It was foolish of me to forget, even for a second.
The Training Ground is just up ahead over the rise of a small hill, and I slow my pace, quickly check if anyone’s around and seeing the coast is clear, I quickly lie down on my belly and scoot towards the apex of the rise. It is bordered on three sides by these long, fat hills; the fourth is a cluster of buildings that house the Armoury and Barracks. I’ve never been in—it’s forbidden. Dotted about the square arena are various types of training equipment: training dummies, archery boards, wooden posts and other similar types of tools. The trainees use this area most days and the Thorn Guards occasionally, honing their skills with swords and shields, bows and arrows, pikes and Gifts. I discovered it shortly after arriving, a time when I was numb to what had happened and where I had ended up. I sought out the comfort of seeing my mother, even from a distance, but quickly discovered they all looked identical in their pitch-black armour and helmets, the same blank stares and one-minded focus. That fragile thread of hope—knowing she was out there somewhere, still breathing, still alive—was all that kept me from shattering completely. It’s why I can’t stayaway. Why I keep coming back, even when it tears me apart each time, clinging to the possibility that one day I’ll find her.
The Thorn Guards are King Malaxor’s elite army. His devastating weapon. Only the powerful, primally Gifted Fae are recruited: the Warrior, the Thorns and the Shadow. Upon recruitment, his Thorn Gift changes them irreversibly into soulless killing machines. Their training is a closely guarded secret, King Malaxor the only one who can create more. And one of them is my mother.
I’m so engrossed watching for the Thorn Guards to come out that when a hand taps me on the shoulder, I leap up in a jumble of limbs, tripping over the long skirt of my black dress.
The poor Royal Messenger stands there looking so flustered; the hand presenting me with the black-papered envelope shakes.
“Thank you” I smile, taking the envelope and opening it to read the short, direct message within.
‘AllCourt members are required in attendance at the Throne Roomimmediately—King Malaxor’
I nod, and the young Royal Messenger scurries determinedly away back towards the castle. My stomach lurches a little as I follow him, knowing that a summons such as this negates a dress change or waiting for an escort, and I break into a jog towards the Throne Room.
I enter the Throne Room and stand beside a serious-looking Prince Kiernan; smoothing the front of my dress the best I can and picking off a stray piece of grass discreetly, the vast room echoing with nervous, low chatter of those gathered.
The Throne Room is a stark, echoing void. The Thorn Court banners, a simple black runner leading to the dais, and a few low-hanging black and thorny chandeliers cleverly lendthemselves to an uncomfortable atmosphere and highlight its most dominant feature—the bareness stripping away any pretence of comfort, leaving only cold stone and colder purpose.
Upon the dais, the towering Thorn Throne overshadows the room. An organic riot of twisted thorn vines and glittering golden roses, the sharp thorns like thick black needles, grow and climb from the stone floor. As if a part of the menacing structure, King Malaxor slouches upon it, one long leg crossed over the other. One arm rests by his elbow, the other drums an impatient beat with his fingers on his raised knee.
Two Thorn Guards stand to attention on either side of the throne, their hands resting on sword hilts, their eyes fixed on nothing and everything at once, while others line the walls the length of the room.
I watch as King Malaxor thrusts his hand outwards towards the room, and with a resounding crack, tendrils of creeping thorn vines rise from the gaps between the stone blocks of the floor, carving the room in two with a thorny wall. Shrieks and shouts of shock reverberate, and everyone turns towards the throne and their King. He has their undivided attention.
“Look around you! Does this castle look like the heart of a vibrant kingdom to you?” he roars, his arms spread wide.
Everyone assembled, the leaders of each Gift Faction and their second in command stand rigid. Mouths hang open. Bodies lock in place. Even from where I stand on the dais, I can see some tremble, a nervous twitch to their limbs and beads of sweat forming on their brows.
“We are responsible for the survival of our race, this last vestige of fertile land, the only thing that stands between us and complete annihilation of the Earthbound Fae. The Corruption has stolen this kingdom from us, yet the Goddess granted us these Gifts to save it. As the leaders of yourGift Factions, you are directly responsible for our continued survival.” He takes a deep breath, his voice tightening with fury. “So why am I standing here with weekly reports of low production and worker discontent? Do I not provide you with this fortress of protection? Do I not keep the brutal Equitae at bay so that you can continue your mundane little lives without fear?”
It is deathly silent—no one moves. Just blank stares as King Malaxor vibrates with rage, their inaction only fuelling his displeasure.
He thrusts out his hand, and the Growth Gift Leader, Vale Cross, shrieks as thorny vines start to slither from the floor up his legs, encasing his body within their sharp embrace. They stop, the last tendril wrapped around his neck.
“Vale Cross. As the Growth Gift Leader, you are responsible for the single most important faction of our survival. Their Gifts grow our food, tend our animals and keep the land fertile. When I see the crops and milk yields fall, the pastures turn brown and dry, and I receive reports of discontent with the workers, I question your leadership.”
Vale Cross has turned deathly pale as he struggles against his bonds.
“Y—Your Majesty—conditions are tough. Our days are long, and the workers are under extreme pressure to keep up with their tasks. Using their Gifts constantly is a drain, and we simply don’t have enough of them to keep up with the pace you demand.” He trembles, though I notice a glint of resentment flash over his face.
“My demand?” King Malaxor’s gaze pinches into one of steely focus on the trapped Fae.
“We do everything we can, Your Majesty, but you ask too much. Even with the help of Amplifier Gifts, we struggle to keep up with the quotas you set.”
“Perhaps you have become too complacent in your position, Vale Cross? You forget the true threats we face, safe behind these walls I provide.”
I feel a sudden powerful surge of power radiate from the King. The taste of rot floods my mouth, thick and cloying.
A maniacal grin forms on his thin lips, and with a dismissive flick of his wrist, the thorny vines encasing Vale Cross writhe, the one around his neck tightening. The Fae’s face purples. His mouth gapes, tongue bulging. The vines constrict.
His ribs crack first—sharp pops like twigs snapping—then his sternum caves with a wet crunch. The thorns puncture deep, and his body ruptures. Blood sprays in thick arterial arcs across the nearest faction leaders. Chunks of lung tissue slap against expensive robes. A loop of intestine unspools onto the stone floor. Something that might be his liver slides across the black runner, leaving a dark smear. The copper-sweet stench of opened bowels floods the room.
Gasps of shock and cries of alarm are drowned out by the maniacal laughter echoing throughout the vast room from the Thorn Throne. King Malaxor has risen to his feet and is slowly stalking down the steps of the dais.
“You! What’s your name?” He points a pale bony finger at the other Growth Fae that has accompanied Vale Cross.
“Danea Swift,” the tall, dark-haired male Fae trembles his reply.
