Page 31 of Wicked Prince of Shadows (Wicked Princes #2)

I set the grey zucchini with the pomegranates and moved on.

A cluster of what looked like mushrooms had sprouted near the fountain's base, their caps a mottled charcoal and cream.

I'd never planted mushrooms. They must have been dormant spores in the soil, awakened by whatever magic I'd channeled into this place. Was that a good sign or neutral?

"Can I help?"

I jumped, nearly dropping the zucchini as I whirled around.

Osric stood three steps above me, his white hair wild and his amber eyes bright with mischief.

He wore a clean tunic today, charcoal grey with silver stitching along the collar, and his small black boots were polished to a shine at the front but scuffed on the sides.

"Osric." I pressed my hand to my chest, willing my heart to slow. "You startled me."

"That means you need help." He hopped down the steps with the confidence of a mountain goat at play. "Is this for the big dance?"

"If you want to help me, of course." Despite the somberness, I couldn’t suppress a smile at his earnest expression. "And what dance are you talking about?”

"Oh." He crouched beside me, examining the rows of fruit I'd laid out.

"They do a dance where we get out all our special clothes and colors on the night before the blood moon cycle ends. You’ll have fun.

" His grin was infectious, all childish hope and enthusiasm. “And maybe…Fahlda will dance with you.”

“Fahlda?” I raised an eyebrow at him, frowning.

Osric shrugged dramatically and plucked a waxy black apple from a tree. “He’s not my father father. But he takes care of me. And I didn't want anyone else to. So I call him Fahlda. There’s lots of us here. Can I eat this?”

“Sure. But just one until we know how many we need for everyone else,” I said. “And do you mean…King Vetle?” It felt so strange to say his name. I moved behind a bush to hide the color likely flooding my cheeks.

"Yeah." Osric bit into the apple with a satisfying crunch, black juice dribbling down his chin. He wiped it away with the back of his hand, leaving a dark smear. "He doesn't think he's good at it, but he does his best. You have to believe me on that."

"I do believe you," I assured him, warmth spreading through my chest despite everything.

The image of stern, imposing Vetle caring for this child—letting him call him something as intimate as 'Fahlda'—softened something in me even more than before. I’d known he was fond of him, and he had seemed protective. "How many children are there like you?"

"Sixteen now. Used to be more, but..." He trailed off, his expression dimming as if sad. “He makes sure the rest of us are safe as possible. Some get adopted cause no one else can have kids like they used to. But I’m staying. He doesn’t have other kids. And his parents died a long time ago and his brother.”

I swallowed against the lump forming in my throat. My thoughts returned to my family, and the ache in my chest nearly undid me. "That's good. I'm sure he's glad you're staying."

Osric grinned and took another bite of the apple, then crouched beside me to examine the other fruit. "Are you going to marry him?"

The question hit me like a physical blow. I fumbled with the zucchini in my hands, nearly dropping it. "I—yes."

“Good!” He grinned. “Can I call you Mahlda then?”

It was startling how swiftly he had decided to accept me.

Maybe because he had longed for family or simply because he was a loving soul trapped in a horrible place.

“S-sure. If you’d like to. Fahlda and Mahlda…

it’s not exactly Father and Mother. That’s what we call parents where I’m from. Does it mean the same thing?”

He shrugged at that, then took another bite.

“Fahlda says I’m a ward, and I shouldn’t forget my parents who made me.

But I don’t remember them. I was on my own before I saw the portal and came through.

Best thing I did. Even when it’s hard and scary.

So I made up the words with Bram.” His expression dropped.

“Who’s Bram?”

He lifted his shoulder, his gaze down on the ground as he chewed slower. “They’re saying we might all die before the wedding. Everyone’s scared. I wish I had healing magic or monster magic. Or even plant magic like you. I’m just common, and I can’t do anything to help.”

My mouth went dry to hear him say that. I didn’t feel ready to have this conversation with a child, but here it was happening.

“Everyone has magic. Sometimes a little. Sometimes a lot.” I tied some of the delicate tendrils to the trellis.

This one had beans from the looks of it.

Oblong pods with a slightly velvety texture hung from the stems, similar to string beans.

“Yeah, well, mine isn’t useful here.” His tone had gone glum.

“What is yours?” I looked up to see that Vetle, Maltric, and Doctor Rasoul had vanished.

“Art.” He traced his finger in the dirt, forming a perfect circle.

“Especially color. But there’s so little color here.

And there will barely be any at the dance, compared to what we used to have.

I have one tray of oil paints that I keep locked up.

If we put things in the big, strong black wood boxes, it protects them, and they don’t lose color as fast. If something loses all its color, it’s a lot harder to bring back even a little of it when I focus.

Everyone says that if we make it to the end of the blood moon cycle, it’ll be all right.

But…the chasm moved. It could happen again.

I sometimes share the paints with the other kids, but I don’t know if I want to if they're my last ones.”

I didn't tell him that, yes, this might be his last chance to use those paints.

That, if we failed, there would be no more dances, no more art, no more anything.

The words lodged in my throat, too cruel to speak aloud to a child who'd already lost so much in a world that was so harsh and which had not yet fully destroyed his cheer.

He was scared, but being afraid would do nothing here.

I crossed back in front of him. "I think you should use them anyway, and if you want to share with your friends, then you should. Create something beautiful whenever you can. Something that reminds you of what matters most. Even if it doesn’t last forever.

Making it and remembering it are what’s important.

And I’d love to see whatever you make. Whether it has color or not. "

His head lifted, amber eyes brightening slightly. "Really?" He sounded somewhat suspicious yet hopeful.

"Really." I smiled at him, even as my chest ached. "I'd love to see whatever you create. Do you ever work with ink? Or charcoal?"

He wrinkled his nose. "Not as much. It's fine, I guess. But it's not the same as real color. Everything here is so..." He gestured vaguely at the grey, black, and white garden around us. “It’s disappointing.”

"I know," I said gently, reaching out to ruffle his white hair. "But you should still create. Even if it's just with ink or charcoal. If you have a gift, you should use it, Osric. Doesn’t matter how big or small. Don't let this place rob you of that. And I bet Fahlda would like to see it too."

He considered this, tilting his head as he finished the last of his apple. He tossed the core into one of the empty planters where it landed with a soft thud. "I could show you some of my drawings. The ones I keep hidden."

My heart squeezed. "I'd love that. After we finish working for the day?"

His face lit up like the sun breaking through storm clouds. "Can I tell you about each one?"

"Yes." I handed him one of the grey zucchinis. "Here, help me gather these. We need to make sure there's enough food for everyone."

He took the vegetable from me and then plucked another.

We worked together, and he told me about the other children in the palace, about lessons with Rasoul, about the time he'd wanted to tame a deathbeak chick and Fahlda told him never, about how he wanted to paint portraits of everyone, and more.

It was easier to forget about the doom that loomed over us as I focused on his voice.

“If you marry Fahlda, will you let me have a deathbeak chick?” He scooped up some of the fallen dirt like I’d shown him and pushed the roots back into the cracked planter.

“What if we get out of the Witheringlands and then we look at the possibilities?” I wiped some dirt off my cheek with the back of my hand.

The ground started to shake.

I froze. This wasn’t like the earthquakes. They were…footsteps.

The marble shuddered, and stone ground against stone somewhere to the left of us. My stomach dropped.

"Sabine." Osric stiffened, then darted up the staircase a few steps and shielded his eyes. “That sounds like the behemoth! How did it get here so fast? They're supposed to watch for it!”

The trembling intensified. I grabbed for the nearest planter to steady myself, but it was already sliding across the fractured marble. Osric stumbled, and I lunged forward to catch him, pulling him against me.

"It's all right," I lied, wrapping my arms around him as the earth heaved beneath us. "Just hold on." We were down in the center of the courtyard garden with high walls and towers on all sides. Where had Vetle said to go the last time? The northern courtyard? This was the western, wasn't it?

A voice rang out from one of the watchtowers, raw with terror:

"THE BEHEMOTH IS CHARGING!"

My blood turned to ice.

"Out of the garden!" Another guard's voice, closer this time, desperate. "Everyone out of the Queen's Garden! NOW!"

I grabbed Osric's hand and yanked him toward the stairs. "Run!"

We bolted up the fractured steps, leaping over gaps, our feet slipping on loose stone. Behind us, I heard something massive strike the outer wall—a sound like thunder and breaking bones combined.

The entire palace shook. Dust and debris rained down from above. I tightened my grip on Osric's hand, pulling him faster as we climbed.

We were halfway up when the world exploded.

Stone and mortar erupted behind us with a deafening roar, and a large chunk of carved archway crashed down directly onto the staircase ahead of us.