ARWEN

I SCREAMED LIKE A BANSHEE, squirming and wrenching away from my guards, not bothering to contain a single ounce of my rabid, roiling fury.

Not even because it hurt. It didn’t, so much. Not anymore.

After all these weeks, having my lighte harvested was more of a violation, more mentally distressing than it was painful.

“Hold still.” Maddox grunted, his silver armor rippling with his taut muscles. “You’re not making this any easier.”

That was why I screamed.

“Good,” I spat at the blockheaded kingsguard and his insufferable square jaw. I kicked my legs haphazardly and got Wyn in the kneecap.

“Ow,” he groaned, soft dark hair falling in front of his baby face.

“That wouldn’t happen if you knelt like I did,” Maddox hissed at his underling from his low position, holding me to the chair. Then, under his breath, “Feeble in more ways than one.”

“Let me go,” I demanded. “Both of you sniveling, subservient—” Octavia cut me off. “How greatly I despise that voice.”

I could have said the same for the sorceress presently scraping the lighte from my veins. Somewhere between the first time she’d harvested me, when I’d sobbed like a little girl, and the fifteenth—the day I successfully spat in her eye—I’d decided Octavia reminded me of an aging female python. An apex predator whose scales had begun to lose their shine but

who was determined to prove her power, the scope of her viciousness, to anyone who cared to listen. Sometimes even more fervently to those who didn’t.

She also spoke with the same viper-like hiss. “Imagine if I just snatched

it.”

I opened my mouth to swear at her—but nothing followed. Silence, no

matter how I screamed or rasped or whimpered. “Much better.”

Octavia returned to the gory task at hand, adjusting the tubes affixed to the backs of my hands and creases of my arms. When I winced, I swore her smile bared fangs. She studied the pale white lighte that dripped through her contraption and into the great glass barrels at her feet. Her graying, hip- length hair grazed my legs as she worked. The sound of Maddox’s sinister hums reverberated in my ears. Sick glee at my pain worming itself through his vocal cords. I wondered if he was even aware of the grating noise.

I slouched back into my chair, strands of hair fluttering up from my face with my sigh of defeat.

The same oversize velvet chair I’d sat in almost every day. In the same lavish room I’d awoken in two months ago. Which was perched atop the same suffocatingly high tower in the same palace in the same capital of the same nightmarish Fae Realm it seemed I’d never, ever leave.

ONCE OCTAVIA HAD PURGED EVERY ounce of lighte from my veins, Wyn laid me, depleted and still unable to speak, across the deceivingly sumptuous bed. My arms collapsed across my body and I crumpled myself into a ball. I didn’t care who saw.

And maybe it was that notion exactly—that acceptance, that acquiescence to her power—but as Octavia strolled from the room, she offered me a serpentine grin and a flick of her wrist. With my next cough I found my voice had returned.

The kingsguards had walked in just as she’d left. Their armor reminded me of the exoskeleton of a rare silver crustacean—no leather or steel in sight, but a shinier, scalier alloy rippling over their joints. The helmets so skin-smooth it was as if their skulls had been dipped in the stuff. Only a sheer red visor covered their faces, and I had the errant thought that if I were ever in a position to fight one of these men, it would be the only entry point for my blade. I was sure no man-made weapon could penetrate whatever their breastplates and greaves were made of.

Maybe the Blade of the Sun could have. My blade, long gone now.

The muscled guards carried weighty barrels of my lighte from the room, which produced a peculiar shame deep in my stomach. I tipped my head toward the ceiling and that floating, pearl-crusted chandelier.

When I heard the doors slam behind them, I finally allowed myself to sit up, my legs tangled in layers upon layers of gentle petticoats.

My two shadows had lingered behind as always. Maddox, with his cold beady eyes, carved jaw, and cropped straw hair, stood ramrod straight by my door, same disturbing tune floating absently from his nose. Wyn had shuffled to the washroom and was just now returning with a cold compress for my forehead. His knee was worse today, since I’d kicked it.

I turned my face from his offer. “I don’t know why you bother.” My throat was hoarse from Octavia’s spell.

“I don’t know why you fight it every time,” he said, dabbing the cool rag across my head anyway, the damp fabric soothing my clammy temples.

It was a strange order Lazarus had given my two guards all those weeks ago: keep me here, in this mighty looming tower, high above the rest of the palace—even farther above Lumera’s walled capital city of Solaris, which I knew I was held within but hadn’t seen any of, aside from the staggering view from my one window. Even at the expense of my health and theirs, as I learned in my first few weeks here, when I’d nearly scratched Maddox’s eyes out trying to escape and he’d punched me so hard in the jaw it had taken a week for my face to regain its shape.

And yet, also, serve me. Make me comfortable, ply me with quince tarts and juniper perfume and delicate fans of osprey feathers at the tail end of

summer. Light those stifling, revoltingly sweet sandalwood candles each day. So long as I never left the suite, make sure I was pleased. Entertain me with repetitive card games and fruit wine and stacks and stacks of books rife with the same propaganda extolling the commanding and righteous Fae King Lazarus Ravenwood. A pinnacle of heroism, fairness, and vigor. As beloved as he is feared. What a load of shit.

A bound captive and honored guest. The prisoner who was soon to be queen consort.

Wyn was better at doting than his brutal counterpart. They might have made a good team, if only they didn’t despise each other almost as much as I despised them both.

Wyn dotted the cloth along my collarbone with care. I would have shoved him off had I had a scrap of strength left. To his credit, Wyn never allowed his caretaking to grow inappropriate. Or, he was as appropriate as one could be when imprisoning someone and allowing them to be drained of their bodily fluids against their will.

Even as Wyn kept his hands to himself…I still fought him ferociously. And Octavia, too, even knowing I’d never break her torment. Because stopping—stopping would mean I’d given up. And I refused to lose hope that one day, even if it were centuries from now, I might know what it felt like to be free.

And when doubt crept in as it had so viciously today, I thought of Kane’s crooked smile. When I screeched so loud they plugged their ears, or bit so hard I drew blood, his words were the ones that rang through my mind like a temple bell. That’s my vicious bird. Such claws. Such violent, gorgeous claws.

I’d only resorted to actually hearing him a few weeks ago. Or, what I thought must’ve been a few weeks ago. I’d lost all sense of time here, holed up in this marble-floored, scarlet brocade suite. Drained of lighte, lonely beyond fathoming, pale from lack of sun—sleeping and scowling in a constant, dizzying rotation…Kane’s imagined voice in my head was all I had left.

My suite door creaked open, and with it my blood froze in my veins. Maddox poked half his head outside to converse with someone, and I held my breath.

A minute ticked by. Another.

But in the end he only nodded and closed the heavy anthracite doors once more.

I didn’t allow myself to ask what was coming next.

“She’s arrived a few days early,” Maddox snipped to Wyn. “His Majesty requires more guards. Stay with her while I aid them?”

“Of course,” Wyn said.

But Maddox only scowled at him. “Without fucking anything up?”

Wyn gave a single resolute nod, no eye roll in sight, which would have been hard for me, personally.

The thickheaded guard deserted the ornate doors and the lock clicked outside as it did each night.

My strength had finally returned a bit—likely from the spike of adrenaline that came with the interruption—and I snatched the compress from Wyn’s hands. Patting it along my arms and down to where my veins were wrapped in bandages, I willed my voice to be casual. “Who arrived early?”

Wyn limped, favoring his right leg, over to the carnelian curtains, stitched with that gold-and-ebony detailing. He drew them open and allowed hazy afternoon light to slip in and glimmer over his warm-hued bronze skin and pulled-back dark curls.

With some difficulty, I pulled myself to sit on the edge of the bed. “Early for what?” I pressed, still unanswered.

Wyn only gazed out through the high windowpanes, clearly trying to spy whoever had arrived.

“Why do you let him speak to you like that?”

“He’s my senior,” Wyn said to the glass. “In both age and rank.”

Flipping the now lukewarm cloth in my hands before patting it along my neck, I racked my brain for a question that might reward me with another

real answer.

Wyn winced as he maneuvered back to sit in the armchair across from the glossy fireplace, though he positioned himself to face me. With a grimace, he lifted his leg onto the velvet ottoman.

I’d noticed the lame limb the first day we’d met. My heart lurched despite all the unfathomable things he’d allowed to be done to me. “I’m sorry about your knee. I wasn’t aiming for it.”

“It’s fine.”

I assessed him as he massaged the joint. “How young were you?”

Wyn’s expression was one of great surprise. Lowering his brows again, he said, “Three.”

“What happened?”

“I fell from a cupboard. Never healed quite right.” “What were you doing in a cupboard?”

The corner of Wyn’s mouth ticked up as he appraised his raised leg. “My mother sells hairpins.”

My brows furrowed. I waited patiently for more.

“She crafts them from metal, and solders little hand-bent flowers onto them. It’s how she fed and clothed seven children.”

“That’s a lot of hairpins.”

“Indeed. I was sleeping when I fell. Sleeping in a cupboard because there was no room left on the floor.”

My heart thumped again and I had to reprimand myself. Why should I have any sympathy for this man? Even if he was more boy than man, really. I told myself it was the principle of the story that hurt my heart, not Wyn’s suffering. Kane had warned me that the vast majority of the Fae Realm lived in poverty worse than anything I’d known as a child—and Abbington was barely more than farmland and a handful of cottages. Based on the bits and pieces I’d gathered in my time here, outside the glittering

walled city of Solaris were conditions worse than squalor.

Years ago, Lazarus’s men had reaped both coin and lighte from all major cities until they were shells of their former glory—mere slums—and then used their yields to further fortify the king’s own capital from all those that

would seek what he had stolen. Shelter, resources, safety. But also glamour, amenities, excess…He built another set of walls around the coasts of Lumera, prohibiting any mortal or Fae in the land from fleeing to Evendell. The channel—the only route between realms if you weren’t lucky enough to know a powerful witch to portal you out—was guarded day and night. Kane had said in passing once that Lazarus had plans to seal it off completely.

“You must hate Lazarus as much as the rest of us, then,” I tried. Wyn’s eyes were sharp on mine. “He is my king.”

I fiddled innocently with a loose thread on the duvet. “The two are not mutually exclusive.”

“King Lazarus has given me the opportunity of a lifetime, despite my injury. A chance to bring my family to the sanctuary that is Solaris. If you’re in his kingsguard long enough, he allows your loved ones within his court. That is a leader of generous heart.”

“I have a hard time believing Lazarus employed you despite your disability out of sheer altruism.” Don’t roll your eyes, bird, Kane’s voice rumbled inside my mind. I nearly sent chills up my own back. Maybe I was finally losing it.

Wyn pursed his lips. “I’m a skilled fighter. I had to be, to survive outside these walls. Growing up…” His hazel eyes found his knee. “I’ve earned my place in his guard.”

“Is Maddox also hoping to buy his family safe passage to Solaris?”

“Maddox?” Wyn sneered. “Maddox was raised here, and by nobles no less. His first day in the regiment he wore gilded Solaris finery. He’ll lead the lot soon.”

I looked out the lofty window. I couldn’t see much from the dizzying heights of the tower. All of Solaris’s industry and production clogged the cityscape with thick gray clouds that reminded me of clumps of lint you found in high cabinets and old drawers. An unpleasant reminder of all the grime you never knew was floating around your home.

A knock at the door sounded and Wyn lifted his sensitive leg off the ottoman and hobbled to answer it. The knocks didn’t frighten me. Only the

servants knocked. The guards weren’t that polite.

Wyn returned moments later with a teacup and fresh pot of tea and, after placing them on a shiny, varnished armoire, poured me a cup and limped back over. I sipped the fragrant rooibos and licorice in silence, allowing it to soothe my raw vocal cords. All that soundless screaming…When the ivory was drained, the little tea leaves formed a blurry image in the liquid’s wake. I thought it looked like a lamb.

“Why does she despise me so much?” Wyn frowned at me and I rolled my eyes. “I can’t imagine whatever vendetta Octavia has against me is some court secret. Is it my affiliation with Kane? Everyone in Solaris knows him as a great betrayer, right?”

Wyn’s soft curls fluttered with his sigh. “Most have forgotten the rebellion ever even happened. Lazarus ensured that.” He adjusted his leg, clearly debating how much more to share.

I held my breath.

“Octavia, like Lazarus’s late wife, is more witch than Fae, but she does carry the blood of both. I think…” Wyn’s eyes met mine with a wince. “I think she coveted the role you’re being primed for.”

That tea rose up like acid in my stomach. “She wanted to be queen?” Wyn only nodded. “But she can’t bear him full-blooded heirs.”

I almost asked what gave Octavia the idea she could rule beside Lazarus in the first place, but a new question had formed in my mind.

“Why hasn’t Lazarus come for me yet?”

I’d been here months, and hadn’t seen the Fae king since my first day in Lumera. Since I’d been impaled high above Hemlock Isle, stolen away, and awoken tethered to that luxurious, stifling bed.

Wyn sighed. “Is this your last question?” “If I say yes, will you answer it truthfully?”

He seemed to consider my question before saying, “You cannot conceive without your lighte.”

“Why drain me then?” Wasn’t that the sole reason Lazarus was keeping me alive? To impregnate me with more true Fae that only the two of us could create? “What does he need my harvested lighte for so urgently?”

Wyn remained quiet, though his eyes weren’t displeased. Maybe just tired. Either way, I knew my probing was futile. I’d squeezed every answer I could from him.

My gaze found the golden spires peeking through smog outside my window. “Is it winter yet?”

“I thought that was your last question.”

When I remained silent his shoulders sagged. “No. The winter solstice is a week from today.”

I nodded at my palms. “That means tomorrow is my birthday.” I would be twenty-one.

Twenty-one, and a prisoner. Held in a tower so high I might never see the ground again. Awaiting a fate worse than death, each day dragging me closer, and without a bead of lighte, single ally, or even halfway-plausible escape route.

Twenty-one, and wasting away.

And later that night, like all nights, I fell asleep to nightmares so ferocious, so abhorrent, I’d come to resent my own mind for crafting them. Leigh, weeping over our mother’s body. Spiders with women’s heads and wolfbeasts and gray, scaled dragons. Kane, soaked in blood, sputtering for life.

When I awoke, sweaty and panting, there was something new obscuring my vision. A nondescript brown box tied with twine, sitting atop my pillow.

With less caution than I should have employed, I wiped the sleep from my eyes and pried it open.

Inside was a delicate, carved hairpin.

Two identical iron spears met at the top where three daisies of different sizes curved around the outstretched wings of a swallow in flight.

The smile that cracked my lips was the first I’d felt in months.