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Elionn stares back at me from the water’s surface.

His reflection wavers, half-formed and distorted, as if viewed through layers of crystal. His silver hair floats around him in a spectral halo, but what stops my heart is the crawl of Opal across his cheek, creeping toward his eyes.

“Elionn,” I breathe, leaning closer.

His lips move, shaping my name. The water ripples though I haven’t touched it, and a distant whisper rises from its depths. “Come back.”

I plunge my hands into the basin, reaching for him, but my fingers meet only cold water. His image dissolves into ripples, leaving me grasping at nothing.

Pain ignites along my spine, a burning cold that eats at my nerves. I arch backward, a scream locked behind my clenched teeth.

Opal threads lace through me, luminescent veins mapping a new geography across my flesh as they seek to remake me from the inside out. My knees buckle beneath me, and I crash to the floor among the mirror shards.

My nails dig into my arms, clawing at the writhing glow beneath the surface. Each breath comes harder than the last, as though my lungs are crystallizing, turning to glass within my chest.

“No,” I gasp, fighting the transformation. “Not yet. Not until I save him.”

The court pays no heed to my protests. It flows through me, a liquid light that claims territory with every beat of my heart. Where it touches, my humanity recedes, replaced by a colder, ancient hunger.

I curl into myself on the floor, glass shards cutting into my palms and knees, the pain a welcome anchor to reality. Blood pools beneath me, silver-streaked now.

“Focus,” I command myself, resting my forehead on the cool stone. “Remember why you’re here.”

I hold tight to the thought of Elionn, then Caelan, then Theron. Three brothers bound by royal duty and love. I cling to their images as the court reshapes me, fighting to maintain the core of who I am beneath the crystalline invasion.

My body convulses as another wave of cold fire washes through me. The sithean stone around my neck pulses in counterpoint, Silver magic fighting to keep me bonded to Elionn, and through him, Caelan.

I flatten my palms on the floor, rough stone biting into them beneath the blood and glass. This pain belongs to me, to the human woman who hunts monsters, who bargains with kings, who refuses to surrender.

The court may reshape my flesh, but it cannot have my will.

With tremendous effort, I rise onto my hands and knees, then straighten into a kneeling position. Glass tinkles to the floor, falling from the folds of my clothing.

The chamber door crashes open with enough force to rattle the obsidian walls. Before I can stand, Theron fills the doorway, silver robes billowing around him, Thalindor a shadow at his back. Their forward momentum halts as they take in the mirror shards glittering across the black stone floor, blood pooling beneath my hunched form, veins of Opal light visible through my skin.

“Amalia.” The intimacy of my name escapes Theron in a hoarse whisper before he surges forward, silver robes swishing across broken glass.

Thalindor remains at the threshold, his hand settling on the hilt of his blade as he scans the chamber for hidden threats. His attention settles on the shattered mirror, calculating the danger of exposed pathways between realms.

Theron drops to his knees beside me, unmindful of the glass that must cut into his flesh through the fine fabric of his robes. His hands hover over my trembling form, uncertain where to touch.

“By the moon,” he murmurs, finally gathering me into his arms with surprising gentleness.

His scent wraps around me, winter pine and mountain air, a stark contrast to the metallic tang of the blood in my nostrils. The warmth of his body seeps into mine, battling the unnatural cold lodged in my bones.

“What happened?” He catches my chin and angles me toward the dim light. “Amalia, what happened?”

I try to speak, but another pulse of cold fire races through me, stealing my breath. My spine arches, and a sound escapes my throat, more animal than human.

Theron’s arm tightens around my shoulders, supporting me through the spasm. He swims in and out of focus above me, concern verging on panic in every tense line of his body.

“Thalindor,” he calls over his shoulder, “fetch Healer Nyt’Fall. Quickly.”

The guard hesitates, torn between his duty to protect his king and the command to seek aid.

“Go!” Theron snaps.

Theron shifts, reaching for the ornate bell pull hanging beside the bed. The sound would summon servants, guards, anyone within earshot.