Page 41

Summer

H aving received no instructions, I stand frozen on the steps, watching the procession depart the Great Hall. No one tells me to move. No one tells me anything.

Then Landolin lifts his head and calls out in a clear, deep voice, “ Misery .”

At first, I think he’s making some kind of dramatic statement—a commentary on the night. Or on me.

Then I see her. The bone-throwing fae from the courtyard.

She emerges from a shadowed alcove near the eastern wall—tall, skeletal-thin, and wrapped in strips of dull silk and leather, like someone stitched her clothes together in the dark and they somehow turned out pretty cool.

Long, midnight hair threaded with dried vines frames her narrow face.

Her skin is the color of faded lavender, her eyes glassy and solid black.

She walks barefoot, leathery wings raised, each step deliberate and at a pace so unnerving the fleeing crowd parts for her automatically.

Chains between her ankles clink when she moves, and I can’t help wondering if she’s a slave from another court.

She stops in front of me, her unblinking gaze settling on my face, making my skin crawl under her scrutiny.

“Summer Brady,” she says. “Come with me.”

It’s not even an order. Not really. More like she’s giving a weather report. This is happening. Prepare accordingly.

I give a mock salute and rise. The vines restraining me have disappeared, but my legs have gone to sleep. I groan as I get up, glancing toward the dais. Landolin watches me with an unreadable expression.

Moiron doesn’t look at me at all.

Misery turns and strides off, expecting me to follow without question. Every part of me says stay put . But I go anyway.

We exit through a side passage, not the main doors. The hallways narrow as we go, the air growing colder with every step. My heart thuds too fast, but I force myself to breathe through it. No panicking. Not yet. Counting to infinity? Totally reasonable under the circumstances.

I tell myself I’m fine. That Wyn would want me to be brave. So, I gulp in another breath and decide to do some delving, stealing a glance at her as we walk.

“Is that your real name? Misery?” I ask.

“Not even a fae parent would be so cruel as to gift their child such a fate,” she replies.

“I don’t know… have you noticed King Moiron’s parenting style?”

No response. Not even a snort or a quirk of her lips.

“Are you a prisoner here, too?” I try again.

Silence .

“What’s this test about? What will I have to do? You might as well tell me. Whatever it is, I can’t escape it. Or you .”

Not bothering to look at me, Misery speeds up. “You ask too many questions.”

I could argue, but she’s probably right. I might feel sorry for her if I knew what the Shade Court had done to her. And I probably don’t want to know what they’re about to do to me.

At last, the corridor opens onto a narrow outdoor path, lit by strings of floating lanterns that sway in the breeze. Up ahead, the courtiers come into view—hundreds, maybe thousands, forming a loose ring around a shallow basin carved into the ground.

The Hollow.

It’s not a pit, like an old quarry. It’s too clean, too deliberate. Almost as if something massive was pressed into the ground and then lifted away, leaving behind a smooth, circular scar, like a natural amphitheater.

I stop at the edge, where the air feels thicker, harder to breathe.

Misery speaks without turning. “Stand in the center and wait for the call. If you run, the Hunt will follow and strike you down without mercy.”

I open my mouth to say something—maybe to beg for help—but she’s already melted into the crowd.

And now I’m alone.

Well, not technically. Because the entire Shade Court is staring back at me.

I take one step down into the Hollow.

Then another.

And another .

The slope is shallow, but the intense silence humming in the night air makes it feel steeper, more dangerous.

The crowd watches from the rim, their faces half-lit by hanging lanterns and the cold glow of the seven moons.

I can’t hear them talking, or even breathing.

The fuckers. I suppose this is premium entertainment for them.

The ground under my boots is uneven and littered with old bones that gleam like sickening warnings in the moonlight. Sweat drips down my back, and the sound of my own rattled breaths is nightmarish, like I’m trapped in a dream I can’t wake up from.

I make it to the middle of the pit without receiving any instructions. No one attacking me. Nothing. I’m filled with a sense that I’ve arrived in the part of my story, of my life, where I’ll either perform a miracle or die trying. So, yeah, go me , I guess.

From the edge of the Hollow, Moiron Ravenseeker strides toward me.

His voice cuts clean across the space, echoing like a warning shot. “Summer Brady of Lake Grenlynn in the Mortal Realm. The Court calls upon you to serve.”

I force myself to look up at him. He’s standing tall in black-and-silver robes that shift with every movement, his shadows caressing his body. The fire in his red eyes is banked, now dark and cruel, and he stares at me like I’m nothing. Worthless.

I refuse to wither under such a gaze. I lift my chin and pretend he’s my deceased but still opinionated mother. And no man, living or fae, has ever scared me half as much as she does .

Landolin stands beside the king, his hands clasped behind his back like he’s afraid of what they’ll do if he releases them.

Moiron speaks again. “There are claims your blood can call the dead from their graves and control them. That your breath whispers the language of the afterlife.”

I blink. “That’s not a class I remember signing up for.”

A ripple of laughter from the crowd.

Moiron doesn’t crack a smile. “This is not a trial of cruelty,” he says. “It is merely a test of what sleeps inside you. A way to discern if you are the one the Hunt has waited for. And if the Hollow will stir at your command.”

He gestures to a shape at the far end of the pit I hadn’t noticed before, shrouded in shadow.

It looks like a body. Or what’s left of one, wrapped in linen, resting on a slab of pale stone, like an offering that no one wants to accept.

“You will raise it,” Moiron says. “If the power is yours, if you are indeed a dead waker, the corpses will answer.”

Corpses? I take a breath, the taste of blood filling my mouth.

“How? How am I meant to do it? Do you have an instruction manual by any chance?”

The king scowls, and Landolin steps forward, passing me a hunting knife with a glossy, mother-of-pearl handle. “The same way you speak to your ghosts. Ask the dead to rise. And offer them blood, of course.”

Blood? Oh, shit. Now I really want to go home.

“Them?” I ask, peering into the corner.

Near the slab is multi-layered pallet, each level holding maybe three bodies, so there are at least ten linen-wrapped corpses in the Hollow. Am I expected to raise them all, or will just one satisfy this ghoulish court’s necromancy kink?

“And if I fail?” I ask.

“You won’t,” Landolin insists, which feels more like a demand than encouragement. “Do your best,” he adds. “For you can do nothing more.”

Well, that’s certainly true.

I turn and face Moiron. “Your… Majesty… I’m absolutely sure you’ve kidnapped the wrong girl. Can’t the Hunt just take me back home? Keep searching for the right one? I mean look at me… I’m nothing special. Why keep me?”

Moiron sighs. “The Prince of Earth’s father, Everend Fionbharr, the wretched Prince of Air, once allowed his daughter, Merrin, to cheat our court at the Beltane ritual when she jumped the fires with Landolin, thus robbing us of our rightful, future queen.”

The king’s hair is the same deep blue shade as the streaks in his son’s, but his eyes glow as red as a demon’s.

The resemblance is there, sure, but where Landolin carries his arrogance like armor, Moiron wields his like a weapon.

I wonder, just for a moment, if—deep down—they’re cut from the same cursed cloth.

Then I remember Landolin’s vision of that night. The way he stood over my parents’ bodies with blood on his hands and shadows crawling behind his back. And whatever doubt I had burns right out of me. I’m sure he’s as rotten as his beady-eyed father.

“What does your court being cheated out of a queen have to do with me?” I ask .

“Everend’s son, Wynter, believes you’re his mate. That only you can free him from their mad mage’s curse. Don’t you see, you being the girl we need is the perfect alignment of both progress and revenge. Agreed?”

“No, not really,” I mumble.

“Besides, you belonged to us first. Eight years ago, the Hunt sniffed you out at the place you call Gravenshade Hall and recognized the scent of fate. There is only one way out of the Hollow for you, girl. Best you get started.”

Fantastic. I guess I should start composing my tragic last words, then.

The king and his son retreat, and with zero enthusiasm, I shuffle toward the pallet of the dead.

I study the corpse laid out separately on the block of stone. The linen is old and frayed, and the body is large. Probably male. Maybe a soldier. Or a laborer. Either way, he looks too far gone to be raised by anyone , least of all an anxiety-ridden mortal with self-esteem issues.

I don’t know the first thing about raising the dead, and today’s meds-withdrawal symptoms—nausea and brain fog—aren’t exactly boosting my odds.

But apparently, I’m about to try anyway. Really hoping I don’t vomit on a corpse.

Shit. There are definitely more bodies than I realized. Eleven, maybe twelve, laid out on tiered slabs of wood like a grotesque wedding cake. From a safe distance, I try to pick my lucky—or unlucky—test subject.

One corpse has a skewed jaw. Another is missing fingers. They smell of dry earth and rotting fabric, like they were recently unpacked from storage for the occasion .