Across the square, creatures howl and cheer. Harpies dive through the smoky air, trailing ribbons of what might be cloth…or might be flesh. Goblins overturn wine barrels and guzzle what pours out. Trolls arm-wrestle on rock tables, shattering them with each blow. Even the wicked-eyed fae laugh and drink and twirl with a hazy glee.
And at the center of it all, on a pillar of dark stone, rests the rose.
Encased in its bell jar, it draws the eyes of everyone here.
It’s going to be very tricky to draw attention away from that thing.
I sigh and shift my gaze higher. Above me, suspended by shadows, dangles a cage. Within it, the High Prince of Winter.
Keldarion is shirtless. Dirt smudges the hard planes of his chest, white hair limp around his face. A tattered rag clings to his waist. His eyes—gods, those eyes—burn with frost and fury.
He hasn’t looked away from me once.
Playing your part oh so well, I purr in his mind.
The ghost of a smile tugs at the corner of his lips. He touches the collar that I returned to his neck.Keep it in your pants, Cas.
Funny.Rosie joins in our minds.You both are so funny. Meanwhile, there’s a gargoyle down there who hasn’t looked away from my chest in five minutes.
Only two thin strips of cloth cover her round breasts, and they hang so beautiful and big, her nipples poking through the fabric. I lick my lips.Want me to impale him on a thorn?
Rosalina shifts, turning her back to the gargoyle who finally blinks, drool sliding down his chin.
It’s alright, Rosalina says.He won’t remember much.
No, none of the creatures here will. Not with the lotus flower potion I added to the wine, one of my sister’s many creations.The crowd will remember enough to help with the plan, sure, but the details of this night will always be misty.
Which is good, because I don’t want anyone except for the three of us to recall what’s about to happen to Rosalina.
I clench my fist on the armrest. Shadows ripple and hiss. A horn blares. Another barrel shatters. The crowd screams for blood, for music, for madness.
And I smile, cruel and cold and hollow.
Let the monsters believe I’m one of them.
Let Keldarion pretend to hate me. Stars know he has so much practice with it.
Let Rosalina pretend she’s mine. Because despite everything I’ve done, somehow she still is.
Soon, the game will change.
And I’ll burn this whole cursed tower down.
A hush ripples through the crowd. From a low balcony carved into the tower’s obsidian wall, she appears.
Mother.
Sira steps out in a dark gown, her pale hands resting on the curved railing. Her hair coils around her head in a crown of braided green ribbons, her eyes catching the firelight like gems. Behind her stands Faustrius, her ever-faithful guard, his broadsword gleaming. Below her, the monsters of the Below raise their faces to watch their queen.
Including me.
“My children,” she begins, voice like poisoned silk, smooth and unmistakable, “what a sight you are.”
A ripple of cheers, snarls, howls. She waits, unmoved.
“Today, we celebrate the return of our influence, of our precious rose, not for its indulgences alone but for what it means. We are no longer the castoffs. The broken. The forgotten. We are the future.”
The rose pulses beneath its glass. My jaw tightens.
