Page 11 of Hearts Lost

I swallow hard. I’m close enough now that I could reach out and touch the silver spheres. They look almost oily in the firelight, and the thought of placing my skin against them makes my head spin.

“A magical weapon?” I ask. My voice is as weak as a sparrow.

“Of course,” the king purrs. “They should disrupt the portal beautifully. Launch them three times, and they may even disrupt Galan. Permanently.”

I don’t much care for the low rumble of satisfaction in the king’s voice. For a heartbeat, I even feel a flicker of sympathy for King Galan, who has no idea what’s coming.

But that’s absurd. King Galan and his armies slaughtered our people. They burned entire villages to the ground and murdered women and children. The Kingdom of the Fall are monsters. That’s why they’re locked underground, of course.

Another memory rises on the heels of that thought. The pale stranger who came through the portal, his arm around Prince Folwynn. His dark hair and closely trimmed beard. That tiny flicker of surprise in his obsidian eyes when King Grathgore turned and swept from the room, almost as if the stranger from the Lands Below had expected to die the instant he’d stepped through the portal.

Well, of course he’d expected death. He’s a monster. He probably judges all kingdoms based on the example of his own. A hard knot of certainty forms in my chest.

The monsters need to stay in the Lands Below. The portals need to be closed, at all costs.

“I’ll do it,” I say.

The king nods. “Of course you will. Stay near the portal. Roll this beneath. When you’re ready, activate it with your hatred.”

The king pauses long enough that I glance up, meeting his hard eyes.

“There is something you hate, is there not, horse daughter?” he asks.

Shame floods my chest and cheeks, and I immediately shift my gaze to the fire. The king laughs above me, a laugh as cold as his smile.

Of course I hate, and this bastard damn well knows it.

“If you fail,” Grathgore continues, with an amused lilt to his voice that makes me want to dig my fingernails into his throat, “then I imagine my granddaughter will attempt to return.”

He says the word granddaughter like some people would say bitch. I swallow hard.

“You’re to make certain that does not happen,” he finishes.

The implication could hardly be clearer if he’d spelled it out in an official royal proclamation. If I can’t destroy the Kingdom of the Fall’s attempts to build more portals, then I’m to destroy the princess herself. A shiver snakes across my skin; I try to ignore it, to think instead of the falcon hunting high above the Spirit Wood. To let myself imagine the falcon watching my sister leave this palace. Forever.

“I understand,” I say.

“Good.”

With that, King Grathgore grabs my hand. His grip is strong, undoubtedly stronger than it needs to be. Pain sings through my bones as he opens my hand, then places the black velvet wrapped weapons in my palm. They’re heavier than I expected, those three little spheres of magical destruction.

“Your mission?” he asks.

“Destroy the portals in the Lands Below,” I reply.

He nods. “Your reward?”

I swallow hard. “M-My sister.”

“And your punishment, should you fail?”

I freeze, my hand still open, the black velvet bag in my palm. My throat suddenly feels too narrow for breath. We hadn’t discussed a punishment. If everything works, I’ll be stranded in the Lands Below for the rest of my life. Which, if they manage to link me to the destruction of their portal or to the death of Princess Elanerill, probably won’t be long.

My heart hammers in my ears. For one dizzying moment, I feel like the room is actually getting smaller around me, like my world is drawing tight, forming the impenetrable walls of my new cage. It’s exactly how I’d felt years ago, after the race and the fight, when the king’s soldiers came once again to my father’s house. When they came for me, to crush my entire life beneath the heels of their glossy boots.

“Your punishment?” Grathgore repeats.

Of course. Because it’s not enough to have a motivation. There must also be a punishment for failure, just like every exercise and every mission I’ve been given since I was pressed into service in the Royal Guard so many years ago. The two sides of discipline, they were called. Reward and punishment. If my sister’s freedom is the reward, then the punishment—

“My sister,” I whisper.

“Very good,” Grathgore replies.

His words hang in the air between us. He doesn’t need to draw them out; I understand perfectly. If I succeed, my sister gains her freedom.

But if I fail, then we both die.