"Go home," Princess Ismena sneers at one of the girls. "You don't belong here. Neither of your bloodlines could even dream of tempting the prince."
"Perhaps he's not concerned with our bloodlines," one of the princesses replies bravely. Everly, I think. We've spoken once, but not again.
Ismena steps forward, her face mottled with ugliness. "Don't make me do something I'll regret. Your little 'secret' is safe from me. For now. But I think the prince might be quite interested in the taint in your blood."
"Ismena," Altrea murmurs, catching her arm. "That's enough, isn't it?"
"Oh, let her continue," Calliope says, drawing Everly protectively closer. "The prince is no fool. He'll see what she is. All the precious bloodlines in the world can't hide bad breeding."
"You speak of breeding?" Ismena sneers. "You? I daresay if we check beneath your dress we'll find a tail. You're Unseelie scum."
"It's not my tail you should be worried about," Calliope replies heatedly.
I want to see more.
I want to see if my suspicion is correct: one of these precious princesses summoned the creature to kill Altrea.
But the mirror wants me to linger. Even now it leaps ahead eagerly.
And I can hear voices behind me.
Steps coming closer.
How long have I been standing here?
Break the trap, damn you.
I want to see who Altrea's murderer is, and so the lock holds its grip on me. I need to see something I don't ever want to remember.
"Show me the last night in the training camps. Show me Soraya's betrayal."
There. That ought to do the trick.
The mirror goes dark, rebelling. But it cannot fight its nature.
Two figures emerge from the barren wastelands of the mountaintop. It's a simple challenge to pass our training and go onto the challenger rounds. Every trainee had three days to make it to the top of Shadowfang, the mountain that dwarfs all others.
If you weren't among the first five, then you were culled.
We were among the best, two of the handful that could almost pass as fae. Two of father's favorites. From the moment I was thrown into the training camps and found my dark hearted sister, we'd been inseparable. Soraya cried for the first month, as she'd only recently been torn from her mother, and I'd spent every night curled up in the rough blankets she'd been given, my arms around her.
"Don't cry." I'd whispered. "I lost my mother too. But we can be sisters."
But the years had passed.
And I hadn't foreseen the hungry look in her eyes.
Only one could be crowned champion.
Only one could serve at the Wraith King's right hand.
In the mirror, I reach for her hand, knowing another of the candidates is right on my heels, his knife gripped between his teeth. Together we'd fought our way up the mountain, half-blinded by ice and snow, and facing an entire squad of bastards intending to tear us down.
Soraya squats above me on the ledge, our hands clasping as she tries to haul me up. Two of my ribs were broken defending her from an unforeseen attack, and the cold has wrought its damage on me. I need every ounce of help I can get.
"Hurry!" I cry, as Torrin reaches for my boot.
We know three candidates have already made it.
