Page 16 of Wicked Prince of Shadows (Wicked Princes #2)

A few of the planters had changed significantly, holding plants that were much farther along and looked almost as if they were on the verge of erupting in full bloom.

One near the fountain had sprouted three strange saplings with silver-dusted bark, the roots pushing through the brittle stone like it wasn’t even there.

Another far planter held thick grey brambles that twisted together, pulsing slightly.

Maybe ten had plants in different stages but significantly farther along than all the rest.

I tightened my grip on the railing at the top of the stairs, my eyes wide. This was incredible…and unnerving. Though I had expected some signs yesterday, this was far beyond what I had hoped.

Six Stitches chuckled low in his throat. “Guess you had more magic in you than you gave yourself credit for.”

“The flowers are gonna be black and grey though,” Broken Nose said, his voice tight.

“What difference does the color make?” I blinked as I tried to take all of this in, feeling something between pride and confusion.

The Hollow King and another dark-robed fae advisor were already among the lower tiers, speaking in low tones, their heads tilted as if listening to something I couldn’t hear. A wave of nervous energy rushed through me, and my stomach gurgled loudly.

Six Stitches raised his brow. “You know you can eat. Being stuck here isn’t because of the food. It’s the portal.”

I pulled back slightly to look at him better.

His dull grey eyes betrayed little emotion, but he sounded sincere.

“I can’t take the chance.” There was no chance I’d do anything that might bind me to the Hollow King.

I walked down the steps, looking around cautiously.

Not all of the planters held flowering plants now.

Some were much the same as yesterday. The ones that were blooming were in clusters.

As I drew closer, I overheard the king speaking.

“They’re all black, grey, and white,” the Hollow King said. “Not a hint of color.”

The man beside him was an ancient individual with stitches down his jaw and up across his eye, the eye itself barely open and amplified by a monocle. “They may yet reveal another shade. It could be indigo, Your Majesty.”

“Perhaps.” His jaw tightened, the stitches pulling taut as the muscles ticked.

I stepped down the stairs to a spot a few feet away from them, not pretending I couldn’t hear them.

"Ah, the bride arrives," the stranger said, his voice like stones grinding together.

His eyes were practically silver white, the one behind the monocle barely open and seeming to have no pupil.

The unsettling intensity of his gaze and discomfort of his having stitches over his eye only intensified as I drew closer, the smile not reaching his eyes.

Yet still, despite his unsettling appearance, he struck me as sincere. “I see you have been hard at work.”

I approached cautiously, staying out of arm’s reach. "Have I passed your test?"

The Hollow King's jaw tightened. With a slight bow of his head, he lifted his arm to indicate the dark-robed man beside him. "This is Maltric, my chief advisor.”

“A pleasure.” The advisor tilted his head forward, his words clipped. “I did not expect the descendant of Tanith to work with such vigor. You have not left one planter untouched.”

“Because I’m not her descendant,” I said flatly.

For once, the Hollow King appeared uncomfortable, a muscle in his jaw ticking and the stitches in his face tightening. He then lifted his chin before returning his focus to Maltric. “She remains insistent on that point.

Maltric cleared his throat as fine lines formed over his broad brow. “I certainly hope for your sake that isn’t true, princess. You’re far too young to die so horribly, but you would not be the first.”

My eyebrow arched as I stared him down. “Well, don’t let the horror keep you up at night. Now, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I apparently have a garden to slave away in.”

I turned without waiting for a dismissal and made my way back to the tier below, the weight of their stares clinging to my back like dust I couldn’t shake.

Fine.

Let them watch. My shoes scuffed the ashen stone, and my breath quickened. I needed space. Needed to work, to think, to figure out what the Maker-damned hells was going on with these plants.

I moved from planter to planter as I tried to make sense of what had changed overnight. Clearly something in my magic had connected, but it didn’t look anything like what it did back home. Each planter and pot had stirred in some way. But not it wasn’t in the same way.

Some planters showed small growths—a few twitching black stems or pale tendrils pressed low to the soil, reluctant and new.

Others had surged ahead.

The broadest planter near the fountain held a thick nest of curling grey leaves, mottled with white-veined patterns like frost over old stone.

Another had birthed a wide cluster of ash-blossoms, petals thin as paper, stretched open toward the sky like they were starving for light.

Beneath the leaves hung grey teardrop shapes.

Frowning, I touched the base of the teardrop.

This was the planter I’d cut myself on. I turned, trying to remember the others where I’d gotten cut. My attention snagged on a small black-barked tree in one of the other pots I’d cut it on.

Tight buds swelled along the twisted black branches, their matte charcoal skins veined with silver-grey, hinting at the fruit to come.

Smoke-colored leaves curled protectively around each one, shivering faintly as if the tree itself was holding its breath.

No trace of the blood or any stains at all.

I turned then, remembering the large square pot the deathbeak had fallen into.

A thick, shadow-veined stalk coiled up from the planter, its surface slick and mottled in shades of black and ashen grey.

At the top, a bulbous bud twitched. That was odd.

That bud was bigger than my head already.

Two smaller ones lay on the edge of the pot, but each one was easily larger than my hand.

I walked closer, climbing the staircase until I reached the nearest level. What even was that?

“You’re Thabine?” A boy with amber eyes hopped out in front of me.

I jumped back, nearly falling over the edge. The boy was perhaps four feet tall with ash-grey skin and hair as white as bleached bones. The utter delight in his face was so sincere it almost erased my shock. “Hi…um, who are you?”

“Osric. Nice to meet you, Thabine.” He stepped closer as he looked me up and down as if he found me curious. “I’m an artist.”

“It’s—it’s Sabine.” He must have overheard the Hollow King speaking.

That seemed odd though. The Hollow King didn’t really strike me as the sort of person who would enjoy having children around.

This boy looked barely eight years old, but it was hard to say how fast anyone aged in this place, if at all.

He might be seven hundred years old, and I could just be making a fool out of myself. “What are you doing out here, Osric?”

He tilted his head at an exaggerated angle, his brow furrowing. Then he pointed at the strange buds behind me. “Can we eat these when they finish growing if they're fruit? We never get fruit anymore.”

“Maybe. I don’t know. These aren’t like any plants in my home.” I folded my arms as I studied him.

He wrinkled his nose as he sized up the plant, then looked back at me. “You must be hungry though. You didn’t come to dinner last night, and you didn’t eat breakfast.”

I raised an eyebrow at him. “And how do you know I didn’t eat breakfast?” Dinner was also a big question, but maybe there were other people who were supposed to be there and noticed.

He shrugged and hopped up to sit on the planter nearest me. “Because I ate it.”

A smile broke over my face. Of all the things I had expected, this wasn’t it. “I’m glad it didn’t go to waste. Was it good?”

He shrugged. “It didn’t try to bite me back.”

I frowned slightly at this, then set my hands on my waist. “Is that…a typical thing here?”

He sighed as he looked at me, his lips pressing in a tight line. “Sabine. Everything can hurt you here.”

I almost choked at the matter-of-fact way he said it. “Oh? Even you?”

His face lit up again, and he shrugged. “Maybe.”

As I walked to the next one, he followed me. “It’s been a long time since anyone new has come. Do you like it here? I like you being here now.”

He didn’t even stop to let me answer as he followed me.

The kid was cute. I’d give him that. Cute in a creepy sort of way.

He didn’t have wings though, but he did have small half-hidden protrusions on his head that might be horns.

His features were a little narrower than the others I had seen here as well.

“Did you see the deathbeaks? They attack almost every day. When I’m done growing, I want to tame one. Would you like to tame one? Do you know how?"

"You ask a lot of questions, don’t you?" I couldn't help but smile at his enthusiasm. It was a welcome change.

"I like asking questions. It's how I learn things." Osric hopped down and skipped ahead of me, turning to walk backward so he could keep his eyes on me. "No one tells me anything, so I have to ask. Or spy. I'm good at spying."

"I bet you are." I knelt to examine another planter, this one with twisted vines. We were now on the level above the planter with the bulbous buds. It seemed like all of the planters that had received blood were now growing far faster, but bleeding into every single one of the planters didn’t seem to be a good option.

“Did you see how much bigger this one is getting?” He sat on the edge of the marble tier and let his legs dangle. His heels kicked back against the marble wall in a steady rhythm. “It’s grown since I got here. Do you know what kind of plant it is?”

“What are you doing out here?” The Hollow King’s voice echoed off the marble.

My attention snapped up in time to see him on the staircase, hands braced against his broad belt.

Osric twisted to glance back at him, then shrugged dramatically. “I’m not doing anything. She’s doing the work. I’m helping. You can sit with us if you want. She’s really good at listening.”

The Hollow King’s gaze flicked from me to Osric, sharp as a blade. “She has things to do. Do not bother her.”

“She didn’t say I’m a bother. Am I a bother?” Osric looked at me, his brow furrowing.

I shook my head and walked over to him. Lifting my chin, I smoothed my skirt down and sat on the edge.

My feet dangled just above the bulbous buds.

“No, Osric, you aren’t a bother.” The marble warmed the backs of my thighs and eased some of the ache.

"You might as well ask your question now, before His Royal Highness here drags me back to toil.”

Osric grinned. “Do you know how many eggs a deathbeak lays?”

I started to laugh when white-hot pain lanced through my right thigh.