Page 67 of Level Up for Love

“It means we must ask ourselves where his power came from,” Mortimer says matter-of-factly. “He only claimed the throne a few years ago; how is it that he went from exile to near monarch? We know nothing of his allies or how far his influence reaches. We need to know if putting an end to him will be enough to end this curse.”

The color drains from Antoni’s face, despite his expression remaining hard and determined.

“It’s not a question we can answer now,” Mortimer murmurs. “But after tomorrow, I hope we may see things more clearly.”

Sindra has been to battle many times, yet this feels like the most dangerous thing she has ever done.

The bridge leading up to Vadrien’s stronghold is crowded with guests and undead. As she advances slowly forward, with Antoni and Mortimer standing to either side of her, her long skirts rustle against her legs.

Like a great monster, the castle rears up before them.

Dozens of spires reach upward to pierce the sky, silhouetted against a horizon that bleeds a dark, angry red, staining the clouds like a bruise. Mist rolls out across the moat and from between the branches of the trees that stretch out behind the castle, seeping through the iron bars of the gate and snaking around their feet. The castle itself might have been beautiful if it hadn’t fallen into such disrepair. Its gray stone is blackened with age, and the remnants of dying vines cling to its walls. Half of its windows are shattered, leaving the wind to whistle through them in a haunting, echoing cry.

The other guests shuffle nervously, waiting for the gates to swing open. In some cases, it’s obvious to see who has been under Vadrien’s thumb for a long time. They—noble people, mostly—crowd near the gates, dressed in extravagant finery, eager to meet the only person with the ability to promise them even a semblance of power. They see this evening as an opportunity, perhaps, to make a deal with their kingdom’s newest devil.

But others were clearly rounded up against their will. Blacksmiths still dressed in their leather aprons and bakers with flour-white fingers wring their hands and cast nervous glances at the skeletons that line either side of the long bridge leading up to the castle’s gates.

A single screeching note rings out from inside the castle, then a squat skeleton shuffles out, violin braced on its shoulder. As it launches into a dark romantic melody, the gates swing open.

Those at the front rush through; bone-white skull-like masks are forced upon any guest who arrived without a costume. Sindra lingers as the crowd parts around her, and before Antoni makes his way ahead of her—he has his own goal to accomplish; they all do—he murmurs a reminder at her shoulder.

“Don’t forget your mission, Sindra. Your entire purpose here is to distract him. Do whatever you must.”