“Arthen, Prince Colsar’s trusted advisor. A Matron assigned to Princess Asharin. A servant or two. A member of the guard. Another member of council. A court musician.”
“Good,” she says. “We will start with the Matron.”
Something like anticipation moves beneath the irritation now. “I hate matrons. This should be enjoyable.”
They slow as they near the chamber.
“Bring me what I need,” she says. “Meet me there.”
She knocks softly.
When the door opens she dips into a polite curtsy, her mind already reaching backward, finding the name she needs without effort.
“Matron Oramin,” she says warmly. “I heard your latest project is nothing short of extraordinary. What is it?”
The woman pauses, clearly unused to praise, her expression shifting as she gestures toward the table. “It is a hat. I suspect when the Princess returns there will be a child, and the frost will be here before we know it.”
Nox takes a seat, already bored. Why is everyone so obsessed with this girl? The Matron continues, speaking at length, the conversation moving nowhere of value, when a knock sounds at the door.
Larkin enters. He closes it behind him. Locks it.
The sack over his shoulder moves. Violently.
The Matron’s expression drains of color. “Brinette… what is this?”
Nox studies her for a moment, assessing, and finds she has no desire to feed from her. She has nothing in her worth taking. No edge, not even enough darkness to make it interesting.
She murmurs a few words under her breath. The Matron collapses instantly, her hands flying to her throat as she chokes, her body folding in on itself.
Larkin drops the sack to the floor. “How did you get down the halls with that?” Nox asks.
“How else was I supposed to do it?”
She exhales. “A fucking sack. Really?”
The thing inside thrashes harder.
The Matron is still choking. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
Nox leans down and snaps her neck in one clean motion.
Silence follows.
Larkin opens the sack. The thing that spills out is barely a person. Its body is thin to the point of collapse, bones pressing against skin, its eyes wide and unfocused as it mutters in a broken looping language, its limbs jerking, as though it cannot decide how to move.
Nox steps over the Matron’s body and stands above it.
She closes her eyes. Her power moves without resistance. The air shifts. The creature stills. Slowly it rises, its posture correcting in increments, something aligning that had not been before, its movements finding a control they had not previously held.
It bows. “Wielder,” it says. “I am here to serve.”
Nox smiles. “I need intelligence on everything within this castle. Every movement. Every whisper. You will report it to Larkin.”
Larkin makes a face. “Larkin, do not be difficult,” Nox says. “I absolutely will not speak to my own deathmages. That is beneath me.”
The deathmage turns its head slightly, its fingertips faintly gray at the edges, wrong against the rest of it.
Nox does not look at him. She lifts her hand and presses her fingertips briefly to the creature’s forehead. The shift is immediate. Its body changes, and when it straightens again Matron Oramin stands in its place.
