Page 4 of Shadows and Roses (The Dark Queens #1)

Marlow’s glare greeted him early the next morning. A guard stood a few steps away. Between the Master’s slightly shaking fingers was a red rose in perfect full bloom, its green stem stripped of thorns.

His words passed clenched teeth. "This is what the Queen’s summons looks like—a rose, any color. Delivered directly to you if you should ever receive one. This rose is for Jesamin." He glared a moment longer before turning and extending the flower to the guard.

Respect softened his tone. "Please return this to the Queen with our sincerest apologies. Jesamin is in the healer’s wing, indisposed for the next few days."

Castien clenched his jaw. That pathetic excuse for a nobleman had whipped her back bloody, then fucked her unconscious. Castien had spent the night scrubbing blood from the bathing chambers.

The guard walked out of the hall.

Marlow spun. They stared at each other for a long minute. The Master finally said, "I’ve heard of you, ‘Prince of the Night’. Isn’t that what they call you?"

A moniker even he found pretentious. Castien shrugged. "It’s meaningless. Just nonsense to increase my fee."

"Remind yourself exactly how meaningless it is here. A prince has rights; you have nothing. Think on that before you get someone killed."

"I understand—" Castien began.

"No, you do not. I had hoped you were experienced enough to know how to conduct yourself. But no, you’re even more arrogant than the rest of your kind. Get out."

"No one should be treated like this. Why does the Queen allow—"

"Get out! Perhaps lessons will teach you something. And learn quickly, prince . I’ll do far worse if you’re a threat." His hand rested on his dagger.

That tiny slice on his cheek had been a calculated cut. It was hardly visible even now. But the threat to remove his finger? No one threatened him. Castien growled but held his tongue. Marlow was right—he had no guards. He had nothing. The Night Courts had abandoned him to the nobles’ tender embrace. He stalked out of the hall.

—

Lessons were held in the military wing. Soldiers in metal and leather armor filed past him, but not a single noble. Not a single whip. Castien was cautiously hopeful as a guard pointed him toward a door near the entrance to the hall.

The room was large and appeared to be for civilians, including a sectioned outdoor yard. Racks of weapons lined one wall, a few bookcases and benches on the opposite end.

Standing in a line were five other men of varying ages and occupations. Castien joined next to a younger man, who introduced himself as a chef, the son of another established chef in the royal kitchens. Next was a gardener who'd been here for years but kept to himself. He'd flinched and shrank, murmuring quiet, short answers to Castien's questions.

A few minutes after they all gathered, a short, small, frowning woman walked in. She scanned them and scowled harder. "My name is Jania. You may call me ‘my lady’."

Five voices murmured, " Yes, my lady." Castien examined her.

She had no claws, and no whip dangled from her wrist. Instead, she held a long stick, smacking her hand, or the ground, or anything else for constant emphasis.

Her narrowed eyes found him. "Right. We have a fresh one today. Who wants to teach him about bracers?" The stick smacked the leather bracer on her left wrist, a worn brown of about two inches.

"I understand the bracers, lady." Although the system wasn’t used outside the palace, the nobles wore and occasionally complained about the symbols of rank.

She pursed her lips. "Night Court trained. Very well, then you can remind your fellow servants."

"There are five types. The royal family wears gem-adorned bracelets or bracers. Iron-studded leather for the Queen's Escorts. Metal cuffs for military. Nobles wear any fabric they prefer. And a single leather such as yours indicates skilled specialists who can be leashed but must not be harmed." The Queen’s wrists had been unadorned, but no one would dare mistake her rank.

Her expression remained irritated, though she allowed him a small nod. "Right. We're covering decorum today since you all either don't know or don't care." The stick smacked a practice dummy, sending bits of loose straw flying. "Learn. Care. It's your life, boys."

Decorum was simple enough. They were subservient to just about everyone. Obey, don't complain. Always agree, never challenge. Stay out of the way, do what you're told, and you might not get whipped to death. Apparently, the Queen became upset if a corpse inconvenienced her, which limited the deaths somewhat. And the numerous healers were quite skilled—likely due to their constant practice.

At some point, the stark differences between the palace and the House he served began to sink in. Perhaps it was Jania's no-nonsense manner of speaking, the others' quiet acceptance of everything she said, or the noble who would have killed Jesamin to teach him a lesson.

No one in the Night Courts was afraid. Their whips were soft, used only teasingly in bed. Noblewomen's claws were sheathed or gloved. Death was a casual certainty here but never broached in the Houses.

Shock had kept him from understanding what was clearly displayed the moment he first entered the dining hall. Now, that shock was forming into a small, heavy ball in his chest as his mind crowded with doubt. Was he truly any better off than a palace courtesan?

An hour of these disturbing revelations passed, then more courtesans joined their small group for physical training: stretching and light muscle exercise. The nobles wanted fit, beautiful, healthy toys—all servants included. At least this was normal; a courtesan knew to keep their body—their trade and tool—in perfect shape.

After a quick dip in the bathing chambers, it was time to do their jobs. Four other courtesans walked with him. After a round of introductions, they didn’t know what to make of him; he was a courtesan, yet not one of them.

Conversation died anyway as the dining hall doors came into sight. Backs and shoulders straightened, steps lengthened into sinuous glides, and brightly painted smiles began their performance.

The nobles must have been waiting for them. One of his companions was shoved against a wall immediately, the noble thrusting into her within moments. Another was leashed in a more leisurely manner but no less quickly. The rest of them made it halfway to the banquet tables before they were picked off.

Castien received special treatment.

Gliding toward him was an Escort, his movements almost as elegant as a House courtesan. Studded leather bound his wrists. Escorts. The rumors about them were twisted and tangled, but every one of them horrible. The nobles parted before him like waves on a beach—receding, then closing behind him.

With a lopsided grin, the Escort said, "Castien. The Queen requests your presence."

Castien’s eyes flicked to the throne. She was watching them. A small, possessive smile curved her red-painted lips. Her hand extended, a single finger unfurling, the claw beckoning.

Any hope of avoiding her attention was gone. "Lead the way."

The Escort’s grin spread wider, and he shook his head as he turned.

Vaguely, Castien noted the nobles' disappointment. They wanted to leash him, but a brief glance at the Escort was enough to turn them aside. Not only that—Castien caught fear in their eyes. Even the cruel nobles were afraid of this man.

Castien examined the Escort. Baron Darius Malum, third son of the Count Malum of the Golden Gardens if he remembered correctly. Rumored to have an unpredictable temper that was only revealed by the depth of his blade in your gut. The baron sauntered casually, his steps smooth and confident, an easy smile on his lips. Blonde hair, brown eyes, dressed in white and black silk with the outline of a red rose stretching down the length of his back. Castien’s instincts didn't sense danger, but the nobles bowed respectfully. All of them, not just other barons and the lower ranks.

Clearly, his instincts were wrong. Observation beat instinct, but …

"Castien." The Queen's cold croon interrupted his contemplation. They'd made it to the dais. "What a delightful specimen. Come, sit with me."

It was a command if he ever heard one. Castien walked up the stairs and bowed deeply. "My Queen, a pleasure and an honor."

Her whip rolled around his wrist as he straightened. A tug and he was practically dragged to her side. The nearby nobles laughed.

He had almost pulled away from the leash. That was an instinct he needed to break immediately.

Taking a seat beside her, he eyed the Queen’s table. Platters of meats and fruits spread before them. He hid a scowl at the waste—hardly a small fraction of it was likely to be consumed. Sure, the servants ate well, but still plenty was tossed away.

A small insult against the injury of the exorbitant wealth on display. Silver and gold dishware, hardwood tables, large stained glass windows, the entire floor made of marble—and that was just the start.

The noble homes he’d served in were luxurious. They had enough wealth to spend on him, after all. But they did not abuse their courtesans.

Questions fought for space on the tip of his tongue. He held them in. Her gleaming emerald eyes raking his body didn’t invite conversation. Proving him right, she gave him a cold smile. "Show me something the Night Courts taught you. Entertain me, my shadow."

The whip loosened a little, allowing him some movement.

Entertain, not please. Wording wasn't always indicative of desires, but she appeared to be waiting for him to perform a trick, not seduce her. Castien disliked tricks. He wasn’t a dog called to heel.

His gaze caught on a plate of artfully arranged pastries near her hand, with a miniature knife set to the side.

"May I use the knife, my Queen?" He nodded at the utensil.

She passed it over with the blade between her fingers and amusement on her lips. "Thinking of stabbing me?"

The back of his neck prickled, imagining her guards’ swords already there. Yet he still said, "And if I do?" as his hand curled on the handle.

Her smile widened with the barest hint of actual warmth. "You are welcome to try," she purred. Her hand opened as though she was offering him a target.

Without breaking her gaze, he flipped the knife and slowly extended it toward her, stabbing a grape on her plate.

It felt like the guards at his back growled. She didn’t flinch.

A few seconds later, Castien presented an intricate rose carved into the grape. The knife work for that had taken him several moons to master. It probably wouldn't impress her, but he couldn’t resist a message.

"Hmm," she purred as she stroked the rose. Her cold eyes scrutinized him closer. "You’re surprisingly good with a knife. Perhaps you are thinking of the best way to slice me up."

His back itched again. He probably shouldn’t play games with the Queen.

Chuckling softly, she popped the grape into her mouth and bit it clean in half.

Castien carefully set the knife aside and inclined his head. "My apologies if I’ve displeased you, my Queen. Do you have a request?" Guesswork was tedious. He needn’t do so with his recurring clients, and new clients weren’t shy about what they wanted .

"Ha. Massage my hand. You can do that much, I hope?" She extended her hand, tucking her whip handle into a small sheath on her wrist.

"It would be my pleasure." Her claws were painted a dark red today. He hesitated, then took her hand in both of his, the small, delicate limb belied by calluses all over her palm. Had she gained those calluses from the leather grips of swords or the handles of whips?

Her attention turned to the Escort seated on her other side, effectively ignoring Castien. Fine by him. Her cold eyes were entirely too unsettling.

As were her courtiers. He wasn’t sure which was worse.

The scene was similar to yesterday. Courtiers with food and drink chatting with each other, ignoring their leashed servants. The Queen occasionally glanced at the crowd, her sharp gaze flicking over her subjects like a hawk searching for prey. It was a curiously fascinating look—as long as she didn’t pin it on him.

From this vantage point, he could see all the nobles at once, but the crowd and noise were more than he was accustomed to. No detail was minor—not the woman beneath a table, her head between a lord’s legs, not the cracks of whips churning the air, and especially not the whimpered cries of the servants.

So perhaps he could have been excused from not noticing a particular crack, one that became rhythmic and repetitious. It came from one of the tables on the right side of the hall. The sound wasn’t uncommon in the semi-privacy of the courtesan's halls. But here, while the Queen watched with her icy stare?

No one else seemed bothered by it. Many heads turned toward the sound, all of them watching intently. A few eyes darted at the Queen, who observed with her usual cold, casual indifference. The general noise of the hall softened as though everyone was waiting.

The speed increased, accompanied by an occasional high-pitched cry.

There was a man, a lord, standing next to the tables, the crack following every drop of his arm. The cry came from a young servant on his knees. Harsh, red lines marked his back—blood. The whip shredded his shirt, opened his skin. Grinning at the blood, the noble's whip came down harder. With a weak groan, the youth fell forward. Castien looked away.

He couldn't as easily block out the whistling and slapping of every lash. When the Queen went still, he involuntarily glanced back.

The boy lay silent, unmoving.

"Lord Dristal."

The Queen’s voice was sharp and cold, ringing out as clear and loud as the midnight bell. Castien stiffened, his heart racing at that predatory tone. Silence washed over the nobles. Then sneering smiles and gleeful eyes widened, while those near the lord and the dead boy cleared a space. The lord froze, his grin disappearing. He turned slowly and bowed to the throne.

"My Queen," he choked out.

She clasped her hands together. The click of her claws tapping against each other echoed into the silence while she contemplated the lord and his shaking whip. A few soft snickers cropped up.

"My dear lord," she drawled, "why did you execute the boy?" Ice threaded her lazily enunciated, almost gentle words. Castien suppressed a shiver.

"H-he stepped on my foot," the lord squeaked.

"Mmm. Did anyone else witness this offense?"

The lord's eyes darted side to side as no one spoke up. His face turned pale .

The Queen’s voice hardened. "You know the laws. Walk, Lord Dristal. For murder without cause, walk as many paces as you lashed the boy. You did keep count, didn't you?"

"Um, n-no—" he started to say, then realized his mistake.

"Not to worry. I'll count for you." The Queen smiled—a small, humorless thing. An ugly cheer broke the quiet crowd, laughter clearing the tension. The nobles gathered around the terrified lord, some encouraging, some mocking, and some "helping" him along as his whip was yanked out of his grip.

Castien frowned as coins changed hands. Beside him, the Queen sighed, the softest word dropping from her lips: "Eight."

"Eight?" he blurted, regretting his slip before his lips closed. She clearly hadn’t wanted anyone to hear that. Damn .

She didn’t react at first. Hope that she hadn’t heard him died as her sharp little smile turned to him. "That’s right, you haven’t seen this before. He’s going to walk the coals." A single claw extended at the wall to their right.

There lay a long hearth that Castien had thought was for warmth—though it was odd to be constantly burning in the current mid-summer heat. He could use a bit of warmth right now.

"I don’t understand," he said. He wasn’t sure he wanted to.

She put a finger to her lips and lowered her voice. "He lost the game. I choose a number every week, and that's how many servants can die before someone walks the coals. Some of the nobles thought I’d forgotten this week." Her eyes followed the guards dragging the lord the hearth, then snapped to him. "You won’t mention this… game to anyone, of course." Soft as those words were, it was a command.

"Yes, my Queen." Madness. Her entire court was already well aware—and approved.

"Hmm."

Spearing a cube of cheese, she offered it to him.

He barely noticed. The shaking lord had made it to the hearth. His boots and leggings had been ripped off. His lips were moving, likely pleading for mercy, but the normal dining chatter and clatter had resumed.

"If he could wet his feet and run—" Castien suggested.

She laughed, a chill freezing his spine as she patted his arm affectionately. "Oh, no, dear. I said walk . If he runs, the count will have to restart. If he jumps off…" She popped the cheese in her mouth and skewered a roasted, slightly burnt sausage. His back crawled as she daintily peeled off the burnt skin. "They'll strip him naked, tie him up, and throw him on the fire." Her teeth bit into the meat, and she smiled wickedly.

A strangled scream made him flinch—likely the lord taking his first step.

She inhaled deeply as she chewed. "You're a soft one, aren't you? The Night Courts are so pampered." A claw stroked his face, then nudged his chin until he faced the hearth. "Watch," a whisper in his ear. The claws dropped to his thigh, stroking through the thin leather.

The lord was walking. Slow, jerking steps carried him forward as he struggled to keep his balance. Low flames licked at his feet, already blistering tender flesh. His pants had been cut so the flames wouldn't catch. He wiped sweat from his eyes and looked up pleadingly at the Queen, who only raised an eyebrow as she nibbled on her sausage. The lord returned to his painful journey.

Castien's bile rose, a whiff of the roasted meat turning his stomach. He swallowed and clenched his jaws. "Is he meant to die?"

The Queen hummed quietly. "My court likes to bet on the outcome. Lord Dristal's a dull fool, but his father's a duke. I might not kill him." She shrugged in the corner of his eyes while her hand moved higher between his legs .

The lord was swaying with every slow, stumbling step. Castien kept his eyes on the man's pinched face in an attempt to avoid the sight of those blackened feet. The coals rolled on the next step and the lord bent, almost overcompensating.

As the tortured man regained his balance, a messenger burst into the hall, holding out a scroll as he ran toward the throne. A guard took the scroll from the panting messenger and delivered it to the Queen. Her hand left Castien’s thigh to unroll the message. With a small frown of irritation, she waved at Lord Dristal and nodded to the guards near the hearth.

The lord collapsed while clambering out of the flames, the guards barely catching him before he fell onto the stone floor. A healer in full blue silk rushed over with bandages and a bag of supplies. Dristal appeared unconscious, which was for the best. Castien caught a glimpse of swollen black feet before the healer started tending them.

Many nobles grumbled and complained.

"Aw, there goes our fun. Stupid messenger," Castien heard one lady sigh. His lips thinned.

The leather around his wrist loosened and fell. The Queen’s icy smile was directed at him again. "Oh, you gentle creature. Look how pale you are. Shoo. Go on, before you make a mess."

Castien swiftly rose swiftly, bowed, and walked away. He hadn't consciously chosen a direction, but it seemed he was heading toward the dead boy.

The body had been cleared, the only reminder of the violent death a servant cleaning the last traces of blood. Castien kept moving, eventually finding a washroom where he promptly emptied his stomach.

Anais

Estan Kellenath .

Another death. Another name.

Her mother had taught her how to eat while the scent of charred human flesh tainted the air. In the privacy of the dungeons, Anais had spent a moon half-starved and vomiting until she could properly hold down a meal. The first time she attended court while a noble walked the coals, she was only mildly pale.

The nobles were delighted. She’d hated them even more.

Estan. The young man’s body would be sent home. A village near the eastern border. Another life cut short for the court’s entertainment.

"Count Magdus is destroying his vineyards?" Laureline’s incredulous voice brought Anais to the present. The older lady squinted at the messenger scroll, a cup of tea wobbling in her other hand. As she tilted her head, the feathers in her hat dipped to brush the top of the scroll. She puffed it away. "He loves those vineyards. Boasts about his wine every year."

Anais' eyes followed a feather on the verge of dunking into the lady’s tea. "It’s about time we paid the count a visit. I’ll be dutifully shocked and dismayed."

They sat in her study, discussing the scroll among other matters. Her mind kept drifting to dark eyes and deft hands. A courtesan skilled with a knife was unexpected.

She frowned at the scroll. On the surface, it was a report of the southern border’s troop movements. Hidden in the text was a very short, coded message: clearing land, added buildings, barracks ?

Count Magdus’ land was mostly composed of vineyards. The only space for more buildings would be right on top of his prized grapes. He wouldn’t destroy them for anything trivial.

Anais absently flexed her left hand. She stopped the motion as soon as she noticed it. "I’ll need you to join me."

Tea almost spilled as Laureline waved her cup. "Naturally. My little birds know better than to send such a vague message. There must be an urgent reason. Tomorrow, then?"

"Next week." A Queen didn’t go dashing off to the countryside or barging in unannounced on her nobles’ lands. Everything would be easier if she could.

She glanced at her hand again, catching her fingers flexing, stretching like a cat in the sun. Her hand hadn’t felt so relaxed in moons. That House courtesan had been different—compelling, elegant, fascinating. His touch had sent a tingle up her arm, followed by the soothing warmth of his skin. She sensed he was holding himself back, out of fear or caution she wasn’t sure, but his horror had been obvious. That, she could work with.