Page 33

Summer

I t’s day two at Landolin’s court, and my mind is still a foggy mess of fear, anxiety, and exhaustion.

I haven’t slept properly or eaten much. It’s hard to do either with a wall of mirrors opposite the bed that I’m pretty certain Landolin’s watching me through, probably enjoying the show like it’s some twisted version of reality TV—albeit a very boring one.

The Shade Prince still hasn’t told me if I’m a prisoner or a guest. I’ve asked many times.

Nicely. Then not-so-nicely. And his answer is always the same.

Silence accompanied with a condescending smirk.

Which, frankly, tells me everything I need to know about fae hospitality.

Zero stars. Would not recommend. Might even set the place on fire.

Day and night, the city is shrouded in a murky dusk. I’m sure the sun must rise somewhere behind the purple and gray clouds that perpetually veil the sky, but I’m yet to see any evidence of its existence.

Outside my window, the castle’s turrets twist up from the earth like blackened roots, as if the whole building was coaxed from the ground with magic rather than constructed with labor and tools.

It fits, I guess. Nothing feels right here. The walls, the shadows… they all seem like spies, taking notes on my every dull move. Probably reporting back to Landolin and his delightful father, who sounds like a beacon of warmth and goodwill. Said no one ever.

Even the air feels judgmental, like it disapproves of my very human existence.

I’m not cold or starving. Not shackled to a wall. Technically, I’m fine, but gods I miss Zylah’s kooky snark and Wyn’s… Wyn’s everything .

Even his wolfy brooding. Especially the wolfy brooding.

And now that I’ve lost access to my anxiety meds, it’s only a matter of time before the real fun begins. Brain zaps, emotional spirals, maybe a spontaneous sob-fest in front of Landolin’s creepy mirror-surveillance system.

Can’t wait.

But really, I should cheer up. So far, no one has hurt or even threatened me, and not only has Landolin delivered trays piled with food on a reliable schedule, he’s also sent up books. Plenty of them.

Three yesterday afternoon, and I found five on my bedside table when I woke up this morning—unfortunately, all on the same gruesome subjects. Death and shadows. Burials and resurrections. Goddess-like females reanimating corpses. All illustrated in beautiful, but nauseating detail.

I've tried, but I can’t concentrate on reading. I’m still reeling from the revelation of what happened to my parents .

I spent years punishing myself for something I didn’t do, thinking that when my reckoning came, I would deserve worse than this.

Starvation. Isolation. Maybe even death.

But I was wrong about what I did. About who I am.

Still, the guilt doesn’t vanish just because the truth’s out. It lingers. Probably always will.

When Landolin delivered this morning’s breakfast, he asked what I thought of his gifts and whether I’d started reading them. I shrugged and begged again to know why I was here, when he planned to let me go, and if he knew where Wyn was.

“You’ll find out soon enough,” he said. “Wynter is surely on his way—to cause trouble and meet his death, of course, more fool him. But you’ll be able to leave your room soon. Be patient.”

Then he melted into the shadows of the mirrors. Rude, but also kind of impressive.

And now my stomach is growling with hunger, and I’m so bored I’d sell my soul for Wi-Fi and a bag of potato chips. Or at least a phone to pass the time mindlessly doomscrolling.

Maybe I wouldn’t sell my soul. Landolin’s would be better.

At lunchtime, just as I resolve to eat the entirety of whatever meal arrives, locks click, my door creaks open, and a servant enters my room carrying a tray balanced on thin arms. She’s child-sized.

Barefoot. Hair floating slightly as if caught in a gentle, persistent breeze.

She looks like she belongs in a creepy, porcelain doll museum.

The creature hums—no words or obvious tune, just a soft, unsettling noise. She sets the tray down and produces a small, wilted silver flower, placing it neatly on the rim of the bowl of food, as if it’s precious.

Then she turns to leave without so much as a glance.

“Wait,” I call out. “What’s your name?”

The girl stops, tilting her head so far sideways I worry it might snap off.

“Phaedra,” she says, her voice a rough snarl.

“You’re a servant here?” I ask.

“I’m a maid of the Hunt. One of their many pairs of eyes and ears that never miss a secret or a whisper. We don’t make friends of human thralls.”

“I’m not a thrall. Not anymore. I’m in my right mind.”

At least I hope I am. How can I know for sure?

A thin grin stretches the fae’s hollow-cheeked face. “Once a thrall, always a thrall, child.”

Child? She’s the one who has the face of a fourth grader and the general vibe of a Bond villain.

“Thanks for reminding me about my past trauma,” I say. “Tell your master I insist on seeing something, anything , outside this room tomorrow.”

“Who are you to make demands of the prince?”

“Someone who’ll suffocate herself with a pillow if she doesn’t get a change of scenery soon.”

Phaedra chuckles, a low noise that grates down my spine.

As she shuffles toward the door, I address her stooped back, “Why do you call me a child when you look barely over the age of nine?”

Opaque eyes fix on me. “Nine hundred years would be closer to my age.” She pauses and tilts her head again. “I was once a normal girl, like you,” she says softly. “Before the Hunt. Before he made me into this.”

“Landolin?” I ask, heartbeat skipping .

She shakes her head. “No, not him.” And just like that, the soft note vanishes, and her expression shutters. “Eat your food. Try not to choke.”

The snaggle-toothed grin reappears, then she exits through the door, leaving me staring at the silver flower on my plate as it crumbles to powder, sprinkling over half my stew like pretty, poisoned sugar.

The meal smells of mint and butter, so I guess it’s technically food and, therefore, safe to eat. The side salad is glowing, the meat is oddly glossy, and the silver powder feels like a direct attempt on my life. Should I really be considering eating this?

My stomach groans.

Decision made.

Mouth watering, I scrape as much silver glitter off as I can and start eating. If I die in my sleep, at least I’ll die slightly less hangry.