“Indeed, you did.” Asterious hummed as he stopped her in front of a great red door at the end of the corridor, only smaller than the great doors to the ballroom entrance. He pulled out a key, unlocking the door, and Caramyn watched carefully, thinking about what she might do if this was all a grave mistake.
“Go ahead.” He pushed the great door open, leading her in by the hand into a room truly ravaged by time and brutality. Frigid air made her stiffen as she looked around the dark chamber, where stone walls crumbled and left gaping cracks where night air slipped through, and thorn-covered vines claimed every inch of the walls and furniture…A shattered dresser mirror lie on the floor, the shards coated in a layer of dust. Everything was blackened by dust—everything but a black torn velvet curtain against the wall, and the bed, draped in heavy crimson sheets that stood out like a drop of bright blood against this cold, gloomy room.
“I hope this is what you wanted to see. Perhaps it doesn’t live up to the horrors you witnessed in the Woods that you still refuse to share, as well as anything else about you, but this is it.” There was an edge like steel in his words. For whatever reason, bringing her here had seemed to upset him. He stood behind her, and she could feel him watching her back.
She swallowed. “Is this…your room?”
“It’s where I sleep sometimes, yes.”
“Why? Why would you choose to sleep in this cold, horrid place?”
“Because it’s uncomfortable. Necessary to keep myself…under control. It’s what I must do to stay numb to whatever feelings could cause me to become…well…reckless.”
Something shifted. Something ominous and forbidden. The coldness in his voice felt like icy serpents slithering beneath her skin. He stepped toward her, his footsteps hollow echoes on the cracked stone floor.
“What kind of steel singer can be so deathly powerful? Who are you really, Asterious?”
She could feel him so close behind her, standing just a hair’s width away at her back as he whispered in her ear, his voice gentler, but still just as unsettling. “I’ve shown you exactly who I am. And I’m still waiting for you to return the favor, little mystery.”
She ached to tell him. She truly did. But at the same time, she feared the consequences more than ever. And she didn’t know why. He’d shown and told her everything she’d asked him to, but she still couldn’t so easily forget the image of him looming over her against the banquet hall door with that bloodthirsty look in his eye. Something—some dark part of him—had peeked through then, and she was wary of when it might slip out again. Her heart wanted to trust him, but her mind refused to let her.
A tear trickled out, and she squeezed her eyes shut to keep another from falling. She opened them at the feeling of the prince’s knuckle across her skin, wiping the single tear. His other hand clasped her waist, and he slowly spun her around to face him. "Who areyou, Caramyn of the Shadow Wood?"
Who was she? She was the abomination offspring of a Shadowblood and Lightborn who carried the shame of it away from the world that wanted to destroy her. She was the magicless witch claimed by the Shadow Woods and the bearer of its mark. She was a frightened backwoods girl from a pathetic village, and she was a swift, silent killer in the treetops. But here, she was simply a young, lofty woman who dreamed of dancing in glittering ballrooms and racing on horseback, who loved steaming hot baths and sweet gooey pastries from the kitchen,and who—secretly, stupidly, regretfully—pined for the touch of the handsome prince standing before her. A woman so starved of any semblance of enjoyment from life and love that she’d convinced herself she didn’t need either of them. Didn’t deserve them.
"I…I’m not sure I know anymore." Her breath hitched as she took a step back. The prince watched her, as though his eyes were searching for answers in her face.
"I look forward to the day you remember,” he said. “But until then, promise me something for tonight.”
Caramyn blinked back the threat of another tear, and forced a half-hearted smile with a tilt of her head. "What more do you want from me?”
Asterious matched her weak smile, cupping her head in his hands. "Promise me that you'll get some rest."
“I promise.” She whispered, noticing the exhaustion in the prince’s eyes. He must never have known a true night’s rest in this prison-like place. “But only if you promise to do the same."
"Don’t worry about me," he smiled with a devilish lilt in his voice. “This room is a luxury compared to the war camps and my father’s prisons.” He slid his hands from her face as she turned to go. She touched her cheek to feel the place where his hand had been. And for a moment, she was almost convinced that everything was fine, and that the strange feeling she’d had when she stepped into the room was nothing more than her instinct of being overly cautious. But as she turned to go, a wind blew through the cracks in the stone, ruffling the velvet curtain against the back wall, and she glanced back just in time to see what looked like heavy chains with shackles peeking out from underneath. And all at once that bristling, frigid terror came back, gripping her like a winter’s noose.
She didn't keep her promise. Her thoughts taunted her all night, hardly allowing for any restful sleep. Before the first light of dawn could illuminate the castle, she threw a coat over her nightgown, descending the tower to make her way to the library with one lone candelabra lighting the way. She searched by dim candlelight through the shelves, desperately seeking a particular book on runes she'd vaguely recalled seeing before.
And as she searched, something called to her from a corner of the library. Something whispering in the darkness like the familiar sound of Shadow wraiths creeping through the forest—something guiding her. It felt like Nocthar, only it wasn’t. It was more like her own intuition, drawing her to some obscure section of the room so strongly that she couldn’t ignore it. And as she found herself shuffling through the dust-covered books where her impulse had led, she felt her vision heightened —as though she was seeing with impossible eyes—seeing light and shadow in places where they wouldn’t normally be visible. It almost seemed like…magic.
But it couldn’t be magic. She was simply feeling what she’d always felt when she was deep within her Woods—a draw to the shadows, like a dance partner that guided her through each step and linked with each movement through her soul. She just didn’t understand why she felt it here, far from her shadowy refuge. As she brushed her hand across a selection of old, cracked books, she felt the strong urge to pluck the books off their shelves, andshe did. One by one, she pulled out the books, letting each drop to the floor. Until one fell open perfectly at her feet to reveal a crumpled, folded piece of paper nestled in its pages.
She picked the worn paper up, unfolded it, and let her eyes scan the words.
To the Esteemed High King and Queen of the Lightborn Court,
I write to you from a place I cannot reveal, and with a name you may have long forgotten. Yet silence now would make me complicit in what is to come.
King Daemar speaks of a celebration to honor your kingdoms’ unity and to show his gratitude for your magic’s intervention that granted him a child. But the truth is, the event is a trap. Even my fellow ambassador has been deceived, and plans to attend in good, but misplaced faith, despite my warning. Perhaps you will heed it.
The King blames your court and your magic for his misfortunes, and he no longer sees magic as an ally, but as the greatest enemy to our realm. This grand celebration is a snare carefully set to exterminate your court and mark an age of persecuting your people. And he will call it justice, security, and order.
I do not send this out of loyalty to your Court, nor out of sentiment. I send it because I know how this ends if I do not—and it ends in blood. Our kind have warred for far too long to allow the horrors of war to flourish again in the name of eradicating the magic that marks our blood.
The man who once believed humans and Lightborn can rule alongside each other peacefully no longer exists. In his place stands a king who has decided that the Lightborn must suffer the same fate as my people, if not worse.
I know that you will have suspicions because I am a Shadowblood, and you believe me to be your natural enemy. Act as you will. Delay, prepare, expose him—or dismiss this as shadowmongering. I will not write again.
