Reeve wrapped his hand around her middle and gently pulled her from the bed, scooping her up like she was nothing more than a few pillows.
“Is it time?” she whispered, her eyes back on Reeve.
He nodded. Maeve looked back over at Abraxas. His gaze remained on Lyrux.
“You can change your mind, Brax,” said Maeve softly as Reeve set her down. “We can evacuate the Dread Lands without you.”
“Not efficiently, you can’t,” he answered, his fingers still wrapping his son’s silken hair. “No one knows that place like I do.” He paused. “Not even Mal.”
Abraxas stood and lifted Lyrux with ease, gently placing his head on his shoulder. “I’ll take him to Zimsy and meet you down there shortly.”
His footsteps were soft as he left them. Maeve watched him go. Watched the tender way he held his son, and ached to hold hers. Maeve wrapped her arms around herself, feeling a cold that had nothing to do with the winter air seeping through the stained-glass windows of her chamber.
Reeve took her face in his hands, and her eyes instantly shut. He bent until their foreheads touched. Maeve smiled softly at the gesture.
“I wish I could have let you sleep,” he said. “You looked so peaceful.”
Maeve placed her hands on his chest. Her only reply was a hum as she nestled closer to him and his addicting warmth. When she pulled back and made to step away, Reeve protested at once.
“Not so fast,” he said, holding her in place with warm hands pressed against her cheeks. He bent forward, his frame devouring hers, and brushed his lips across hers. “Not so fast,” he mumbled again, against her lips.
Maeve melted into him. Their kiss was slow, sleepy almost, as she let herself drift into a final fleeting moment of bliss.
Castle Morana was a ghost. She and Reeve stood in the silent Entrance Hall. Their presence seemed meaningless. Minuscule and unnoteworthy. The grand staircase stood tall, climbing to the floor above, covered in a thick haze of toxic Magic.
Magic that no longer affected her.
She stepped forward, her footsteps silent in the thick atmosphere. The firelights were out, casting a look of abandonment over the emerald marble.
“I imagine this is what it looked like before Mal breathed life back into it,” said Maeve, her voice low.
Reeve followed her without question.
Deeper into the castle they ventured, following the singular pull of Magic in the desolate space. Maeve knew where her feet led her. She knew the room that awaited her.
She never wanted to set foot in it again.
She hated that room.
But as they crossed the dense air into the Throne Room, Maeve stopped.
Shadow sat at a small table, decorated with the finest place settings and silks Castle Morana could offer. A single candle floated at the center, and dripped wax accumulated in a hardened chunk beneath it.
Maeve’s stomach sank.
The Dread Crown sat atop her head. The silver was dulled, but the emerald eyes of the winding snakes glowed, and the ruby tongues that flared from between their bared fangs pulsed with Magic.
She wasn’t sure why the sight brought her blood to a boil. Perhaps it was many reasons. Shadow’s unworthiness. The image of Mal wearing it.
Or perhaps it was the memories of what Maeve herself had done to ensure he reached the long-lost crown.
“Take that off,” said Maeve, her voice low.
“I was worried you wouldn’t come,” said Shadow, ignoring her completely. “Sit.”
The table was set for four. Maeve looked at the empty seat next to Shadow.
“Please,” she said, though there was little room for declining.
