Page 15 of Wicked Prince of Shadows (Wicked Princes #2)

I tried everything I could. Spoke my magic words and whispered spells.

Dug down deep into the dry soil. Stirred what little I could salvage to loosen it.

Mixed in a layer of moss and lichens scraped from the brittle tree trunks in case any of it held nutrients.

And of course water. Lots of water from that awkward, uncomfortable fountain and well.

Nothing.

The seeds slept. The vines didn’t twitch. The skeletal branches didn’t even shift when I spoke healing words to them. It was as if I had no magic at all.

The two guards stood high above me at the edge of the courtyard, barely moving. Always watching.

I cursed under my breath and wiped a smear of dirt across my face as I tied my hair back again with the same scrap of fabric.

My palms were blistered. My knees raw. Twice I cut my hands on the broad trellis resting inside two planters, and I bled profusely until I tied a bandage tight around my hand.

Several drops dripped into the soil, and I cut myself a few other times.

The worst was on a broad planter down by the fountain.

Six Stitches brought me a jar of grey salve, similar to the kind the doctor had used on me last night. Using it burned and itched, but at least it healed the cuts.

A low, rasping croak broke the silence, followed by the thunder of wings. I looked up just as a deathbeak dove, its massive, hooked bill aimed straight for me, skeletal wings outstretched. Another dropped behind it, feathers like oil-slick metal, eyes burning red.

Before I could run, two guards swept out from the wall, wings stretched wide.

One slammed into the first deathbeak mid-air, driving a spear clean through its chest. The other guard twisted mid-flight, blade flashing, and sliced the second open from shoulder to gut.

With great shrieks, the creatures thrashed, black blood raining down like tar before both bodies crashed to the stone.

The guards didn’t land. They circled once, eyes scanning the sky, then climbed back to their post high above.

I shuddered, then turned back to my work, heart still pounding from the attack. My hands trembled as I dug them back into the soil, but I forced myself to continue. The garden wouldn't fix itself, and I wasn't about to give the Hollow King the satisfaction of seeing me cower.

But I didn’t stop trying.

Another screech tore through the air not twenty minutes later.

I didn't even look up this time, just dropped to my knees and pressed myself against the nearest planter.

The guards' wings beat the air with heavy thuds as they launched into action.

Metal clashed against bone, and wet squelches punctuated the snarls and cries of the deathbeaks.

Still, I kept working. Fingers in the dirt, knees bruised and grit-stained, breath shaking as I moved to the next planter.

The garden didn’t care if monsters attacked or blood was spilled.

One of the deathbeaks dropped on a large planter, its blood pouring out over the planter and on the stone.

A guard came to drag the corpse away as someone called over the wall to make sure to hang it upside down so it could be dressed properly for the night’s meal.

I worked until the sun bled out behind the haze and the light dimmed to a bruised grey. Still nothing. Not a single bloom. Not a twitch of magic. Not even a worm twitching about.

Every part of me ached. My stomach turned with emptiness, but I ignored it. I wouldn’t eat. I couldn’t. Not while I was here. Not when I didn’t know what was real or what was cursed. The Witheringlands had already taken too much. I wouldn’t let it claim me or my soul.

The guards descended when the light dipped fully away, and I stood slowly, joints stiff, dress soaked with sweat and stained with dust.

I’d failed.

I didn’t know what a princess would have done differently or how royal magic would have differed. But I knew I’d failed. There should have been some sign by now if this was possible.

I didn’t say a word as they escorted me back through the stone halls. My breath rasped in my throat, and I kept my eyes down. My footsteps left faint smudges on the polished floor.

The Hollow King waited for me at the landing of the second staircase, immaculate with his hair perfectly straight and his crown perfectly aligned.

The only thing that might have induced me to touch would have been if he was wearing white or light grey and I could have wiped my filthy hands all over him and mussed him up.

“You didn’t try to come in earlier. I’m surprised. Pleasantly so,” he said mildly. He then gestured toward the door within the hall rather than up the staircase. “Dinner’s getting cold. As you have not caused any further difficulties, I wanted to extend an invitation so you could join me.”

I stared at him silently, unblinking. My stomach knotted.

What I wouldn’t give for any food right now, but I couldn’t.

Not if I wanted to preserve every chance for getting out of here, and the lore was clear: no eating the food in the Witheringlands, or I’d be bound to its king.

My stomach cramped, then gurgled. I swallowed hard.

His eyebrow lifted. “You should eat something.” He spoke a little more sternly now.

“I’m not hungry.” As if on cue, my stomach gurgled loudly. I wrinkled my nose as I wrapped my arms around myself. Stupid body.

His eyes narrowed slightly as he tilted his head, his long dark hair sliding over his shoulder. “You’re exhausted. And starving. I heard your stomach. Stop being stubborn and come eat.”

I put my hands on my hips as I lifted my chin. “I’m not risking getting trapped here because I ate the food.”

He shook his head, and his breath hissed through his teeth. “If that is how you feel, then so be it. I would never presume to do something against your will.”

I laughed bitterly, too tired to care how brittle I sounded. “You mean aside from you dragging me here against my will?”

His jaw flexed. The shadows around his shoulders stirred. “Other than that.”

“And the forcing me to marry you part?” I demanded.

“Obviously that is not included.”

“Well, those are the parts I’m most concerned about. That and losing my eternal soul because I’m not a Maker-forsaken princess!”

His nostrils flared, and the muscles tightened in his neck and jaw. “If you can’t be civil, then return to your room and sleep in the cold.”

I hesitated a breath before starting up the staircase. As I passed him on the right side, he cut his eyes at me.

“Terrifying as you seem to find me, I find it amusing you speak with such roughness and carelessness. If I were truly evil, would that be wise?”

I glared at him as I strode up the staircase. My heart thundered within my ribs, my nerves screaming, but my mouth refused to stop. “Maybe because deep down I know that if you snapped and killed me now, it would be better for me than suffering the actual fate you have in mind.”

I turned on my heel and hurried on, not wanting to hear his counterargument. The words echoed in the air.

His gaze followed me down the hall. I could feel it and his seething.

But he didn’t come after me. That was something.

The moment my bedroom door closed behind me, I pressed my back to it and exhaled hard. My whole body trembled from fatigue. What a wretched day. My hands were still filthy, my face streaked with grime and dried sweat, and everything ached.

The cold hit next.

No curtains. No fire. No heat at all. Consequences of my own actions, of course.

As cold as it was, I couldn’t bring myself to regret trying to escape.

All I had for warmth was the blanket. He’d probably say I deserved to suffer, and in truth, I was grateful he had even allowed me to have another blanket.

I crossed to the basin in the bathing chamber and twisted the tap. The water sputtered out icy and sharp. I scrubbed my face and arms anyway, gasping at the cold. Blood and dirt smeared in the sink until they rinsed away.

By the time I dried off and dragged the single blanket from the foot of the bed, I could barely keep my eyes open. I collapsed, my eyes too heavy to hold open any more.

The wind howled outside the window, reaching into my dreams as well. The dreams of falling, claws, plants, and creatures returned with the same strange figures grasping from the darkness, desperate and rageful.

The nightmares plagued me until morning, all similar to the one the night before. I could practically feel those strange fingers wrapping around me.

I rose, stiffer this morning than I was the last. Maker, help me. Today was going to be a long day.

Breakfast had been set out for me in front of the door, dry grey meat and some sort of grey bread. I set the plate aside on a table in the alcove, hating to waste food no matter what it looked like and hoping someone else would eat it.

Within minutes, Six Stitches and Broken Nose came to escort me down to the garden. As soon as we stepped out onto the landing with the first set of stairs down into the garden though, I caught a different scent, something like ashy greens and burnt nettles. My eyes widened as I looked down.

Yesterday, the garden had been dead. Nothing but brittle branches and bone-dry dirt.

Now…dozens of new growths had appeared.

Black-veined leaves shivered faintly on gnarled stems in the morning breeze, their undersides ghost-pale beneath the charcoal tops and fragile as moth wings.

Ash-colored shoots had broken through some of the planters, spiraling upward in twitching spirals.

A few of the skeletal trees in the wider pots had begun to bow beneath new weight—branches bearing clumps of black-tipped buds or curling white fronds that fluttered in the steady wind.