Prologue
Fiona -10 years old
“This was a terrible idea,” Kristan said, tugging on my hand.
I wrenched my arm free from her surprisingly strong grip and fixed my gaze on the corridor ahead. This wing of the castle had almost no movement; only guards and members of the royal family were allowed there, with one exception—me.
That was precisely why I intended to reach the dungeon where the cells were, driven by a strange pull I couldn't explain but felt impossible to ignore.
“Fiona, please, let’s go back,” Kristan insisted, glancing around as though a guard might spring from the shadows and haul us off by the collars at any moment. “If your father finds out you came here—”
“He won’t,” I cut in, lifting my chin with all the arrogance a ten-year-old princess could muster. “Besides, I need to see.”
For days, a restless unease had been growing inside me, anagging pull that kept drawing my thoughts back to that place. Leone had told me that during the last raid on Oksha, the most feared orc clan in all of Lyraen, several orcs had been captured and brought to Ceilte. I had never seen one in the flesh, and part of me was simply curious to know if they were as terrifying as the paintings made them seem.
But the other part...
My hand drifted to my chest, where my heart beat fast from the adrenaline. Something was pulling me to the cells, likean invisible thread binding me to something waiting there. I didn’t understand the feeling. It made no sense at all—and yet it grew stronger every day.
I scanned our surroundings twice, making sure no guard had spotted us. The watch would change in about five minutes. Then I’d slip through the hidden hatch behind the painting of Kraven the Magnanimous.
“This is madness,” Kristan muttered, but quickened her pace to keep up. She always did that—complained, but followed anyway.
My friend stuck close to me, jittery like a deer ready to bolt. I couldn’t blame her; if my father discovered we were here, she’d bear the brunt of the scolding. Still, even with the threat of punishment, Kristan didn’t leave.
Kraven’s portrait loomed on the wall of the side corridor. He held a gold-bathed sword raised high, his stern gaze fixed on the fallen orc at his feet. The orc—a lesser fae, green-skinned and broad in stature—looked small before my ancestor. The creature stared up with a mix of fear and anger, clawed hands lifted to shield his face while sharp, yellowed fangs glinted in the daylight.
The first time I saw that painting, it gave me nightmares.
Now, it didn’t stir the same feeling. To be honest, I thought the way everyone worshipped and revered Kraven was excessive. I had always been far more fascinated by the story of Evanderis, the Warrior Queen who sailed with her fleet, conquered the Summer Court, and claimed it as her own. History books said she fought for her people, seized what had been denied her, tore down kingdoms and built an empire with her own hands, and slew the tyrant king, Máel, son of the legendary Queen Mab. Whenever my nurse told that story, Iimagined Evanderis’ strength and everything she achieved, even though she was only a female.
One day, I wanted to be a queen like her.
At last, the night guard exited the dungeon and strode down the corridor to relieve the other. I took the opportunity, darting to the painting and pressing my fingers to the hidden knob on Kraven’s belt. A click shattered the grave-like silence and made Kristan whimper in fear as her eyes darted around the dark corridor. I shot her a glare, silently ordering her to be quiet.
The hidden mechanism shifted, and the painting slid a few inches aside, revealing the stone hatch.
“Fiona…” Kristan whispered, her voice wavering as her eyes filled with tears. “Let’s go back. There’s still time. If someone catches us—”
“No one will catch me.” I grabbed her wrist and pulled her along. Though she shook like a leaf in the wind, she didn’t pull away. “And if they do, I’ll take the blame.”
“That doesn’t comfort me,” she muttered.
“It wasn’t meant to.”
I crouched and shoved the hatch open with both hands. It creaked softly, like something waking from a very deep sleep. The narrow passage yawned before us—dark, damp, and reeking of old, forgotten things. The air that breathed out was cold, smelling heavily of mildew.
Kristan swallowed hard.
“I hate this part…”
I rolled my eyes.
“You’re such a scaredy-cat.”
Bracing against the cold stone, I slipped inside first. The passage was so tight that my shoulders nearly brushed against both walls. The light behind us faded, swallowed by the oppressive dark.
Behind me, Kristan hesitated for three heartbeats. It only took one look from me for her to follow. Then, the hatch closed behind us with a dull, muffled thud.
