Summer

O n the morning of my fourth day in Dorthadas, I find my chamber door still unlocked, like it was last night. No explanation, no summons from Landolin. Just the absence of resistance—like the castle has finally decided to let me roam.

Which, of course, I plan to take full advantage of.

I wonder if I could escape. Run through the hallways, get down to ground level, find a door out of the castle. Out of the city.

And then what? Where would I go? I was unconscious when they brought me here. And I have absolutely no idea how to find my way back to Wyn’s realm, or to Lake Grenlynn.

For now, I’m stuck here.

After dragging myself up and down a maze of staircases that practically hum with magical side-eye—as if they resent being walked on by a human—I finally retrace the path to the courtyard with the pool of stars.

I let out a slow breath as I step over the stone threshold, relieved to be in a space that might offer a sliver of peace… or a door to the outside—only to realize I’m not alone.

A female fae leans against a crooked pillar, casually tossing what looks like a small bone from hand to hand, reminding me of Zylah in her basement of creepy creatures… if Zylah had decided empathy was overrated and terror was more on brand for her.

The fae’s eyes flick to mine, a sly smile on her pale-blue lips.

“Well, if it isn’t our little human miracle,” she purrs, unfolding her leathery black wings with slow, deliberate menace.

“Sorry, wrong room,” I say, pivoting on my heel.

Best if I head back to my mirrored-surveillance suite. Sure, it’s not private, but at least it’s safe… ish . And the last thing I need—five days off my anxiety meds and one spiraling thought away from a full-blown panic attack—is a cryptic chat with a malevolent bat lady.

“Stay a while,” she says. “We’re all curious about you.” She flicks the bone toward me. It arcs and lands at my feet with a soft clatter.

“Who’s we? I don’t see anyone else here.”

“The Shadow Court, of course.”

I squint at the bone. It looks like a bird’s vertebra, I decide, stepping around it and keeping my tone flat. “I’m flattered to be thought of as miraculous . But I’m really not that interesting.”

The bone vibrates, spinning on its own before flying through the air to rest on the fae’s open palm. She tilts her head. “Landolin says you’re the one. But I’m not so easily convinced.”

My throat tightens, but I roll my eyes like I’m unbothered. “I’m not convinced either, so we have that in common.”

“You’ve finally decided to stretch your legs,” she says, her voice a dry rustle.

“Someone decided to leave my door unlocked.”

“The castle doors unlock when you’re ready to walk through them.” She fishes another bone from her pocket and tosses it into the air. It flips once, twice, then lands neatly on her palm. “Speaking of walking, you move like someone unfamiliar with the shape of her own shadow.”

“The shape of my shadow?” I say. “It changes depending on where the sun is. On the angles.”

She smiles, all teeth and no warmth. “Strange. Landolin usually picks sharper assets for the Hunt.”

“Assets?” I echo. “I wasn’t aware I was a tool to be used by your prince and his merry little death cult on horseback.”

Another lazy toss of the bone. “Oh, but that’s exactly what you are. Although, not everyone agrees on how useful you’ll turn out to be.”

I fold my arms. “If you’re trying to rattle me, you’ll have to do better than talk in riddles.”

The fae tilts her head. Hair as dark as oil and shimmering with a wet glitter slides over her shoulder. “You should ask Landolin what he gave up to bring you here. Or better… what he thinks you’ll give him in return.”

That lands like a stone in my gut. I try not to flinch, but I shift my stance slightly, and she catches it.

“You don’t know what Landolin is, do you?” she murmurs, stepping away from the pillar. “That’s delicious.”

I lift my chin. “I don’t really care. I just know I’m not the one he needs. I want to go home and let you fae get back to scheming and gossiping about someone else. ”

“Oh, sweet thing.” Her eyes gleam with malice. “They’re not done with you. Not even close. The Hunt doesn’t ride for nothing, and it never makes mistakes.”

I’m pretty sure she’s wrong about that. Everyone makes mistakes, even the fae. Though I get the feeling they’d rather gnaw off their own tongues than admit it.

“What do they call you?” I ask, making a half-hearted attempt at diplomacy. Know thy enemy is my philosophy. Or at least know whose name to scream out when they stab you in the back.

She stops a few feet away, just outside striking distance, and I catch myself wishing for one of Wyn’s swords. Not that I could do much more than swing it like a toddler with an overlarge glow stick.

“That’s something I don’t give out freely,” says the fae. “What would you barter to know it?”

“Nothing. I’ll make up my own name for you instead. Something dignified, like Crankthorn. Or Miss Grim and Vaguely Glowy.”

She laughs, then her voice softens to an almost friendly tone.

“I remember you from another lifetime ago. Always spinning like a fool. You were younger and in thrall to our Shade King, Moiron. They only let you out of your room for revels. Or to show you off to visitors from other courts. Such a sad, pitiful sight.”

My mouth goes dry. The stone floor of the courtyard tilts just a little, her words digging into the aching hollow behind my ribs.

Numbers whirl through my brain, but I can’t seem to catch hold of one to start counting.

My boots stay rooted, but my fingers twitch, desperate to reach for something solid .

“I don’t remember any of that,” I say flatly. “Just shadows and smoke. Constant noise. Screams that might have been mine.”

She smirks. “Of course you don’t. Memory is a privilege, not a right.”

Whatever that means.

I take a step closer. “What happened to me back then? Tell me the worst of it. I need to know, or I’ll never be at peace.”

The smirk fades, replaced by something colder. She tosses the bone again and catches it, her eyes never leaving mine.

“You think you want the truth. But what you want is comfort. And they’re rarely ever the same thing.”

“Try me,” I snap. “You seem the type to enjoy dragging pain out by the syllable.”

Her smile returns, wider this time. “Very well. You danced when they told you to. Smiled when they made you. You were the court’s little mirror—pretty, empty, and displaying only what the king wished to see.

He kept you on a thread, you know, not a chain.

A chain suggests resistance. You were more than happy to obey. ”

I swallow hard. “Why me?”

Black wings unfurl with a predatory grace. “They were waiting for you to grow up and become the one they needed. Maybe the king hoped you’d break into a million pieces in the meantime.”

I suck in a slow breath, determined to ask the questions that have always plagued me. “Was I tortured? Raped?”

She leans in, her breath cool against my cheek. “No. You were to be Landolin’s tool one day, remember? He did his best to keep you whole and hale. Protect you from his father. Ask the prince what he thinks you can give him. ”

Irren appears out of the shadows, his slate-colored eyes grim, chestnut hair tied back from his face with a string of leather. “Landolin needs to speak with you.”

The female fae steps forward.

“Not you, Misery. The human.”

I flash her a smug little smile. “Got your name for free, and to be honest, it couldn’t possibly suit you better.”

With a sigh, she pockets the bone and turns away, vanishing between two columns like Marie, Gravenshade’s ghostly maid, used to do whenever I so much as glanced at the vacuum cleaner.

“Let’s go,” says Irren, his gravelly voice grating on my nerves.

He turns before I can ask where we’re heading and strides off at a pace that demands I keep up or get left behind . His dark leathers creak with each step, the blade at his hip catching what little light filters through the stone latticework above us.

I fall in beside him, moving as fast as I can without breaking into a jog. After a few tense moments, I break the silence. “You always this friendly, or like most Shade Court fae, have you got a problem with humans, too?”

Other than the echo of our footsteps, no answer comes.

We pass under archways strung with creeping ivy, small white flowers dotting the black vines, and through narrow hallways where the walls absorb the light—matte black and textured like dried ash.

Today, the fae we pass barely glance at me, their eyes averted as they slip by without a sound. It seems someone’s told them to steer clear. Fine by me. I have social anxiety anyway.