Page 22 of Crown of the Courtesan

A silhouette bathed in shadows sharpens into focus. He lifts me from the pool.

“Eyes on me, my lady,” he rumbles in a strange northern accent. His hand grabs my chin and tilts my face toward him.

I try to see who he is.

But I can’t.

One by one, his fingers wrap around my neck, squeezing until I gasp for air and my body sinks under the suffocating oblivion and nightmares.

My eyes fly open.

The weight of the circlet presses on my scalp. I touch it, still not believing as I shake off the unsettling dream. It hums under my fingertips as I lie on the castle lawn, surrounded by the serene beauty of the silver-moonlit garden. Dirt cakes my diminished but still glowing hands as I untangle my tattered gown from between my legs. A dull ache pulses from my ankle. The quiet tranquility of the night offers little comfort as my mind begins to race with questions.

Behind me, a flame still illuminates the lamppost. I gaze up at the turret. A beam shines out like a lighthouse on the water’s edge.

Without Captain Wellcrest’s escort, I don’t know my way back, but I haven’t come this far to give up now.

As I step into the castle, I hear it. The whispers pull at my senses, edging me along the empty corridor. They’re just out of reach—but now, I welcome them like old friends. When I’m wearing the circlet, their voices sound different—more melodic and less volatile. It reminds me of the ancient, dead language of the fae. The ethereal beauty of their song soothes my fear, and my ankle feels strangely better.

I keep going in their direction, toward a dusty and unused portion of the castle. Framed artwork leans against the walls, and sheets cover the furniture.

The whispers change. Their words grow more distinct as I get closer.

“Even if she is the king’s daughter, she isn’t fit to be queen.”

Up the spiral staircase, I follow.

“The girl will weaken our stance in the war against the Witch-King.”

“Could the priestesses remove her using the veil of penance?”

“Tabitha is the legitimate offspring of the king; the cathedral is powerless in this instance.”

Hot blood curdles under my skin until I find myself standing outside the turret chamber. I blink, barely remembering my climb up the stairs. The sentries on the landing are gone.

Without hesitation, I fling open the door, wanting the High Lords to know their games are over.

Then… I see him.

Azure eyes, rigid and frozen.

The king is dead.

I drop and kneel beside him, unable to believe it. “What happened?” I croak. He may have been dying, but I thought I’d have more time. Maybe a few days with him to ease me into this madness.

Standing with the High Council, Briggs clears his throat. “The circlet gave him the strength to live tonight, but his body couldn’t hold out any longer without the power of the Alexra.”

“Alexra?” I ask, realizing I’ve never heard this word before.

General Metalla fixes a scathing gaze on me. Air constricts in my ribcage. The weight of the hatred in his stare makes me drop my line of sight, and my cheeks burn as I study the floor’s wood grain. Metalla slowly answers, “The circlet is crafted from its ore. Now, hand it over.” He extends his open palm.

The whispers chant: no no no no no.

I step backward. “I don’t⁠—”

“You dare defy an order?” he asks, his wrist cuffs reflecting the firelight with an iridescent glimmer.

I take another step back, accidentally bumping into Balor. He places his hand on my shoulder, but I shrug him off and move toward the door. “It would be different if I hadn’t passed your test, but I did. Everyone here witnessed it. You can’t take away the circlet. The king bequeathed it to me.”