaming down my face as sobs rack my body. I’ve never felt such despair. Not when I found out my parents were murdered. Not when I heard about the Holms family. It’s a sadness that makes my very bones ache. As it sinks into me, I’m certain I’ll never be happy again.

“Remember the wall, Ana,” Leon says to me, his hand on my shoulder.

But what does that matter now? What does anything matter in this bottomless pit I’ve fallen into?

“You can end this Ana, just use what we taught you.”

The misery engulfs me, but his words ring clearly in my ears. I’d like nothing better than to stop feeling this way. As my chest heaves, I try to recall my mental image of the wall, the sharp steel going up, cutting off this agonizing sensation.

I blink, and for a moment the sorrow is gone, and I can feel other emotions—surprise, confusion, frustration .

“What the hell was that?” I gasp.

“She did it,” Leon says. My defenses stand strong under the pressure, even though I can feel sensic magic battering the other side, like a buzzing swarm trying to get through.

“I don’t know how long I can hold it,” I say, the image weakening in my mind.

Leon waves his hand at Phaia, and the buzzing stops.

“ That’s your power?” I say to Phaia, allowing Leon to help me to my feet as I wipe away the tears still shining on my cheeks. I feel tired, but otherwise normal, not at all like I was sobbing on the floor seconds ago. “It’s terrible. I mean…no offense.”

Phaia offers me a grim smile. “None taken.”

I watch her carefully, searching for some clue as to the woman’s power on her face.

I know I won’t find one, but it’s hard to accept that the serene, silver-haired fae in front of me can conjure up such profound sadness.

But then, I wouldn’t ever peg Damia’s power as making people laugh either—that’s terrifying in its own way.

We’ve been practicing since yesterday afternoon, letting each of the soldiers take a turn attacking me with their sensic magic. Leon’s insistence on the exercise has driven home to me exactly what I’ll be up against with Respen, so I didn’t argue when he said we’d meet early again this morning.

“I’m guessing you saved the worst for last on purpose?” I ask him.

He nods. “Phaia’s power is one of the hardest to shake,” Leon says. “There’s nothing else in our arsenal quite as instantly crippling.”

Phaia inclines her head a little, accepting the compliment.

“It has its limits, of course,” she says. “It wasn’t much use against the cleavers in Otscold. They’d have to have some humanity first.”

“Also, it’s not very subtle. My grandfather’s approach won’t be as direct as that,” says Leon. “The very nature of his power can make it hard to spot. He’ll try to redirect any paranoia you might have about him using sensic magic toward other fears.”

“Yes,” I say. “I remember from the three times you told me that yesterday.”

Tira, who’s been watching our training from an armchair in the corner, snorts.

“Maybe give Ana some benefit of the doubt,” my friend says. “After killing and resurrecting that spider, how tough of an opponent can your grandfather be?”

All the soldiers turn to her and give her a look that makes her hold her hands up.

“Alright, sorry I asked.”

“The captain doesn’t doubt you,” Alastor says to me. “It’s just that King Respen has held the throne longer than any monarch in the last two millennia. There’s a reason for that, and it hasn’t got anything to do with his charm and sense of humor.”

“It’s a good thing I’m prepared, then,” I say. “Now, how do I look?”

I step back and turn around so they can take in the dress Helia and Desme helped me pick out.

It’s more formal than the day dresses I’ve been wearing, with long sleeves and a high collar.

It’s made of a deep blue material, reminiscent of the senior mage robes at Vastamae.

I thought it might signal that I’m someone to be treated with respect.

“Like a queen,” Stratton answers with a wink.

“Like a lamb to slaughter,” Alastor says, biting his lip.

I make a rude gesture at him.

“Okay, less lamb-like now,” he admits.

Tira hugs me for good luck, even though I insist to everyone that this isn’t as big a deal as they’re making it out to be.

I’ve spent time going over what Respen might want from me, and it all comes back to Filusia’s influence over Trova.

While my aunt is on the throne, using the Temple as her lackeys, the fae have less of it.

With me, that might change—but there’s still the small problem of me being considered a heretic in my own land.

Whatever path Respen wants me to take, I don’t have to make any decisions today. As Leon escorts me to the throne room, I tell myself all I have to do in the next hour is hold my own and not let the fae king push me into anything.

Even so, nerves start to creep up on me, and I’m oddly aware of my heartbeat in my chest when we walk through the throne room doors.

Respen isn’t seated on his throne today.

He’s still dressed in his usual ocher robes, but he’s standing by an open set of doors I didn’t notice the first time I was in this room.

“Ah, Princess Morgana, I’ve been looking forward to our conversation. I thought we could have it as we take a turn around the garden. Thank you for bringing Her Highness, Leonidas, you may go now.”

I glance up at Leon and see the hard expression on his face. He wants to stay and keep an eye on me, and I suspect he’s more than willing to ignore his grandfather’s wishes to do so. I catch his eye.

“It’s okay, Leon,” I murmur. “I’ll be fine.”

He gives me a reluctant nod. “I’ll be right outside,” he says before exiting the throne room.

I follow Respen through the doors to find they open directly onto a wide terrace with steps down into a walled garden. As we descend, I’m hit with a wall of fragrance wafting from the exotic flowers that climb over every wall and lie in thick beds beside looming statues.

The blooms all look unnaturally bright to me, and I’m reminded of a dream I once had about the fae court. I didn’t know it at the time, but it was a dream Leon wove for me and slipped into my mind. No wonder the exotic flowers here look lifted straight from it.

“Do you like them?” Respen asks, following my gaze as I examine a bed of trumpet-shaped blooms with bright yellow petals and red stems.

“They’re very…unique,” I say.

“Perceptive of you, Princess Morgana. The blooms in my garden cannot be found anywhere else. I grow them myself.”

He lifts a hand, and the soil in the bed shifts. Another red stem emerges from the dirt, then unfurls its petals in a burst of yellow.

“But don’t touch,” he says lightly. “They’re toxic.”

My eyes widen as I take a step back from the bed.

“All of them?”

He chuckles. “Yes, that’s my terrial gift. It wouldn’t be much use if all I could grow were some pretty blooms, would it?”

I would’ve thought the ability to simply make beautiful things would be a wonderful power to have, but I don’t contradict him, turning my attention away from the flowers. Their bright colors feel much more sinister now, like a warning.

“These statues are a bit like the ones in the ballroom,” I say casually, trying to show Respen I’m not rattled by his intimidation tactic. And I’m under no illusions—bringing me to a garden of toxic plants is definitely an intimidation tactic.

“Yes, the ones in the ballroom are all fae rulers of old.” He gestures to the figures of fae men and women around us. “But these are all Claerwyn ancestors. There’s my mother, Queen Palea, and her father, King Berin.”

I nod, taking in the sculpted faces, recognizing hints of them in Leon and Fairon.

“You see, my dear, my family has been ruling Filusia for nearly a millennium,” Respen says, guiding me around the garden, past more statues.

“During my reign, I’ve seen many rulers of Trova come and go, including your great-grandfather, Palquir Angevire.

I remember when he came to me, asking for help with Herrydan.

Of course, I was only too glad to give it. ”

There’s a barely perceptible shift in his expression—just the slight tightening of a muscle above his eyebrow—but that’s the moment I feel it: a creeping sense of dread whispering across the corners of my mind.

I hold Respen’s gaze and begin to reply, doing my best to hold the image of a steel wall in my mind at the same time.

“And on behalf of my family, I remain so grateful for your assistance during that time, Your Majesty,” I say.

It’s not easy, but I play it cool, pretending I don’t notice the fizz of sensic magic trying to burrow into me. Respen’s face is also neutral, the pair of us locked in a silent tug-of-war as we make polite conversation.

“Of course, I hope you’ll forgive me for saying your family hasn’t always been receptive to my advice over the years, despite the victory we handed them during the War of the Laurels,” Respen says.

I smile. “Not at all. Please speak freely.”

“I was clear to Palquir that I did not think it was wise to make so many concessions to the Ethirans after the war. But they still had many supporters, and he thought he needed to appease them. A weak decision, I think.”

The pressure on my mental barriers increases a touch, and I focus on keeping them firm.

“Perhaps he’d had enough of conflict,” I say lightly.

“Perhaps,” Respen says, dismissive. “But I’m afraid his generosity rather backfired on him.

It paved the way for the Temple of Ethira to become the powerful entity it is today.

Over the last eight decades, it has steadily siphoned more power away from the monarchy, which now has only a shadow of its former strength.

Would you say that’s a fair assessment, Princess Morgana? ”

“Perhaps,” I say, echoing his tone from moments ago.

He smiles, but I can tell he’s not amused.

“Do you mind if I tell you a story?” he asks.