Page 10 of How to Claim A Shadow King

The rose garden gates.

I close my eyes, tipping my face up, a caress of cool shadows on my brow, and inhale. I can almost smell the roses on the air, the first pale blush of spring as they climbed the gates and wound around every available surface.

Were the roses always here?

Was I?

A creaking noise sounds behind me, and it takes me a beat to long to realize what’s happening. The rug rolls up, slapping into my heels, driving me forward, towards the window.

The castle wants me to follow her.

Maybe I will.

4

AVELINE

“He has excellent taste in gardens, at least,” I tell exactly no one, peering around the massive stone arch at the glory before me. The fragrance out here is intoxicating—a strange mix of damp stone, pine needles, and rich rose notes. “Terrible manners, of course, but the roses?” I shrug and push the creaking gate open. “Divine.”

“Divine,” a voice croaks above me on the garden wall, and I screech.

Light bounces off my skin in a helter-skelter pattern, a sunbeam drunk on honey mead.

It takes me a moment to calm down, and I force my heart to slow as I look for the speaker.

A great black bird perches on the stone gate, eyeing me as if I’m the most interesting thing he’s ever seen. If the bird’s been stuck here with Malakai, then I probably am. I peer around. The outer courtyard bleeds seamlessly into a forgotten, terraced stone path where the castle grounds meet the wild forest.

“Hello there,” I tell the raven in a sing-song voice. “What’s your name?”

“Ter, ter,” the bird replies, cocking his other eye.

A grin kicks up the corners of my mouth, because what kind of idiot am I to think a bird will speak⁠—

“My name is Ter, fair one.”

I nearly piss myself.

Sweat breaks out on my forehead, and I open and close my mouth a few times before regaining control of my bladder.

Hopefully.

“Oh?” I squeak.

“You must be the Stormspire witch. Finally. Things are truly out of hand,” the bird tells me.

“Right.” I pick up my skirts and begin to walk again. A stately pace.

It’s nearly a jog.

“You do realize I can fly, don’t you? Gods help me with this one.” The last is muttered, then the prick of claws on my shoulder have me standing stock-still.

The raven stares at me with one beady black eyeball. “You do know why you’re here, don’t you?”

“I think I’ve gone mad,” I tell it.

It pecks my cheek, and I wince, holding a hand up to fend off the beast.

“You’re not mad. Just in denial. Which, really, could be much worse for us all and is not nearly as fun as a madwoman.”