Page 50

“But we are not leaving,” I add, my tone brooking no argument. “Not until we uncover the secrets King Nyctarian has been keeping.”

15

SHADOWS OF JOY AND GRIEF

AMALIA

The court spreads out around us, alive and dying at the same time.

The walls pulse, breathing in and out. Corridors stretch until my footsteps echo into emptiness, then snap back so fast it gives me vertigo. Patches of crystal bloom across stone, jagged and sudden, bursting through like wounds that bleed light instead of blood.

It leaves me disoriented, even more than the Dark Sithe’s spatial manipulations did, and I tighten my hold on the knife.

Ahead of us, a new pathway splits open, lined with half-formed archways caught in the act of being born.

The stone pulls me to the left, and I deviate from our current trajectory.

Kelaros falls in beside me, moving with an easy grace despite the shifting floor beneath us. “I’ve never been this way before.”

The corridor narrows, the ceiling dropping until crystal stalactites brush my hair. Light fractures through them, scattering prismatic patterns all around. For a moment, faces flicker in the colored beams, mouths stretched in silent screams, their eye sockets gaping and vacant.

I skirt around the patterns, ensuring none of them touch me.

Kelaros studies me. “You can see the faces.”

“So can you.” I run my fingers along the rough wall, mapping the space. “Nothing special about that.”

The crystal under my hand vibrates, and the faces scatter, darting into cracks in the floor.

I catalog one exit behind, one ahead. The ceiling appears unstable, and the walls crystallize in unpredictable patches. The formations could act as cover if needed, or become weapons if they shatter.

I lick my dry lips. By my estimate, I’ve been here for half a day and haven’t seen any sign of water. Another danger. Do fae need water the way humans do? Is it even possible for Elionn to still be alive here?

The pulsing stone around my wrist thinks so, and Kelaros claims to have been here for weeks, which means there are resources somewhere unless fae can live on magic alone.

All at once, the corridor opens into a chamber. Broken pillars jut at odd angles, as if twisted mid-creation by a giant hand. Light wells up from beneath translucent floor tiles, snatching my shadow and throwing it up the wall instead of pooling at my feet.

“Stay close to the wall,” I tell Kelaros. “The floor is unstable.”

He ignores me, stepping onto a pulsing tile. “The court can’t remember what it’s supposed to be.”

The floor ripples under him, but holds. Crystal veins spread from his boots, up the fallen columns, and across the ceiling.

Kelaros crouches, fingers brushing the sigil. His ratty black coat pools around him, silver threads stitched through the fabric pulsing in time with the crystal.

I shift my grip on my weapon. “Have you been here before?”

“I’ve explored as much as I could reach, trying to find a way out.” He straightens, smoothing his coat. “Everyone has heard stories of the Opal Court.” He turns a sardonic smile on me. “Bedtime tales to frighten little fae.”

“You don’t sound frightened.”

“I was, when I arrived. But I’ve since acclimated.” He studies me again. “You’re doing better than I did.”

The crystal floor fractures under my boots, and I step back fast. “We need to keep moving.”

“A moment.” He glides across the questionable floor with ease and pauses next to a grouping of stalagmites.

He breaks off a few large chunks and fashions a sling from one edge of his jacket to hold them.