Page 12

Malik

W hen Malik entered the queen’s bedchamber, Drystan had already returned. He knelt beside the bed, Ceridwen’s hand clasped in his. Her father and Jaina remained nearby, apparently refusing to leave their dear girl.

Despite the prince’s intrusion into the heavy silence, Drystan paid him no mind. Eventually, Malik cleared his throat.

Drystan looked up, teeth bared, blinking the sheen of red from his eyes. Malik reached for the small dagger he kept hidden at his side. But the king shook his head and shoved to his feet with a sigh. His hair stood on end where he’d raked his hand through it likely countless times, and he did it once more before addressing his cousin.

“You’re back. Good.” He spoke as if each word took great effort. “Come with me.”

Drystan led him across the room, where he pushed back a tapestry. The wall behind it appeared to be the same wood paneling as the rest of the room, but the moment his cousin slid an unassuming piece of wood to the side, something clicked, and a section of the wall swung slightly inward.

The doorway to the secret passage was small. Both men had to crouch to enter, but thankfully, the passage itself was tall enough to allow them to walk upright. A small oil lamp flickered on the wall, illuminating the barren passage inundated with cobwebs. Broken bits of web hung from the ceiling here and there. The only sound was the chitter of a rat scuttling somewhere up ahead.

“Would you believe I’ve never been in here?” Malik said, trying to lighten the stifling mood. “I knew they existed, of course, but my father always threatened to punish me if he ever heard of me seeking them out.” Rhion had never been one to shy away from punishment. The opposite, actually. Malik still had the scars to prove it.

A soft grunt came in reply. He thought that might be all he’d get when Drystan, who walked down the hall ahead of him, said, “I believe I know why.”

“Oh?”

Drystan turned a corner and descended a steep, narrow flight of stairs.

“Why is that?” Malik asked when his cousin did not respond.

“It’ll be easier to show you.”

The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

They came to a wooden door nestled somewhere deep in the castle. The moment Malik stepped through, his stomach dropped.

A small table sat against one wall, littered with dusty bowls and vials, some still holding their contents. A few books were stacked near the corner. Most concerning were the two objects that made clear the room’s ghastly purpose: a stone altar near the center and iron shackles hanging from one wall. Dark stains still marked the stones below.

A magical workroom, and he’d bet his life it wasn’t used for noble purposes.

His father might have used this very room. No, not might have . Almost certainly had.

“You’ve been here before,” Malik said. “Before you were king.”

“Yes.” The one word was full of so much pain. “I should have dismantled it brick by brick. Sealed it permanently. But I worried … I thought I might…” He hung his head.

He thought he might need it.

Just when Malik thought the night couldn’t get any darker.

“You’re not going to—”

Drystan whirled. “No.” Then he looked away. “Not if I can find some other way.”

But Malik understood. If there was an opportunity to save Ceridwen using dark magic, Drystan would take it, risks be damned.

Malik swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. “Then why are we here?”

Drystan approached the wall with the manacles. “You still know a locking spell?” He ran his fingers down the length of a chain.

“Yes.”

“Good.” Drystan closed one of the shackles around his wrist. “Use it.” He reached for the others.

Goddess help us. He feared changing that much?

“You think these will hold the monster?” Malik advanced and helped Drystan fit the shackle around his other wrist.

Drystan held his cousin’s gaze. “I know they will.”

Malik’s blood ran cold. “Drystan…”

“Do it.” He snapped, and this time, when the red filled his eyes, it did not retreat.

“Fuck.” Malik freed his small dagger and sliced it across his palm. He barely flinched at the pain. All at once, he was a boy again, hastily sorting through the spells in his mind to produce the right one for his father. He could still feel the sting of the rod smacking against his back if he took too long or performed the spell incorrectly.

And that had been before his father fully succumbed to the darkness, before his never-ending hunger for the throne, before he decided that Malik was a failure unworthy to aid him in his goals.

Malik was a quick learner … but a better actor. He’d show just enough to avoid the rod, but not so much that he’d be pressured fully into the dark ways as so many of his lineage had been. His mother had seen to that, taught him with a kind hand. Her lessons were far more effective. She even showed him how to fake the darkness enough to appease his father but make it seem like he simply could not perform the spells rather than messing them up by choice.

It was a spell his mother had taught him that he recalled now. It took only moments to trace the right patterns upon the shackles using his blood.

Blood. Shape. Intention. The three elements necessary for any spell.

The moment he finished the last swirl, the blood vanished as if it had never been, the spell settling into place.

Malik backed away, and Drystan jerked against the shackles. Red flared in his eyes. A deep growl rumbled from his chest.

The shackles held firm.

“Go,” Drystan snapped. “Put a silencing spell on the door, if you can. Do not come back until well after dawn.”

The king sagged against the wall, head drooping. Then, all at once, his head snapped up. Elongated fangs speared from his open mouth. “Go!”

Malik’s heart leapt into his throat as he turned and lurched from the room, slamming the door behind him. An unearthly whine came from within, raising the hair on his arms. Blood still seeped from the cut on his hand, and he used that to paint another spell on the door to mute the sound.

Once the spell was complete, the silence that surrounded him was so eerie he almost wished the monstrous cries would return.

Almost.