Wizard's Masquerade

Jay Pellegrin

Pellegrin Books

Contents

1. Copyright

2. Preface

3. Preview of Cover Art

4. 1. The Maze

5. 2. Injured

6. 3. The Awards Ceremony

7. 4. Senior Prank

8. 5. Medical Bay

9. 6. Visitors

10. 7. Viva Voce

11. 8. A Trio of Two

12. 9. The Jester

13. 10. Royad

14. 11. Rutherford Castle

15. 12. The Oath

16. 13. The King’s Feast

17. 14. The Goblet

18. 15. The Trophy Room

19. 16. A Secret Meeting

20. 17. The King Leaves

21. 18. Prince Seth

22. 19. The Demon Book

23. 20. A Secret Admirer

24. 21. Death Knell

25. 22. The Fallout

26. 23. The Arrests

27. 24. The Chase

28. 25. Guilty

29. 26. The Investigator

30. 27. The Kitchens

31. 28. The Market

32. 29. The Tea Party

33. 30. Jester’s Room

34. 31. The Boy

35. 32. The Courtship

36. 33. The Chamberlain

37. 34. The Executions

38. 35. Professor Maisy Fry

39. 36. The Dungeon

40. 37. The Demon Door

41. 38. Betrayal

42. 39. Shared Ambition

43. 40. Potent Loyalty

44. 41. Blood and Lies

45. 42. Awakened

46. 43. Huskarl

Copyright © 2022 Jay Pellegrin

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Cover Art by PrincessAlayne on Deviant (alayne on Art Station)

Cover Design by Pellegrin Books

Preface

Content Warnings – This book is recommended for New Adult audiences (18+) and contains the following content:

- Romance, Sexual, Explicit Sex Scenes

- Mild Fantasy Violence including Death, Execution

- Mild reference to Suicide Ideation

A Note on Language:

This book has been written in British English, and spelling may therefore vary significantly from American English, sometimes in surprising ways. I hope to release a US edition in the near future as a courtesy to my US readers. If you suspect an error, please contact the author directly at jaypellegrin@gmail.com

A Message from the Author:

Thank you for reading Wizard's Masquerade! I absolutely adore fantasy romance and I hope you enjoy the story as much as I did writing it. Enjoy the adventure!

—JAY PELLEGRIN

Chapter One

The Maze

IT WAS FORBIDDEN TO climb the hedge, but the path had come to a dead end and Leyna was running out of time.

A terrifying howl ripped through the darkness, a reminder of the beast that stalked her through the maze. She was the last one left.

Her eyes darted left and right, searching for an escape route. But there was none.

Fear shot through her body. If she stayed trapped in this maze, it would almost certainly be the end—her magic was drained and she wouldn’t stand a chance against the beast. But if she climbed the hedge, everyone would know she had broken the rules, and that was much worse.

Leyna looked around wildly, clutching her stomach as she drew in ragged breaths, trying to settle the panic rising inside of her. The beast had her scent, and it was close.

She scanned the tall hedge—her only chance of escape. If she leapt up to seize the thick branches, she might still make it. But she would have to do it now.

Now.

Or she could stand and fight, however hopeless, which was the honourable thing to do. It’s what they all expected of her.

A bead of sweat trickled down her face, her heart thumping so hard that her stomach churned. A deep growl rumbled nearby, signalling that she was out of time. The beast was near.

This was it—time to choose.

She panicked and vaulted for the hedge, seizing thick branches and pulling herself upwards towards the pink sky, where winged dragon-like creatures circled high above, watching her flee. The branches rustled loudly and scratched her hands and face, but she held on, digging the toes of her boots in to try and gain a foothold as she reached for the next handful.

What if I don’t make it? She snapped her head back to look behind her just in time to see a gigantic form of fur and muscle round the corner into sight.

It was here.

She wasn’t going to make it.

Leyna cast a distracted spell in the beast’s direction, a feeble burst of energy that threatened to fizzle out instantly. She didn’t wait to see if it connected, reaching instead to grab more of the scratchy bush, and then another handful, scrambling as she tried to pull her legs out of reach, climbing upwards—

The beast was too quick. She screamed as teeth seized her cloak and wrenched her backwards. Her body hit the ground with a heavy thud, the violence of the impact knocking the wind from her lungs.

She couldn’t draw breath, could only lie there and wheeze.

No air. Pain.

No air.

Breathe.

Please. Breathe.

She gasped, her lungs finally pulling air.

A dark shadow towered over her, a heavy paw pinning her spell-casting arm so she couldn’t fight back.

It was over.

The beast’s jaw loomed near her face, teeth savage and sharp as they drew close, hovering inches away. Its breath was hot. The rumbling started low, then broke out into a loud snarl that echoed in her ears. A long film of thick saliva dripped down from the wolf’s jaw, wetting her cheek and sticking to her long, blonde hair.

The beast snorted in victory, the heat of its breath warm on her face.

Finally, she managed to free her arm and, ignoring the creature’s sharp teeth, raised her hand and used it to wipe her face. Her fingers came away coated with the thick, clear gloop.

“Ugh, gross!” she cried, trying to wriggle free. “Get off me, Quinn!”

Moving backwards, the creature shifted to its human form in a cascade of magic, the fangs and claws falling away like black sand. The dark fur receded everywhere except on the man’s head, where black hair fell across his face in sweaty strands. Quinn Volak was twenty-two, the same age as she. Before they had entered the maze, they’d been classmates at the Wizarding Guild—but right now, he was her competition.

The wizard grinned, smoothing his cloak as he straightened, appearing taller than usual as he stood over her. “Looks like I win.”

That’s what you think, thought Leyna, still on the ground. She had used the precious seconds that Quinn had spent transforming to ready a spell in her casting hand, hidden behind her back. He saw the fiery sparks of magic too late, and her fireball hit him squarely in the chest.

She caught a glimpse of him stumbling backwards in her periphery as she scrambled to her feet, and then she was running again, away from the dead end and back into the thick maze. Her spell had been weak, her magical reserves all but depleted, but he'd been caught off guard. With no chance to shield himself, the fire would have stung.

It had given her the time she needed to escape, but she couldn’t outrun him. Even in human form, Quinn was fast—if she hoped to win the Maze Exam, she would have to be smarter. She ran through the narrow corridors of the maze, trying to make sense of the twists and turns. The hedges stretched and curved so tall that it seemed dark, even though the chinks of sky showed the sun hadn’t set yet.

If she didn’t defeat him by sundown, Quinn could simply transform back into a wolf and use his night vision to hunt her down. With no magic to spare for conjuring a light source, she would be a blind, helpless rabbit. And the king’s scout would not be impressed by such cowardice. Therefore, simply running was not an option—she would need to think of another plan, and fast.

Her skin prickled with fear as she dashed through the maze. Knowing that Quinn was in pursuit was terrifying. How much time had the fireball bought her? Had she managed to put some distance between them? Or was he right behind her, inches from grabbing her cloak with gnashing teeth?

Leyna’s heart hammered in her ears as she ran, fighting the urge to look over her shoulder. She skidded to a halt on a dirt path and threw herself around a tight corner into an unkempt passage full of overgrown hedges.

Shit.

The branches blocked her way, and she had to wade through, ignoring the whip of leaves against her face and hands as her legs propelled her forwards. She could only hope that they would also slow Quinn down.

Please don’t be a dead end. Please.

Tired and clammy though she was, there was still a chance that she could win. She had to keep moving.

She had to find the trap that she’d set for Quinn earlier.

With her magic reserves nearly drained, the trap was her only hope now. Like most wizards, she wasn’t trained in weapons, and wasn’t wearing even so much as a dagger—she wouldn’t know what to do with one, anyway.

But if she could find the trap, hidden near a six-way intersection, and lure Quinn into it, then she would be the winner. The trap was a giant web of near-translucent threads, and she had sacrificed much of her magical energy to create it so that it would stay in place without her concentration. She only hoped that it was still active.

She was still pushing through the dense foliage with no end in sight when, suddenly, she collided with a thick hedge wall and almost fell backwards, clutching at the branches for balance.

No, she thought, hands scrabbling at the dead end. No, no, no.

She dared a quick look behind her, but the unruly branches blocked her view, and even the path she had created had disappeared, the branches swinging back to reclaim it. A thought occurred to her, and she went still, listening.

What if Quinn had lost her trail? She tried to listen, forcing her ragged breathing to a standstill.

Silence.

If he was here, he wasn’t moving either.

She waited a few more seconds, ears strained for any signs of movement even as the pressure in her lungs grew piercing and unbearable until, finally, she was convinced that she was alone.

She let out a wheezy breath, gasping as she drew in fresh air.

She had lost him.

Snap.

She flinched.

Crackle-snap-crackle.

He was here. Quinn was here. Pushing through overgrown vegetation as he pursued her.

No, she thought, turning away from the noise of his approach. This can’t be a dead end. It can’t be. I’ve come so far.

With an angry cry, she smacked the hedge with her fist, expecting it to collide with the thick internal trunks.

But to her surprise, her arm plunged through, and she felt…nothing. Nothing but air and empty space. Relief flooded her as she realised that what had seemed like a dead end was really just an old opening, forgotten and blocked by the wild hedge. Using her other arm, she forced her way through the final layer of greenery, creating just enough space to burrow her way through to the other side.

An archway tunnel of wrought iron loomed ahead, and she charged straight through it, her boots loud on the cobblestones. Her legs and arms burnt, but she forced herself to run. She was too exposed on the long, straight path. The wrought iron continued above her, intertwined with climbing roses that created a ceiling of pale pink petals.

At the end of the walkway, the maze beckoned. Just a few more steps and she would be out of sight behind the thick green hedge. But she couldn’t go on— not even one step further.

Dizzy and out of breath, she doubled over, wheezing as she clutched her knees and leant into the leafy hedge for support. Her lungs were on fire, and there was a sharp pain in her side that was almost worse than the pain of landing on her back earlier. If she kept running, she would probably collapse.

Her skin felt hot and damp as a fuzziness clouded her senses. Resting felt good. If she could only wait a few more minutes, her pounding heart would have a chance to calm.

But she didn’t have a few minutes. She didn’t even have seconds, and had already hesitated too long. She needed to at least hide herself, because standing at the end of this walkway was dangerous. It was too exposed, with no cover, and when Quinn finally caught up, he would spot her immediately.

Just another breath, she thought, and then I’ll keep going. Just another breath.

Suddenly, the hedge near her face burst into flame as a spell hit it. Hot ember sparks hit her cheeks, narrowly missing her eyes, but she felt so groggy that for a split second, she could only marvel at the way the leaves blackened and shrivelled in the wake of the fireball.

Wearily, she turned her head to see Quinn on the far side of the walkway. He was still in human form, which was a small mercy, since the wolf would have outrun her by now.

Even from this distance, it was clear that he’d been running, his chest and shoulders rising as he panted.

Instead of rushing towards her, however, he slowed to a walk as he approached, striding forward and wearing a small smile as if he knew that his victory was inevitable. And Quinn hardly ever smiled. They had grown up together at the royal castle, and he had been the sullen boy with the thick accent who wouldn’t play with the other children, preferring his own company as if he thought himself superior. Over the years, her attempts to get to know him had been rebuffed on more than one occasion, and these rejections made her even more determined to best him in the Maze Exam.

It was this smugness that sparked a wave of determination in her and, with it, one final burst of energy. Tensing her muscles, she forced her legs and arms into action, leaping behind the leafy corner and out of Quinn’s line of sight.

Half running, half stumbling through the maze, she had no idea where she was, and every time she reached an intersection, there was no rhyme or reason to which turn she took. Still, she clutched at the hope that she would find the six-way intersection. There, her trap could ensnare the wizard.

Leyna found herself in a dark, twisting tunnel where the hedges curved so close that she couldn’t see the sky at all. Rasping for air, she finally emerged and found herself blinded by the sun as it travelled low in the sky directly ahead. Raising an arm to block the light, she took in her surroundings with a sinking heart. She was standing in a small clearing encircled by low hedges. Set against the backdrop of a peachy-pink sky were tall wooden grandstands from which the buzz of the audience could be heard. In the distance, the dark profile of the Wizarding Guild was nestled amongst the pine trees.

There was no six-way intersection. And no trap. She had come the wrong way, back to where all the competitors had started. The ember of hope she’d had of winning the Maze Exam petered out.

Shoulders sagging, she began to cross the clearing—no longer bothering to run. It was over. Breathing heavily, she slumped with her back against a hedge, ready to face the inevitable. There was no point in running anymore, and no point in hiding, either—it would have been too embarrassing. Not only was the whole school watching, but the grandstands were full of people who had travelled from all over the kingdom to be here today.

All she could do was use the last scraps of magic in her arsenal and hope that would be enough—but she doubted it.

With her eyes fixed on the way she had come, she waited for Quinn.

To the right of the clearing, there was a stone tower. It was short and squat, with sloped walls, a single door at the base, and a set of arched windows that looked down on the clearing from above. She hadn’t been inside the tower today, but she knew from practice sessions in the past that the tower’s sole door led up a single flight of steps to the landing above. It was the perfect fort for a group of wizards to defend themselves, casting spells on opponents below from the windows. But alone, tired, and drained of magic, it was pointless to enter the tower, and she was so puffed that she doubted she could climb the steps now. Every muscle in her legs was on fire.

So, instead, she waited, her legs wobbling as she leant against the bush to rest. It was all she could do not to let herself sink down to the ground. No sooner had the tempting thought crossed her mind than she started to do just that—first, her knees bent, and then her back slid downwards.

But then a spectator landed on the hedge nearby, the leaves rustling beneath the creature’s talons.

And then another spectator landed beside that one, folding its scaly wings flat against its body as it settled. Leyna straightened quickly, wary as their dragon-like eyes peered at her with interest. The swarm of small, winged creatures that had been circling in the skies was descending to land in the hedges around her. Soon, the bushes were full of them. There were at least a hundred, all watching her intently.

One could almost be forgiven for thinking that the spectators were beautiful. From a distance, they appeared graceful as they glided in gentle circles high above. But up close, they were hideous, and it only took a moment to realise that something about them was wrong.

Very wrong.

Beneath a layer of translucent scales, their chests were sunken, the flesh wrinkled and grey, the claws black and unkind. The long, elegant neck of each spectator was deceiving, bearing a squashed face that was almost human-like.

A chill crept along her spine.

Spectator was the politically correct name for the creatures, which were the only form of demon permitted to be summoned in Rosaria, and even these were tightly regulated. Their purpose was to watch, nothing more—but Leyna had no doubt that they would have been capable of great evil were they not bound by such strict contract terms.

Up close, they didn’t look so small, and there was something sinister about the way they regarded her, waiting to see what she would do.

Come to see the show? thought Leyna. She didn’t have the breath to waste on them as she fought for precious air, her chest still heaving. Each demon belonged to a nobleman and was enchanted to share a mental connection with its master. It would fly above the maze and project what it saw back to its respective master sitting in the grandstands.

This was how many in the audience had been able to watch Leyna and her classmates as they had fought each other in the Wizarding Guild’s maze. The rest had to make do with what they could see from the tall wooden grandstands. Now there was only her and Quinn left.

And while the spectators were controlled by wizards, the creatures could be enchanted to project their visual images to another person—even to a non-magical person. This service usually came with a hefty fee, making the flying creatures popular amongst the wealthy and inaccessible to the poor.

She tried to stay alert while ignoring the demons. Quinn still hadn’t appeared, but when he did, she would only have seconds to act.

The dragon-like creature sitting closest kept a single eye fixed on her even as it preened as if it was bored of her inaction. The others were eerily motionless, their slit-like pupils lost in their large yellow eyes.

She swallowed. The attention was somehow worse than the anticipation of her rival, who could appear at any moment and begin blasting her with attacks. Besides the Guild examiners who were grading them, in the crowd were people who had travelled from across the kingdom to watch the Maze Exam, including families of students and, more importantly, scouts looking to recruit talent.

For Leyna and the other seventh-year students, this was one of the final exams they needed to pass in order to graduate from the Guild as a wizard, but it was not enough to simply pass. The Wizarding Guild’s Maze Exam also served to showcase the senior students’ talents to the scouts, and the pressure to place well was high. But for most of those watching in the grandstands, this was mere sport.

Each audience member—regardless of why they had come—was watching their every move.

Movement caught her eye, and she pushed herself off the hedge hastily and squared her shoulders. Quinn came into view across the clearing. In the distance, the onlookers cheered in anticipation, their cries a distant roar. From here, the people in the grandstands would have a clear view of the two finalists, even those without spectators.

“Let’s get this over with,” she called to Quinn, flexing the fingers of her casting hand to loosen the tension there. She checked her reserves of magic for the thousandth time as she readied for the duel, hoping that some of her energy would have replenished by now. But, of course, it hadn’t. It was low—very low.

Quinn halted at the far side of the clearing.

“What are you waiting for?” she barked, hoping to lure him closer. At this range, her spells were more likely to miss—and she didn’t have magic to waste. There was also no point in casting a spell, not now when he could easily block it. She had caught him off guard before—he wouldn’t allow that to happen again. “Come on, Quinn. Attack already!”

“I’d rather not.”

Leyna’s mouth dropped open. “What? Why not?”

“I…I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“What do you mean?” she spluttered, at a loss for words. Why wasn’t he fighting? They had to duel. That was why they were here—that was what everyone in the grandstands expected, and it was the reason the hedges were crowded with scaly winged creatures with unblinking eyes.

Quinn shrugged, his posture strong and relaxed.

“Why?” she demanded. “Why don’t you want to duel?”

His dark eyes met hers. “I don’t think it will end well.”

It was all she could do not to scoff at his arrogance. Did Quinn really think she wouldn’t pose a challenge? Well, perhaps he was right—she was at the end of her tether and would be lucky if she could summon a single spell. If she rationed her energy, perhaps she could manage two. But it bothered her that Quinn had already decided that he would win.

“I think we should stop before someone gets hurt,” he continued.

Before someone gets hurt. His words were like a slap, made all the more demeaning by the hundreds of people watching.

“You’re asking me to forfeit?” she asked incredulously. She could not admit defeat.

But his next words surprised her again.

“No. I think we should call a draw.”

“A draw?”

He nodded, and she let out a laugh of disbelief.

“Are you joking?”

“No, I’m serious.” His voice may have been quiet, but Leyna knew that the spectators had captured every word, and in the distance, the crowd hollered its disapproval. They weren’t interested in a tie. They wanted a fight.

She shook her head. “Absolutely not—no ties.”

Faraway words echoed in her mind. We fight, even without hope. It was the motto of the royal family, the Rutherfords, and as a distant relative of the king, she represented them today as much as she represented the Guild. She would make them proud.

“Please, Leyna. I don’t want to hurt you.” Quinn’s normally gruff voice rose in pitch, and she realised he was pleading.

Hurt me? What about me hurting him? Shouldn’t he be worried about that?

“Worry about yourself,” she snapped.

In all fairness, her magical energy was critically low…but Quinn had no way of knowing that. He had simply made the assumption that she would go down easily.

It made her blood boil, and his words cemented in her mind what she would do next.

Without warning, she raised her hand and shot a spell at him. A pulse of yellow light spiralled across the clearing, headed straight for his chest. He raised a shield spell just in time, a screen of translucent pink flying up in front of him as her bright spell slammed against it before fizzling out. His shield disappeared, but she was already casting her second spell, a modest-size fireball that sizzled and smoked through the air.

But Quinn was prepared, and his fireball collided with hers in midflight with a thunderous boom. The spells flashed brightly on impact, illuminating the hedges with orange light before thick black smoke filled the clearing, obscuring him from sight.

Ash rained down, and her vision turned blurry as tears stung her eyes. She took several steps back, coughing as smoke filled her lungs.

Come on, Leyna, she urged herself. Dig deep!

Dizzy with exhaustion, she tried to gather the last remnants of magic in her reserves. Any scrap of magic would do—just enough to cast a shield spell. But it was like a child fumbling to find a biscuit crumb in a large, empty jar—there was no magic left, not even enough to light a candle, and her heart fell as she realised that it was over.

She had lost.

The smoke began to clear, and she could make out Quinn’s tall figure through the haze. It seemed that, somehow, he still had plenty of magic left, because even from this distance, she could see a large, swirling orb of magic forming in his palm.

Her muscles tensed as she prepared to leap aside. Would she be quick enough to dodge the spell? It was possible to dive roll to avoid some spells, but timing was everything.

As the smoke cleared further, however, she froze. The spell in Quinn’s hands wasn’t orange or yellow or any other brightly coloured spell she was familiar with. Instead, it was a black vortex of dark tendrils that seemed to pull at the light around them.

Oh no. Quinn, what have you done?

Recognising the spell, she felt a new surge of fear that was unlike anything she had felt that day. It was worse than the pressure of duelling other students, and far worse than being chased through the maze by a wolf. For the first time during the Maze Exam, she was truly frightened.

“Quinn, stop!” she yelled, her voice bordering on a scream.

“I can’t!” he yelled back, eyes wide with alarm as he stared at his hand.

She wiped her sweaty hands on her trousers, the fingers gone cold from the realisation that Quinn had lost all control of the spell.

“Quinn!”

Somehow, he had summoned a Renegade spell, an unpredictable magic with no master save for the evil creatures of the Other Side. She knew what it was because she had seen him use it on a student before—and he had nearly been expelled because of it.

Sitting in the palm of his hand, the dark orb pulsed as it grew larger, stripping Quinn of his magical energy, refusing to let go, sucking at the air around it greedily, pulling at colour, light, and sound. She looked around hastily as if the answer would be lying on the bare ground at her feet. But there was no weapon that could help her, no place she could hide. The tower door stood open, but it was too far away—she wouldn’t make it.

“Quinn!” she screamed. “Get rid of it!”

He tried to shake the spell off, but it held tight to his hand.

“Quinn!” she yelled again, hoping he would find a way to stop it. But Quinn had turned white as he beheld the monstrous magic.

Suddenly, the spell abandoned him, barrelling haphazardly towards a row of hedges that was off to the side. Leyna felt a split second of relief to see that the Renegade was simply going to hit the hedges; the spell would fizzle out harmlessly and no one would be hurt.

But then the swirling black orb began to turn. Unlike ordinary spells, this one had a mind of its own, controlled by beings that weren’t here. Just before it sunk into the hedges, the crackling spell curved sharply in the air, veering away from the bushes…

Changing direction…

It was hurtling straight at her.

There was no time to react.

Smack.

The spell punched her like a giant fist, the impact flinging her body into the air. She spun like a rag doll towards the wall of the tower.

Crack.

She hit stone, and her world exploded into blinding agony.

Then she was sliding down the steeply sloped incline of the tower wall, too dazed to even try to gain purchase on the stone with her fingers. The ground spun towards her quickly, rapidly, sickeningly—

Thud.

Waves of white pain washed over her.

There was nothing.

And there was too much of everything.

Time became infinite as she lay there.

Thoughts blurred.

Her face was cold against the pavement.

Or was the stone cold against her pavement?

Or was the pain of stone was cold.

Her head must have split open. Cracked like jam and broken glass.

Shadows, then darkness.

Chapter Two

Injured

LEYNA WAS AWARE OF being carried.

Someone was holding her firmly around the waist, and she was almost upside down as she hung against the person’s back. Her arms swung in the air uncomfortably, and the back of a boot kept entering her vision as the footpath scrolled past beneath her. Every step the boots took caused her carrier to jostle her, setting off a stab of pain in her head. She wished the person would show mercy and just put her down so she could die.

She opened her mouth to say so, but a violent pain shot through the side of her face near her ear, the intensity so alarming that she couldn’t even whimper. Even grimacing hurt, so she tried to stay very still, hanging limply in the stranger’s grasp.

Her body felt sore, but that was a mere shadow of what was happening to her head. Her eyes felt itchy as she watched the ground blearily below, trying to spot anything that could distract her from the agony. Weeds were growing on the path between the stones—not the pretty kind with flowers that she and her mother had always argued about whether to uproot, but the hardy kind that weaved and stung.

The boots turned off the path, and they must have been crossing a lawn because all she could see was crisp green grass. It became noisy. Alarmed voices reached her ears in a strange echo—they were close but also far away.

“Nearly there,” came Quinn’s voice, louder than the others, and Leyna realised that he must have carried her out of the maze—which meant everyone in the audience could see her like this, injured and weak. She couldn’t quite recall why they had been in the maze, but she was confident that she hadn’t planned on leaving it in such an undignified way.

“Put me down,” she muttered, speaking through gritted teeth and moving her lips as little as possible to avoid another ripple of pain in her head.

Quinn said nothing, but to her relief, the lurching movement halted, and she realised that he had stopped walking. A moment later, her world shifted, and she found herself set down on the grass. Firm hands steadied her shoulders. Turning her head, she saw that Quinn was helping her to sit upright. She would have preferred if he’d just let her lie down.

There were people running towards them, but it was too hard to keep her head up, and she let it drop down to one shoulder.

“Quinn, what’s wrong with her?”

“I don’t know. She hit the tower hard.”

“Leyna? Can you hear me? I think she’s in shock.”

“Should I lie her down?”

Yes! Leyna thought desperately. Lying on the grass would be as good a place as any to die.

“No, keep her sitting.”

“Here she is!” came a new, eager voice. “The one that fell. Come look!”

Grudgingly, Leyna peered through her eyelashes and saw shapes moving around her. People. But amongst the closest were two students who were clamouring closer, craning their necks to get a look at her. She could identify them by their green-edged robes.

Third-years, she thought dismissively, closing her eyes again. But she could still hear their insolent comments.

“It’s not so bad,” said one student, sounding disappointed. “Hardly any blood.”

“That looks pretty bad to me,” replied the other.

“If you say so.”

“Just look at where her jaw is. That doesn’t look right.”

“Oh shit. Yes, I see now. That’ll bruise tomorrow.”

A new voice interrupted, older and terse. “No, it won’t bruise, we’ll get that healed immediately. Move along, now.”

Leyna edged an eye open again to see the headmaster, Master Emsworth, shooing the students away. His face came into better view as he crouched down to examine her, his eyes narrowing with concern. Up close, she could see that his silver moustache was neat, and his pointed goatee was cinched with a silver bead.

His calm presence was a comfort. Whatever was wrong, he would know what to do. Maybe, she wouldn’t have to die. Maybe, he could make the pain go away.

“Where am I?” she asked, clutching at the grass as her world swayed. Nausea lurked in the back of her throat, and she hoped she wouldn’t throw up.

“Outside the maze,” said Master Emsworth. “Do you remember what happened?”

“Yes, I was running through the maze from Quinn.”

“Good. What else?”

Leyna chewed her lip, trying to remember. “And I fell. From the tower. But I don’t remember going inside it. Did you see me fall?”

“Yes. But don’t worry, Leyna, I’m going to—”

But before the headmaster could finish, a shrill voice broke out, interrupting him.

“Leyna! Leyna? Is that my daughter there? Leyna!”

She recognised her mother’s voice, loud and full of worry. Dressed in her finest, her mother ran towards her and knelt down so haphazardly that she nearly knocked the headmaster over. “My dear, are you alright? What happened? What have they done to you?”

“Mamma!” she began, attempting a smile, but then stopped. It still hurt to speak. Something was not right with her face.

“What is wrong with her?” cried her mother, her voice growing increasingly high-pitched.

“She’s injured, and in shock,” said the headmaster patiently.

“But what’s happened to her face? Is that…”

“Nothing we can’t heal.”

“Why, what’s wrong with my face?” Leyna asked, raising a hand to touch her cheek. But fast as lightning, the headmaster seized her hand and placed it back in her lap.

“Best if you don’t touch it, eh, Leyna?” He gave her a knowing look, and she had no choice but to nod. Calm as he was, the headmaster’s reaction only made her imagine the worst. What did she look like?

Satisfied, he released her hand. “Good. Now, Leyna…do you remember how you were injured?”

She cleared her throat and, trying not to aggravate her injury, began to speak. “I was running through the maze from Quinn…and I didn’t want to go into the tower…but I must have, right? Or I wouldn’t have fallen from it. Did you see me fall, Mother?”

“Yes, we saw,” said Master Emsworth, turning to her mother. “Lady Saunders, I promise that all will be well with your daughter…but could you kindly give us space?”

Her mother blinked several times before giving a reluctant nod, and she shuffled backwards slightly, her cream skirts rustling and the elaborate hairstyle atop her head wobbling.

Leyna knew that the headmaster had been hoping for more privacy, but he turned his attention back to her and raised his hand in front of her face.

“Leyna, I want you to look at my finger.”

She did as she was told, but her vision was swimming.

“Good. Now follow my finger as I move it.”

It seemed a ridiculous proposition, especially as there were at least two fingers, but she focused on the one that was less blurry as it weaved through the air. Next, Master Emsworth asked her a series of questions, wanting to know her name, her age, if she knew where she was and why, what she’d had for breakfast, and if she knew the name of the current monarch. She could tell that the headmaster was testing her, and she wondered if this was all part of the exam. “I’m Lady Leyna Saunders…I’m twenty-two…I’m at the Wizarding Guild’s maze for the practical exam…I don’t think I had breakfast; I usually skip it…And the ruling monarch is King Matthew Rutherford.”

Leyna wrung her cloak as she spoke. The questions seemed simple enough—she only hoped she had answered them correctly.

When she was done speaking, Master Emsworth merely nodded.

“Did I pass?” she asked.

He smiled, which made his stylish moustache curl. “Yes, you did.”

“Oh good,” she said, shoulders slumping.

“And you passed your practical exam in the maze, too,” he added.

That was even better.

Just then, Leyna noticed her mother sitting behind the headmaster in the grass. She was wearing a cream-coloured dress, and her blonde hair was piled precariously atop her head. “Mamma! Did you see me fall? I was running through the maze from Quinn…I didn’t want to go into the tower…but I must have, right? Because I fell. Did you see me fall?”

Master Emsworth and her mother exchanged a strange look as if she had said the wrong thing—as if they knew something she didn’t.

“A concussion,” he muttered before turning to Lady Saunders. “Don’t worry, this can happen.”

“What can happen?” demanded her mother, her voice high-pitched again.

“Short-term memory loss.”

“What? Sir, that is outrageous—”

“Please, Lady Saunders, try to be calm. All will be well. Our best wizards will heal her at once.”

Her mother pursed her lips. “I certainly hope so. She was so beautiful!”

They were speaking about her as if she weren’t there. Leyna hated that.

“Quinn!” called Master Emsworth.

“Yes, sir?” Quinn’s voice sounded from behind, making her jump.

“Take her to the medical tent.”

“No,” said Leyna, perhaps a little too abruptly, as everyone turned to stare at her. “I mean…I can take myself there.”

She made an attempt to stand, but her body felt as useless as a sack of grain and she fell over again. It was embarrassing.

Quinn was looking down at her. “Shall we?”

She looked away and said nothing, but after a few moments, he scooped her up, carrying her like a child. The movement caused a new surge of pain to shoot through her, and she shuddered. And then there was the nausea, which was just as bad.

Leyna could tell that Quinn was making an effort to be careful, but she didn’t care. In that moment, every step he took caused her pain, and she hated him for it. And there was another reason that she was upset with him—she couldn’t quite recall what that reason was, exactly, but was sure it would come to her.

“I can walk,” she protested.

“I’m not sure about that,” said Quinn. “Anyway, we’re nearly there.”

Nearly where?

She didn’t bother to argue. The only person more stubborn than she was Quinn Volak. The thrum of the lively crowd was at odds with how crummy she felt, and it was easier just to close her eyes as they weaved through the throng of people. To her relief, he ignored the questions of curious onlookers and didn’t stop until they had reached a large white tent.

Inside, she got a glimpse of several rows of beds before Healer Helene descended upon them.

“Not another one!” she cried, exasperated. “What’s wrong with this one?”

“Had a bad fall…and has a concussion, apparently.”

Healer Helene gave a laugh that made her sound half-mad. “You don’t say? We saw her fall from the tower. I don’t suppose anyone’s spoken to you about your Renegade spell?”

“Not yet,” said Quinn, sounding uncomfortable.

“Renegade?” asked Leyna, mulling the word over. It seemed significant.

“She has short-term memory loss,” explained Quinn to the healer, talking about Leyna as if she weren’t there. She hated that.

Healer Helene sighed. “Fine. Put her in a bed down the back. I’m surprised there are any beds left at all. Doesn’t anyone stop to ask if any of this is ethical? Having students go at it in a maze, maiming each other?”

Her voice faded as Quinn moved to the rear of the tent, passing other beds occupied by students. Leyna winced when she saw a classmate of hers nursing a gash on her arm and what appeared to be several fingers bent the wrong way. She was glad that hadn’t happened to her—but then the woman spotted her and gasped.

“Leyna! What happened to you?”

Leyna didn’t answer, but a quiver ran through her stomach. What had happened to her face? What was so terrible that it was worse than having a forearm sliced open and broken fingers? What was so bad that nobody would say?

It wasn’t until Quinn had set her down that she bothered to get her bearings. The smell of antiseptic confirmed where she was—the medical tent, a large, temporary structure outside the maze, set up specifically for injuries acquired during the Maze Exam. She was sitting on a bed with a firm mattress and stark white sheets. There were no windows, but at the far side near the entrance, the flaps were held open, and the last of the sun was dousing the lawns in an orange glow. Candles provided some light inside the tent, sending flickering shadows onto the fabric above.

Quinn stood in front of her, blocking her view of the rest of the tent’s interior.

“I’m sorry, Leyna,” he said.

She ignored him, giving her head a slight shake. She wasn’t sure why he was offering an apology but felt that she deserved a better one all the same.

“Leyna?”

“Go away.” She couldn’t remember why, but she didn’t want to see Quinn right now. Despite his handsome features, including a defiant nose, square jaw line, and faint Kormendian accent, he wasn’t her favourite person, and seeing him now when she was wounded and confused was not a comfort. She tried to push him away, only to realise that he was the one holding her steady as she sat perched on the edge of the bed.

Where am I? She appeared to be in some sort of tent, and there were beds nearby with what looked like injured seventh years.

“Leyna?” he asked again, his voice concerned.

“Leave me alone,” she moaned, wanting only the pillow if there was one.

“It’s alright, I’ll take it from here,” said a cheerful voice.

Quinn retreated, and a tall man with short waves of caramel hair took his place.

Without Quinn to support her, she began to sway, but the newcomer placed a steadying hand on her shoulder.

“Whoa, there,” he said. “Don’t fall off.”

“You’re not the healer,” grumbled Leyna, taking in his fine clothes. While the Guild’s healers did not dress poorly—few wizards did—they could not have matched the peacock-like elegance of the man’s tailored doublet. The bottle-green jacket was a masterpiece of satin and velvet, complete with metallic thread, silk ribbons and brass buttons.

The man smiled as if amused. “No, I’m not.”

“Where’s Healer Helene?”

He jerked his head backwards. “A little busy with the other students. You all managed to make rather a mess of each other. In fact, I saw what happened to you in the maze. You’re lucky to be alive.”

Leyna licked her lips nervously, recalling the way her stomach had dropped as she fell spinning through the air. Turning to the man, she asked: “Did you see me fall?”

“Yes.”

“I think I fell from the tower. I don’t remember going up, but I must have, right? Because I remember falling.”

“No, actually, you didn’t go into the tower. A Renegade spell knocked you against it—quite violently, in fact. It was hard to watch.”

Leyna nodded absently. The man’s words seemed to make sense, but her mind was still foggy.

“Who are you?” she asked. Based on his attire, and smooth Rosarian accent, she was confident that he was a nobleman. He must have been in his late twenties, or possibly early thirties.

But he didn’t give her a straight answer.

“I’m someone who can heal you.”

“Why do I need healing?” she asked, but no sooner had she said the words than her head began to throb, the pain almost unbearable. She clutched the edge of the mattress. If the man hadn’t been supporting her, she would probably have fallen off.

“How’s the head?” he asked.

“You tell me,” she snapped, brisker than she had intended. “It hurts so much.”

“Yes, I’m not surprised. Let’s take a look, shall we?”

The man’s chipperness bothered her, his temperament at odds with how horrible she felt, but she understood on some level that he was trying to make her feel better—she only hoped he would be able to provide some relief from the pain.

She didn’t protest as he began his exam, checking her arms and legs for a normal range of motion. She used that opportunity to study the man more closely. If he was prepared to heal her, then he was almost certainly a wizard—but not one that she recognised from the Guild or the castle.

“Well?” she asked after the wizard had straightened.

“Well, you still have all your fingers and toes,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Fine. What about my face?”

“It’s lovely.”

She blinked, thrown off by the unexpected comment. She rephrased the question. “Is there something wrong with my face?”

“That depends. Is your face usually asymmetrical?”

Her eyes narrowed. Was he making fun of her? She got the impression he was trying to lighten the mood, but she wished that he would take her injury seriously. Why couldn’t Healer Helene have been the one to heal her? But before she could protest, the wizard continued: “You’ve had serious head trauma. I saw you fall, it’s amazing you regained consciousness at all. The good news is that everything else looks fine—it’s just your jaw that needs attention.”

“My jaw?” asked Leyna, reaching to touch the side of her head, but he caught her hand deftly. The movement felt oddly familiar as he placed her hand in her lap.

“Don’t touch it,” he said softly.

“Why not?” Her voice bordered on a whine. “What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with my head?”

Panic swirled in her like a noxious liquid, and she looked around frantically, trying to figure out where she was. Why did her head hurt so much, as if it had cracked in two?

She had been flying through the air…and she’d hit the tower…and then there was the fall, followed by a sickening crunch, and then…and then this. Sitting here in a tent with no one but a stranger to help her.

Her breathing grew rapid, her peripheries blurring and the wild urge to flee threatening to overwhelm her. Suddenly, the wizard stepped closer, cupping her face in his hands. His touch was firm but gentle, the slender fingers warm on her cheeks, and she stilled instantly, more from surprise at the contact than anything else.

“Leyna, is it?”

His blue eyes were striking as they met hers, and she quickly looked down. “Yes.”

“Leyna, everything will be alright. You’re not in a good way, it’s true, and your injury is severe…but it’s nothing I can’t heal, if you let me.”

His voice was strangely calming, but it wasn’t enough to override her anxiety. The sharp pain that radiated from her ear down to her jaw was too much to ignore.

“Let go,” she said sternly, summoning as much authority as she could muster.

She must have been persuasive, because the wizard took his hands away, and she reached up to touch her face gingerly. The left side was much bigger than the right and felt puffy and numb. But as her hands explored near her jawline, she felt a jagged unevenness. There was something hard and sharp, and her skin was stretched tightly over it. To her horror, she realised that the sharp hardness was…

She swallowed. “Is that…?”

“Yes,” finished the wizard. “It’s bone. You have a broken jaw.”

A whimper escaped her lips.

“Show me,” she said, failing to keep the fear from her voice.

“Are you sure?” he asked, an eyebrow arching.

Leyna nodded.

The man procured a small mirror, which he held up for her to see.

“I…” She choked, her throat tight and her eyes welling with tears. She didn’t want to cry in front of the stranger, but the sight of her misshapen jaw made her want to curl up into a ball. A vision flashed in her mind of the ground hurtling towards her before she slammed against it. “Did you see me fall?”

“Shh, everything will be alright,” said the man. “Try to relax. I’ll heal this for you now. It will be like it never happened.”

“Wait…you’re going to heal me?” His words halted the frightened sob that had been threatening to escape from her mouth, which was as uncomfortable as a suppressed sneeze.

The man smiled patiently. “We’ve been over this, already. Healer Helene is busy with other patients, so you’ll have to make do with me.”

“Other students?”

“Yes. Mostly cuts and bruises—but poor Mary has a bad burn, and Jeffrey is determined to bleed out on us. Although, on the plus side, he does have both his feet reattached now.”

Leyna grimaced before she could stop herself. The movement set off a new burst of pain, triggering a dull ache that lingered. Looking the man up and down, she said: “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

He flashed a charming smile. “Of course.”

She assessed the man warily. She didn’t recognise him as anyone she had ever seen before, but his clothes were too fine for a healer.

“Are you even a wizard?” she asked sceptically.

“Yes. Are you?” he retorted.

She bit her lip. Theoretically, she was nearly a wizard. She had been training at the Wizarding Guild for seven years. If she could pass all her final exams, then she could graduate and become a fully qualified wizard. She was so close.

“Well?” he prompted.

“No, not yet.”

“Then I’m the best you have.”

Which must have been his roundabout way of saying that he was a wizard.

“Have you ever had to heal an injury like this before?” she asked.

The wizard crossed his arms and smiled as if he found the question amusing.

“Not exactly.”

“What do you mean, ‘not exactly?’”

“I’ve never healed a broken jaw in a woman before.”

“Is that…different to healing one for a man?”

He shrugged, but the corners of his lips twitched. “Probably not.”

She leant to look past him to where Healer Helene was in the middle of what looked like a surgery, assisted by another healer.

“Well?” he prompted. “What’ll it be?”

Leyna sighed. “Fine. Do it.”

“Good. Now, this won’t hurt—I’ll be gentle, but the healing spell will take a while. And I need you to stay still so I can concentrate. Do you understand?”

She gave a small nod, and he moved close and placed one hand on the side of her face whilst the other supported her lower jaw.

“And I think we’ll start by restoring your short-term memory,” he murmured under his breath. She wanted to ask what he meant by that, but he was standing in her space, close enough that she could smell his scent, and it distracted her; it was strange, the sort of expensive cologne that a nobleman would wear, but there was something smouldering underneath that she couldn’t quite identify. Sitting on the bed, she was eye level with his chin, and she focused on the embroidered collar of his doublet to avoid his gaze. But then he grasped her chin and tilted it upwards, so they were face-to-face, and she couldn’t help but meet his eyes. The piercing blue irises glittered, the intensity making her breath catch, and she quickly averted her eyes.

He began to mutter as the healing spell began, and she glimpsed blue tendrils of light swirling in front of her before she had to close her eyes against the brightness. She knew from having seen healing spells performed at the Guild that the blue light would lace over the wound and settle there, gradually turning gold and gleaming like sticky honey before crystallising. The greater magic was happening internally, although she only had a vague concept of this. She had only ever learnt the basics in healing class, and had dropped the subject as soon as she could, opting to focus on combat spells instead.

She had never been any good at healing spells, mostly because the professor who taught the subject had bullied her. The classroom environment had made concentrating difficult, and healing spells were already daunting to master—they were complex and took a great deal of patience to perform…and patience was not one of her virtues.

The minutes passed, and every now and then, she would steal a glance at the wizard through her eyelashes, wondering who he was. He had a long, angular face that was not unhandsome, and the bright magic illuminated his features with a blue glow. Foppish hair was combed to one side in an aristocratic style, and a few wavy strands had escaped to fall across his forehead, which was tensed in concentration as he muttered under his breath.

She began to feel the effects of the spell. Things were shifting internally, and slowly, ever so slowly, the pain began to recede.

As she did her best to sit motionless, the sound of men talking outside the tent reached her ears. Their voices were hushed as if they were intent on keeping their conversation private, but the cotton fabric of the tent wall provided poor insulation for sound.

“—not going to disqualify him.”

“Of course, they’ll disqualify him,” said a baritone, self-important voice. “I may not know any magic, but I know that Renegade spells are illegal.”

“Not illegal, Captain. Just frowned upon by the wizarding community.”

“It amounts to the same thing. No doubt they’ll expel him as well.”

A pause. Both of the voices were male, and it was obvious that they were talking about Quinn. Leyna could have sworn that the baritone voice belonged to Captain Marton, captain of the Royal Guard at Rutherford Castle. The other, she couldn’t place at all, but it sounded younger and had more finesse.

“Captain Marton, you know as well as I do that the steward won’t be pleased if his son isn’t recruited to the Royal Guard.”

The captain gave a bark of laughter. “He can go ahead and not ‘be pleased’ all he likes. That boy did this to himself. Anyway, what’s the point of offering his son a position if the Wizarding Guild expels him?”

“They won’t expel him. In fact, they will graduate him.”

“Rubbish. How can you be certain?”

“Let me worry about that. I’ll take care of it. Just make sure you offer him a position in the Guard.”

“I don’t like it…The boy is out of control. I’m not sure if I want him after all.”

“I understand your concerns, Captain, but I think it would be a shame for you to miss out on such an opportunity. I see great potential in the boy.”

The captain didn’t respond straight away, and as Leyna strained to hear the next words, she must have started to turn her head because, suddenly, her face was being jerked back to face the caramel-haired wizard. He gave her a look of warning—a silent reminder to stay still. His lips never stopped moving, and she remembered how vital it was not to interrupt a wizard in the middle of an incantation. She pursed her lips. It was another reason she hated healing spells—they were lengthy to perform, and subsequently dangerous.

But her focus had already shifted back to eavesdropping. The two men were clearly unaware that anyone was listening from inside the tent.

“I would consider it a personal favour,” the younger, smoother voice was saying.

“Fine,” said Captain Marton. “I’ll make the boy an offer. But I want the girl for the Royal Guard.”

Leyna’s whole body went still. The girl? He means me, right?

“Which one was that? Leyna Saunders? She would make for an excellent huskarl. Or do you mean Grace Wakefield? She was impressive as well, though she did not place so well in the Maze Exam.”

Leyna’s eyes widened, and she found herself leaning closer, but before she could hear what was said next, the wizard healing her spoke loudly.

“There, all done!” he announced, dusting his hands together noisily. “Good as new.”

It was her turn to shoot him a warning look. “Shush!” she moaned, jerking her thumb towards the tent wall.

The wizard just shook his head and laughed, and it dawned on her that he had interrupted her eavesdropping on purpose. She narrowed her eyes at him for a brief moment before snapping her head back to look at the tent wall, straining to hear the captain’s reply as to which student he wanted for the Royal Guard—her, or Grace.

Silence.

The voices had stopped talking, no doubt disturbed by the sound of the wizard’s voice. She remained perfectly still, listening, but after a few moments, she heard careful footsteps outside the tent, which gradually faded into the distance. She waited some more, but she was sure that they were gone.

What had the captain been about to say? Which student was he offering a position to on the Royal Guard? Her or Grace? And who was the other man who’d been pushing for Quinn to be recruited?

She sighed and turned back to face the wizard who had healed her, but he was gone.

Chapter Three

The Awards Ceremony

SLIDING OFF THE BED, Leyna looked around the large tent’s interior, searching for a tall figure with short, wavy hair, but he was nowhere to be seen. It was a shame he had left before she could thank him for helping her.

Amazingly, the pain in her jaw was completely gone. Whatever the wizard had done in the medical tent had worked. Not only was the pain in her jaw gone, but so was the crick in her neck that had bothered her for the past year. Even her mind felt clearer.

She waited a few minutes, but no one came. Was she free to leave?

She headed for the exit but paused at the tent entrance, where the flaps were pinned open, revealing the night sky. The atmosphere was festive as people milled about outside, their faces illuminated by enchanted torches of multi-coloured flames. Just inside the tent entrance was a water basin where she stopped to wash her face and hands. Seeing a hand mirror, she lifted it apprehensively, only to let out a sigh of relief.

The blonde braids had become loose and dishevelled, and she clearly hadn’t washed her face nearly well enough because dirt marks were dripping down her cheekbones. But other than that, she looked perfectly normal—her pale skin was smooth and unbroken, with not so much as a graze to suggest she'd fallen from a great height. She wriggled her jaw, then opened and closed her mouth several times.

What a wonderful thing, to not feel pain.

“Leyna,” came a deep voice, startling her.

It was Quinn, standing just outside the tent.

“Yes?” she asked, straightening and trying to appear stern even as water droplets trickled down her cheeks. “What is it?”

“They want you for the presentation.”

She gave a curt nod. “Fine. I’ll be there.”

Turning back to the basin, she did her best to fix her appearance, splashing cool water on her face and neck. It was impossible to ignore the jitters coursing through her as she thought of the awards ceremony. This day had been a long time coming. While some people regarded it as a mere formality, the presentation was crucial for the final-year students because it was their last chance to make a good impression and secure a career offer.

Although the Wizarding Guild’s professors were more interested in their demonstration of magical prowess in the maze, the awards ceremony was conducted for the sake of the scouts. The students who had lasted the longest would be ranked on a podium from first to seventh, and every year, the top seven students would receive the most prestigious job offers.

With twenty-five students in her class this year, most wouldn’t even make the podium. But coming in second would almost certainly guarantee her a spot in the Royal Guard.

Wouldn’t it?

Fear coiled in her. What if Captain Marton, the scout from Rutherford Castle, didn’t choose her? She had been certain that he would, given that the royal family had sponsored her seven years of wizarding education. But then why had there been any question as to ‘which girl’ Captain Marton would choose to join the Royal Guard?

Despite her higher-than-average grades, Leyna was nervous about passing the Guild’s final exams. The stakes were high as a single failed exam meant that she would automatically be held back to repeat the entire year.

But until now, passing her exams had been her only worry. It had never occurred to her that she wouldn’t be selected for the Royal Guard at all. And what if Rutherford Castle did make her an offer, but for a different position—like tutoring children or being a healer?

Thanks to Professor Fry’s bullying, she hated healing spells, and despite her respect for the other teachers at the Guild, the last thing she wanted was to be a tutor. Ever since she was a young girl, she'd longed to become a huskarl, a protector of the royal family. It was one of the most prestigious positions that a Rosarian citizen could aspire to. It was the Royal Guard or nothing.

Leyna finished patting her wet face with her sleeve, pressing the fabric against her closed eyelids as if it would block her thoughts out, which kept circling back to her unlikely competition: Grace.

Why was the captain considering Grace Wakefield over her? She didn’t mind Grace and, in fact, quite liked her—it was impossible not to, given that she was the kindest person she had ever met.

But while Grace was talented in charms, it was Leyna who was better in combat. With the huskarl position in mind, she had chosen her subjects accordingly, and had gained special recognition for her proficiencies in casting fireballs and pressure spells. In her mind, she was the obvious candidate for the position—and surely, she had proved that today by coming second in the Maze Exam.

Or potentially first, she thought. There was a good chance that Quinn would be disqualified, regardless of what the younger man had said to Captain Marton outside the tent. A Renegade spell was classified as serious misconduct, and had Quinn been a qualified wizard, he could have been stripped of his registration. It was, therefore, ludicrous for anyone to even think that the Guild would pass him. The man speaking with the captain has been fooling himself if he thought he could convince Headmaster Emsworth otherwise.

Which means that I came first in the Maze Exam, she realised. I’ll be the one at the top of the podium—not Quinn.

She tilted her head as she held up the hand mirror, studying her face.

Perhaps it would be her and Grace who went to the castle—and Quinn Volak would be left behind. She didn’t wish him ill, but she also didn’t like the idea of being passed over for the huskarl position for anyone else. She was licking her fingers and using them to tuck flyaway hairs away from her face when someone spoke near her shoulder.

“Leyna?”

She jumped and dropped the hand mirror with a clatter. Quinn was standing in the tent’s entryway.

“Quinn! You’re still here? Have you been standing there the entire time?”

“I didn’t mean to startle you—”

“What do you want?”

He cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable. “I just wanted to apologise.”

“For the Renegade spell?” she asked, eyes widening as snatches of her memory returned to her: duelling Quinn; a black swirling orb; and a terror that gripped her as she spun through the air, too breathless to scream, and the sickening crunch with which she had hit the pavemen—

Don’t think about it, she told herself fiercely as her heart pounded in her chest. Fear gave way to anger as she rounded on Quinn. “What were you thinking?”

“I know, I—”

“You could have killed me!”

“I know—”

“You could have killed both of us!”

Quinn’s dark eyes had been focused on hers, but he dropped his gaze to his feet. “I know. I’m sorry.”

Leyna took a deep breath. She hadn’t meant to lose her temper, and a part of her wanted to say that it was fine.

Except that it wasn’t, and she couldn’t let him off so easily. Magic was a dangerous thing. All spells drew energy from the Other Side, another dimension that held great power and great danger. Every incantation was a contract with the Other Side and had to be perfectly delivered, with no mispronunciations or interruptions, to bring about the intended spell. In failing that, a Renegade was born.

Like the one Quinn had conjured against her in the maze.

She exhaled through her nostrils, letting the anger leave her before turning back to him. She couldn’t decide if he was arrogant for daring to cast one, or incompetent—and she didn’t know which was worse.

“You better make sure it doesn’t happen again,” she said.

“It won’t,” said Quinn. “I promise.

“Oh? How can you be sure? It’s happened before.”

His face went dark, and he turned away as if her words were a reminder of something painful. It was like watching a window get boarded up.

“It just won’t.”

She sighed, resisting the urge to pick a fight. “Fine, let’s move on.”

Leyna hoped he could keep his promise. Renegades were half-finished spells with unpredictable and often terrible consequences. No one knew what dictated the effects of a Renegade spell—whether it was something in the wizard’s frame of mind when creating it, or chance. But the widely held theory that struck fear in her heart was that dark beings from the Other Side would decide what the spell became, and as demons thrived on chaos, they would interpret the unfinished words as it best pleased them—to cause as much misery and devastation as possible.

Part of her education had involved creating shortcuts, which were short incantations of her own choosing that would summon a spell of a much longer series of words. Being only two or three words long at most, shortcuts helped prevent mistakes. Once the casting wizard lost control of the spell, there was no saying what would happen. Losing control of a simple charm to open a door could splinter it in two, or set the wizard who had cast it on fire. And over Rosaria’s long history, the worst Renegades had unleashed unspeakable evil into their world.

“So?” she asked, following him outside. “Do you know if they’re letting you pass the practical after what happened in the maze?”

Quinn shook his head. “No. I was just sent to get you.”

They weaved through the crowd, smiling and nodding at the people who congratulated them on their performance in the Maze Exam. At least, she was smiling—Quinn was surlier than ever, as if he’d been the one with a broken jaw, and only gave a stiff nod to the well-wishers.

As they walked, she kept an eye out for her parents, but there were too many people milling about to spot them easily. The happy chattering of the throng was a contrast to the stiff silence between her and Quinn. She stole a glance at him from the corner of her eye. Quinn was not her friend. He was her rival, and his intentions to join the Royal Guard were well known. She aspired towards the same goal, and as a distant relative to the king, she might have felt more confident about her prospects. But Quinn was the steward’s son, and as her earlier eavesdropping had revealed, there were forces in play to sway the captain to recruit him.

She contemplated saying something to him—but he looked so preoccupied, with his head bowed and jaw set stiffly, that she decided against it.

They reached the foot of the podium where the headmaster, Master Emsworth, was engrossed in a conversation with a slender man who had the same silvery-grey hair as him. Except that Master Emsworth must have been in his sixties—whilst the thin man was the much younger Percival, whose shock of hair had been white for as long as she’d known him.

Bespectacled, nervous in disposition, and in his early thirties, Percy was the youngest and most unlikely chamberlain that Rutherford Castle had ever seen. Despite these qualities, he was popular with the court, something that Leyna could only guess was attributed to his approachability and attention to detail—and perhaps more importantly, he was in favour with both the steward and the king.

Master Emsworth appeared tense as he listened to the chamberlain, who was fiddling with the cuff of his sleeve. She didn’t think he had the ability to be in a social situation without fidgeting, and she couldn’t help but smile as they approached.

The headmaster spotted them first. His gaze lingered a moment on Leyna’s face before turning to Quinn.

“Quinn—a word,” was all he said, his face emotionless as he gestured for the surly, black-haired student to follow him. Leyna didn’t envy Quinn in that moment, suspecting that he was about to receive bad news. Perhaps it was selfish, but she couldn’t help but feel hopeful. If he was disqualified from the Maze Exam, then he would fail the year, and her chances of being offered a position in the Royal Guard would increase tenfold. The fact that she would be the undisputed winner of the maze competition was the cherry on top.

“Good evening, Lady Leyna,” greeted the chamberlain, using her honorary title as the daughter of Lord and Lady Saunders.

“Lord Chamberlain,” she greeted back, giving the silver-haired man a respectful bow. It was strange not to be curtsying to a member of the royal court. But she wasn’t wearing a dress now, and hadn’t worn one since she’d visited the castle at Winterfest six months ago. Instead, she was wearing the dark Guild uniform of boots, trousers, and tunic, as well as a majestic cloak edged with purple to signify that she was a seventh-year student.

“It’s so good to see you! Congratulations on placing well. Your parents are proud—as am I, if I’m allowed to say so.”

“Thank you,” she said, pleased at the recognition.

“I was in a complete shock when you were injured. It must have caused you so much pain! But I see the healers have looked after you?”

“They have, sir,” she said, summoning the courage to ask a question of her own. “Sir, excuse me for being forward, but do you happen to know who will be selected for the Royal Guard? It’s just that I want nothing more than to serve the king as a huskarl.”

“Ah, I’m afraid these things are not up to me,” said the chamberlain, running a hand through his silver hair, which made it stand up at odd angles. “That decision lies with Captain Marton. But I could try and put a good word in for you, if you like?”

“Yes, please,” said Leyna immediately. “I would be grateful for that.”

“Excellent! I admire your ambition. I think it would be a great loss to the Royal Guard not to have you, Leyna.” The chamberlain beamed at her, clasping his hands and assuming a posture that would have been suave except for the earnest bobbing of his head and the nervous tick of one eye. “I’m sure you’ll be able teach me a thing or two about magic before long.”

“Er, perhaps,” she said, unsure of how to respond.

She had forgotten that the chamberlain was something of a wizard, too—she had heard that, while not qualified, he had a special licence that allowed him to perform magic. Because of the dangers of performing magic, Rosarian law demanded that only those who were qualified wizards, or had a special licence, could practise magic. The chamberlain had trained under the master mage of Rutherford Castle, back when formal courses were just becoming compulsory, and it was for perhaps this reason that the king had granted Percy a licence. The master mage had passed away when Leyna was a child, and the position had never been filled, not even by the chamberlain—and for this reason, she suspected that he wasn’t a particularly good wizard. His magical talents, if he had any, were hidden well.

An announcer began to speak loudly by the podium, and the crowd was gathering around, teeming with excitement.

“I think it’s time for me to go,” she said, giving the chamberlain a bow of goodbye.

Her classmates were either lined up beside the podium or taking their place upon it. Even the students who had been in the medical tent were here, albeit looking a little worse for wear, including Jeffrey, who was sitting on the lowest level of the podium in seventh place on a chair. She was relieved to see that he did, indeed, have both his feet. As Leyna prepared to mount the steps, a thought struck her.

Did she take first place, or second?

She began to climb the steps, a feeling of elation building in her chest as she climbed higher and higher, until finally, she had stepped onto the second-highest tier: second place. Just one more step, and she would be in the champion’s spot. She hesitated, her foot half raised, wondering if she should just take the initiative and claim the spot for herself.

But just as her foot contacted the highest level of the podium, she heard footsteps behind her. Quinn had returned and was climbing up the steps.

Her heart sank a little as she realised he had not been disqualified—and then immediately regretted the ill thought. She quickly drew her foot back and settled on the second-highest tier, pretending not to notice him as she surveyed the gathered crowd before them. Her mother and father were waving, and she smiled as she waved back, but could not maintain the expression. Her eyes were drawn to Quinn, who was standing a step higher in first place. He had already been taller than her, but now he towered above her. She didn’t like it.

“Well?” she said, addressing him. “What did Master Emsworth say?”

He shrugged. “He’s letting me pass.”

Leyna pressed her lips together, trying to hold back the anger that was spiking in her. Perhaps, if Quinn had failed, it would have been easier to forgive him. It was wrong to have hoped that he would fail. But seeing him now, standing in first place, having apparently received no repercussions for his actions, any sympathy she might have had quickly vanished.

The announcer began to speak, and the crowd erupted into applause. The sound of their approval filled her ears and pushed all other emotion out of her mind, leaving only the warmth of triumph as her chest swelled. When her name was called, it was impossible not to smile as people clapped and cheered. At the end of the ceremony, all the students joined hands, lifting their arms high into the air in collective victory, and that feeling of unison was even better than when the crowd had only cheered for her. Leyna hesitated for only a moment before taking Quinn’s offered hand.

She was determined to look to the future, which beckoned brightly. With only one more exam to go, she couldn’t afford to worry about anyone but herself. She had to focus.

Scanning the crowd, a glint of gold caught her eye, and she spotted Captain Marton, a barrel-chested man with a stoic face wearing the Royal Guard uniform. He was the one she had to impress if she hoped to be recruited for the Royal Guard. There was no greater honour than to be a huskarl, protector of the royal family. An image of herself wearing the Rutherford colours of blue and gold flashed in her mind. She wanted that position, and the prestige that came with it.

Arms still raised high in the air, the infectious joy of the audience lifted her spirits, and Leyna was soon grinning from ear to ear. It almost didn’t matter that she had come in second—as far as she was concerned, so long as her dream of becoming a wizard of His Majesty’s Royal Guard came true, the rest of the world could simply fall away.

And with that thought, her doubts faded. Failure seemed impossible, as if it had been a silly fear in the back of her mind, and for a brilliant moment, Leyna truly believed that she would succeed.

Chapter Four

Senior Prank

JUST ONE MORE EXAM, and Leyna would be free.

It was the day after the practical exam in the maze, and she was sitting at the edge of the seventh-year common room in a padded green armchair sifting through her study notes.

But at the forefront of her thoughts was the Renegade spell.

It was something that she wished she could forget.

She was still shaken by what had happened yesterday when Quinn had cast the forbidden spell. Last night, she’d had a nightmare that she was falling from a great height, spinning through the air. Unlike her usual dreams, where the terrifying rush of falling would always wake her, this time, it was different. In the nightmare, she knew that she would hit the ground, and when she did, she had felt the pain and woken with a gasp, her night-robe soaked with sweat. Her roommates slept in the beds around her, and though she knew that she was safe in the dormitory, the pain had felt real. It took a long time for her to settle enough to fall back to sleep.

Hopefully, tonight would be different, and she could enjoy a restful sleep. She needed all her energy to focus on the viva voce, the oral examination which would take place a few days from now. Alone in a room with a panel of three professors, each seventh year would be cross-examined with questions relating to their chosen subjects. It was the final exam that they needed to pass in order to graduate—and under the pressure of answering questions on the spot whilst sitting across from three academics, it was the easiest one to fail.

Setting her notes down for a moment, she stared into the crackling light of the common room fireplace and let out a sigh. It was comfortable in the plush armchair, and she felt sleepy as the warmth of the fire rolled over her.

Despite the heat of early summer, the night had turned cold, and she had a fur blanket draped over her as she sat near the fireplace. She had lit the hearth despite protests from the other seventh years, who were drinking to celebrate the end of the maze exam and were oblivious to the chill that had rolled in through the open windows. There was no point in shutting them—she had used a charm to close them twice already, and even risen once to close them manually just to make a show of it, but to no avail. Someone would just complain about the heat and open them again. Adjusting the soft fur around her, she tried to block out the rowdiness of the students as she squinted down at her scrawled notes.

“I don’t understand how you can study!” exclaimed Mary, a classmate of hers. “There’s still five days until the viva. Take a night off and come join us!”

Leyna smiled politely without looking up from her notes. “Thank you, Mary, but maybe later.”

She had been fending off invites to join the other seventh years all night. Truthfully, it was hard to concentrate with the common room full of people, but she didn’t feel like she had anything to celebrate. In the aftermath of her near-fatal clash with Quinn in the maze, she felt glum and withdrawn from her classmates, despite the fact that several of them had approached her to offer sympathy.

She needed to look to the future. With one more exam to go, she couldn’t afford to lose focus, not when she was this close to the finish line, and especially not after the conversation she had overheard outside the tent, which had made her question her career prospects as a wizard.

Like many children in the kingdom, Leyna had grown up wanting to become a wizard, but the dream alone had not been enough.

A common misconception still held by many people in Rosaria was that one had to be born with the talent to perform magic. In reality, most people had the potential to learn magic but never had the chance.

For Leyna, it was her fortunate position of being born into a family with connections to the king that had allowed her to pursue her ambition of becoming a wizard.

Leyna’s father was the second cousin to King Rutherford, and though her parents had a grand suite in the castle, they owed their comfortable living to the generosity of the king and queen and could never have afforded to send Leyna to the Guild themselves. Wizarding tuition was expensive, and instead, it was the Rutherfords who had sponsored Leyna’s seven-year education.

The time and costs of training a wizard made magic prohibitive for the large majority of people, and this was one of the reasons that wizards were so highly sought-after. Wizards were especially scarce since the wars, when many had died in battle. Initiatives and scholarships had been in place for decades with the aim of replenishing the wizard forces in Rosaria.

Despite these initiatives, however, a wizarding education remained by and large accessible only to those who were sponsored by noble families or philanthropists. But access to education was only the first hurdle. Learning magic wasn’t an easy thing, and magic-casting was considered dangerous to society if not performed responsibly.

The difficulty in mastering even a simple cantrip, made the Guild’s seven-year curriculum gruelling. The high standards expected of students meant that it was common to see at least a handful of students fail and have to repeat a year.

And Leyna did not want to repeat a year. Seven years was a long time to be away from home studying and training, to have her life on hold while constantly competing with her peers and being tested by professors. There was no point being here any longer than she had to. She had invested too much of her own time to leave without a degree, but this meant that her life had been in limbo for seven years, her career unable to start until she finally obtained a qualification. She was desperate to leave, and the stress at the prospect of being held back a year while her peers moved on to greener pastures was a constant motivator.

Lost in thought, the words in front of her had blurred together, her mind uncomprehending as she reread the same paragraph over and over. Suddenly, the brightly lit parchment on her lap became cast in shadow. Someone was standing over her, blocking the firelight.

It was Quinn, looking sombre in a sharp-collared tunic and trousers that were almost as dark as his black hair. Leyna opened her mouth to speak but was distracted by the colourful garland of hydrangeas dangling from his neck, the happy flowers out of place on the brooding wizard.

Noticing her stare, Quinn looked down.

“Grace,” he said by way of explanation, removing the garland uneasily. He did not cast it aside, however, but held the necklace limply by his side, where the blue and purple petals remained festive.

She tried not to roll her eyes as she looked back down at her notes, pretending to be busy writing when, really, she was just tracing a sentence she had already written, emboldening it with fresh ink.

“I suppose you’ve come to ask me to join the party?”

“No, I haven’t,” said Quinn.

The shortness of his reply made her look up. She waited another moment, but it became clear that he still wasn’t about to invite her, even though she’d brought it up.

“Well, then,” she said, trying to keep her tone civil. “How can I help you?”

“I wish to apologise for what happened in the maze.”

Leyna glanced up expectantly, waiting for more, but Quinn remained silent, his dark eyes unreadable. After a pause, she realised that he had finished speaking. That had been his apology.

“Right,” she said, tapping the end of the feathered quill against the page. “Was there anything else?”

“Yes. I wanted to give you some advice about the viva.”

“Which is?”

Quinn had a slow, measured way of speaking, and never used more words than were necessary. Trying to get information from him was like pulling teeth, and she often wondered if his manner of speaking was purposeful to force others to listen to him. The tapping of her quill grew impatient until he finally spoke.

“You should study healing.”

“Healing charms?” she asked. “But I dropped healing class, remember?”

“Yes, but that question was on last year’s viva. It could be asked again.”

Leyna frowned. It was true that the examiners had a habit of reusing exam questions from year to year—whether this was due to laziness or was an underhanded way to encourage students who could network with previous cohorts, she wasn’t sure, but she suspected it was the former.

“None of my viva questions will be on healing,” she said again, more firmly so as to reassure herself. “It’s not one of my subjects. Professor Fry hates me. Everyone knows that.”

Teacher of healing at the Guild, Professor Fry was a bitter, middle-aged professor who had never bothered to hide her contempt for Leyna, though the reason for this took her years to discover. When Leyna had first started at the Guild at fifteen years old, she had admired the professor, who was intelligent and imposing, with a beauty that was only enhanced by her blonde hair, which was always pulled back into a tight bun.

But soon, Leyna had come to dread classes with Professor Fry. At first, the woman was simply cold in demeanour, never smiling at Leyna like she did with the other students and withholding praise. Leyna had initially chalked this up to something she had done to annoy the professor and had doubled down on her efforts in healing class to make up for it. But it wasn’t long before the professor became more callous, singling Leyna out in class, criticising her work, and picking on her in front of her peers with difficult questions she couldn’t possibly answer.

Thankfully, she had been free of Professor Fry since fifth year. If the rumours could be believed, once Leyna had dropped the class, the professor quickly found a new student to pick on. And though Leyna would never have to deal with the professor again, seeing her in the corridors or at mealtimes still made her stomach churn.

Quinn was wasting her time by telling her to study anything to do with the subject.

“I’m done with healing, and I’m done with Professor Fry,” she snapped, her voice brisker than she intended.

“But is Professor Fry done with you?” asked Quinn.

“What are you suggesting? None of my oral exam questions will be related to healing, which means Professor Fry won’t be on the panel. It has nothing to do with her.”

“If you say so,” said Quinn, moving away.

Leyna shuffled the pages in front of her, but she couldn’t concentrate on the notes. She chewed the end of the quill, thinking back to her first lesson in healing seven years ago. Professor Fry had assigned them a worksheet, where they had been tasked with describing their future aspirations and how healing class would help them achieve their goals. Feeling optimistic, Leyna had sat at the desk and poured her heart out onto the page, writing freely about her dreams of becoming a wizard and returning to Rutherford Castle to serve the king. Having compared her thoughts with those of the classmates sitting beside her, she was sure that her aspirations were not far-fetched, but Professor Fry had wasted no time in snatching up the sheet and reading it out loud in front of the whole class. She still remembered how her lip had trembled as she tried not to cry in front of her new classmates as the professor ridiculed her. Afterwards, Mary had even turned in her chair once the professor was out of earshot and asked under her breath: “Why does she hate you so much?”

Leyna hadn’t known why, but she had resolved to gain the professor’s approval, working all the harder. In contrast to her other subjects, where she was exceeding expectations, she was never good enough for Professor Fry, and her grades continued to be poor. As the years passed, her new strategy became to make herself small to escape the attention of the woman, and she would count down the minutes until class would end.

Riddled with self-doubt, she eventually lost confidence in her healing skills altogether.

It took her years to learn the reason for the bullying. Shortly after she had dropped the class, Jeffrey took her aside and said that his uncle, who worked as a clerk at the Guild, had overheard Professor Fry complaining about her. It turned out that Professor Fry resented her for having what she perceived as an unfair advantage over the other students due to her Rutherford bloodline.

“But I think she’s just a bitter hag,” Jeffrey had said, patting Leyna on the back as if to comfort her. “Fry’s just jealous ’cause she never got famous like she wanted. Reckon she fancies herself a cut above the rest. But if you ask me, she’s not even a good teacher.”

“Thanks,” Leyna had said, feeling dazed as she tried to figure out how she felt about the revelation that Professor Fry hated her because of her heritage. It made her confused, angry, but mostly…relieved.

After all, she couldn’t help that she was a member of the Royal family, and up to this point, she had felt nothing but pride to be a part of the great Rutherford line, however distant her connection. In hindsight, it hadn’t mattered that she was studious, or that she had worked as hard as any other student to gain magical knowledge and skills. For reasons of her own, Professor Fry had fixated on Leyna and nearly jeopardised her career. She was convinced that the only reason Fry hadn’t failed her was to prolong her misery.

The fire was crackling merrily, a contrast to her despondent memories. She hoped Quinn was wrong about the viva containing healing questions. With six subjects, the range of material that the examiners could draw upon was overwhelming, and preparing for her final exam seemed futile enough without adding healing to the list.

It occurred to her that Quinn may have been trying to rattle her confidence in the lead-up to the viva. But would he stoop so low? She wouldn’t put it past some of the other students—the stakes were high at the Guild, and many of the students were competitive enough to use any advantage to get ahead. But it was hard to say if Quinn Volak was the sort of person to do that. She had never really understood him; he was closed off and curt at the best of times.

Taking a deep breath, she resigned herself to a thin textbook called Demon Law 101: The things you should never do, and what to avoid before you do them. There was no point wasting any time on healing—she would never make up for seven years of learning in such a short period of time. But demon law was her favourite subject, and although it was purely theory-based with no practical component, it was interesting because so much of the material discussed topics that were dangerous or forbidden.

But tonight, she couldn’t even concentrate on demon law. She glanced at her other textbooks, wondering what questions they would ask her. It would be different for each seventh year depending on their subjects, but for her, they were demon law, magical combat, magical defence, enchantments, general charms, and Rosarian history. The last subject covered the war between the kingdoms of Rosaria and Kormend, which had ended thirty years ago. The peace that was forged between the kingdoms had allowed for prosperity to return to Rosaria in the decades since, but many Rosarians still remembered the war and commemorated the lives of its soldiers and wizards who had perished in the battles.

The textbooks were piled around her as if to wall out the surrounding noise. She yearned to abandon the books and join her classmates in celebrating—it looked like they were having more fun than she was. She was too stressed by the viva to absorb anything useful but also too stressed to not study.

The hours ticked by, and the fire burnt low as the common room began to empty. Some students remained, either draped over furniture sleeping, or chatting quietly in small groups. In one corner, Grace was giggling as she played a game of Ruffles with Quinn and Mary.

Leyna had stopped any pretence of studying half an hour ago and was watching the card game from the depths of her armchair, wondering why she was always on the outside looking in. She contemplated asking Grace if she could join in, but there were quite a few students playing, and Mary, in particular, was intimidating at the best of times, so on the whole, it was easier just to stay where she was.

The card game ended with Grace tossing her cards down in front of her, her face happy and flushed with excitement even though she had clearly lost to Quinn again. Suddenly, Grace looked up and caught her eye, causing Leyna to quickly look back down at the parchment in her hands.

But Grace had seen her looking.

“Leyna, come join us!” she cried, waving her over. “We’re starting a new round.”

“That’s okay, I need to study,” Leyna called back, trying to make a show of focusing on her work.

“Don’t be silly,” replied Grace, standing up. “You’ve been at it for hours; you deserve a break. Come join us!”

Leyna was still looking down at a page titled Siege of Rutherford Castle, but she couldn’t stop the smile that crept over her face at Grace’s insistence.

“You may as well,” came Mary’s superior voice. “She’ll make you play, either way.”

Uncertain, Leyna remained in her chair, but Grace was already gliding over, her brown hair bouncing around her shoulders.

“Come on, it’ll be fun!” She beamed, taking Leyna by the hand and coaxing her out of the armchair, laughing the entire time. “Get up!”

“Alright, alright,” she conceded, abandoning her station and allowing herself to be pulled across the room. The others were sitting on the floor in a circle at a low coffee table which was littered with pistachio shells, wooden cups, and metal goblets. An unlabelled glass bottle held a gold-coloured liquid.

Grace followed her gaze and held up the bottle, giggling profusely. “It’s water! Do you want some?”

“Er, sure,” said Leyna, accepting the drink that Grace poured, which was almost certainly brandy. She took a sip. It was cheap brandy.

“Who’s dealing?” asked Mary in a businesslike tone, but her words slurred together, ruining the effect.

“I am,” Quinn said, and began flicking cards around the circle until everyone had been dealt a hand.

Leyna looked down at her cards uncertainly, but in the end, recalling the rules of Ruffles was easy. She had played it many times when she lived at the castle, and almost managed to win the second round—although the way the women were giggling made her wonder if her near triumph was more owing to their inability to focus.

By the end of the third game, she’d had more than a few drinks, and the cheap brandy was starting to grow on her. They protested when Quinn moved the bottle out of their reach, and since he was taller than all of them, there was no point in trying to retrieve it from the tall bookshelf he’d placed it on. Leyna did take some satisfaction, however, in seeing Grace levitate the brandy bottle back down behind Quinn’s back when he wasn’t looking, and Grace and Mary’s giggling had been so constant throughout the night that he was none the wiser.

Meanwhile, Leyna was enjoying herself, even managing to beat Quinn, who had won the earlier rounds.

“Not bad,” he said, reshuffling the cards.

“Thanks,” said Leyna, keeping her voice neutral. “Are we playing again?”

“Sure.” Quinn shrugged, but Grace began to pull on his sleeve in protest.

“No, Quinn,” she whined. “Let’s do something else. Please?”

“Like what?”

It was Mary who answered, her eyes alight with mischief. “Let’s do a prank.”

“Yes, we could do something wild!” said Grace, clapping her hands together.

“What, tonight?” asked Leyna, setting her drink down. A prank was the opposite of what she should be doing. It was bad enough that she was drinking when she should be studying. A little alcohol may have improved her performance in Ruffles, but with every minute that passed, the common room was becoming more dreamlike, revealing she’d had more than a little.

“Of course!”

“But why tonight?” she asked, looking to the others. “We haven’t even had our last exam. Senior prank always happens after the viva.”

“I guess this year will be different.” Mary grinned. “And I have the perfect idea.”

“What?” they asked in unison.

She leant forward conspiratorially. “We break into Headmaster Emsworth’s office.”

Mary’s idea was a simple one. She wanted them to enter Headmaster Emsworth’s office, steal his furniture, and reassemble it all on the front lawn outside the Guild.

“Just think of everyone’s reaction when they wake up to see his desk and chair outside the front door! It’ll be hilarious!”

“Hasn’t this already been done?” Quinn sighed. “With Professor Marlow’s office?”

“No,” retorted Mary, crossing her arms. “You’re thinking of four years ago when they moved Professor Marlow’s favourite chair out of the staff room. But that was just an armchair, and they only took it as far as the boys’ bathroom on the second floor. This is much bigger. We’ll take all of Master Emsworth’s furniture—desk, chair, books, rug, and everything down to the last inkpot and quill, and set it up on the front lawn outside the Guild.”

“In the middle of the night?”

“Yes.”

“And I suppose you expect me to drag the desk down two flights of stairs?” asked Quinn. “His office is on the second floor.”

“Nonsense, just let Grace do it,” said Mary candidly, slipping on her shoes. “She’s a whiz with charms, so she’ll be able to lift a desk easily.”

“I don’t know,” said Grace, biting her lip. “I’m sure I can levitate one end, but I don’t think I could manage the whole desk. It’s probably heavy and will be awkward to balance.”

Mary shrugged. “You and Quinn, then.”

From what Leyna could tell, Quinn hadn’t had much to drink, and she was half hoping that he would see reason and call the whole thing off. Students weren’t allowed outside their dormitory afterhours—and she couldn’t imagine what the punishment would be if they were caught wandering the halls, drunk and lugging the headmaster’s furniture. It could even lead to expulsion.

“Are we really doing this?” asked Leyna in a low voice intended only for Quinn.

The wizard shrugged, the dim light highlighting his hollow cheeks and defiant nose. “Sure.”

“But it’s breaking the rules,” Leyna hissed. “Doesn’t that bother you?”

“Not really.”

“Ready to go?” asked Grace, appearing beside them and knocking over an umbrella stand by accident. “Oops.” She giggled as Leyna steadied her.

One moment, Leyna was still slipping on her boots hesitantly, contemplating abandoning the group and staying in the dormitory, and the next, she was creeping along the corridors with Grace, Mary, and Quinn. After the stifling heat of the common room, the corridors were refreshingly cool. The hour was late, and the torches had been extinguished, and the only source of light was the pale glow of moonlight from the windows and the magic blue orbs that they had summoned. Leyna held her hand up and gently encouraged her light orb to float upwards, where it bobbed above her as she walked, washing the high ceilings in a soft blue.

Perhaps it was the effects of the drink, but time seemed to move differently, and before she knew it, Leyna found herself on the second floor in the teachers’ wing.

A part of her still couldn’t believe that she was doing this. She normally never broke the rules, instead strove to uphold them. And yet, for some reason, she felt drawn to the group of wizards. And though she had her misgivings about Quinn and didn’t much care for Mary’s haughtiness, she gravitated towards Grace’s bubbly manner.

It was good to be a part of something, and like a wolf that had found its pack, she relished moving through the corridors with the other three wizards. Perhaps it was all in her head, but in this moment, they were no longer just her classmates— they were also her comrades, and perhaps even her friends. Despite her fear of being caught, it felt good to throw caution to the wind for once and take a risk.

It was a new sensation, one that was thrilling, and made her feel alive.

“Hey!” cried Mary as Grace tripped on her own feet and clutched at Quinn for support.

“Sorry!” she moaned, her reply too loud to be a whisper.

“Shh!” pleaded Leyna, conscious of the noise they were making. Anyone in the corridors was bound to hear them.

It felt like no time had passed when they arrived outside Headmaster Emsworth’s office. Mary steered Grace to the door and urged her to unlock it.

“Why me?” complained Grace, crossing her arms in protest. It was unusual to see her looking stern, and the effect was somewhat adorable.

“Er…because you’re easily the best at charms in the whole Guild?”

“Oh, that’s right!” Grace laughed, her face lighting back up. She began to work the lock, teasing a wisp of magic inside the keyhole, and she didn’t see Mary roll her eyes at Quinn. To his credit, he didn’t return the expression.

Leyna leant against the stone wall while they waited, which was softened by the edge of a tapestry. Feeling content, she closed her eyes for a moment, but it made the world spin. The spinning grew faster and faster until she couldn’t bear it any longer and had to snap her eyes back open. To her relief, the sensation stopped immediately, her surroundings still.

Click.

“Got it!” Grace smiled, pushing on the door handle, and then they were inside.

The office was richly furnished with paintings; thick rugs; upholstered chairs; and a solid mahogany desk bearing papers, books, and quills. Mary took charge, giving Quinn and Grace instructions as they half levitated, half carried the desk out of the room.

“What if it doesn’t fit out the door?” said Grace, eyeing the doorframe.

“Should’ve thought of that sooner,” groaned Quinn, his voice strained from the heavy weight he bore. Leyna tried to help him, but he shook his head. “Don’t—please. It’s better with one person. You’ll get hurt.”

Sniffing at the snub, Leyna moved away and began to wander around the room. She had only sat in the headmaster’s office on two occasions over the years, and it felt strange to move about it so freely now as an intruder. Her eyes scanned over books and parchment, trolling for anything interesting. Perhaps the student files were kept here? That would be interesting—to see what the headmaster had to say about the aspiring wizards.

Off to the side, she idly tried the handle of a closet, but it was locked.

Curiosity piqued, she began to fiddle with the lock, muttering as she weaved a charm into the locking mechanism. Charms may have been Grace’s forte, but she had always found locks had come naturally to her—there was something logical about them that made sense.

But her attempt to open the lock failed. Odd.

Why would a simple closet have such a difficult lock on it? She glanced behind her. The only person left in the room was Quinn, and even he was only partially visible as he pushed the end of the desk out of the office, his normally pale face now red with exertion. She wondered why he insisted on carrying the desk, instead of casting a levitation charm like Grace had.

Men, she thought, turning to scan the leftover furniture in the room, the most obvious of which were the three hardwood chairs that had accompanied the desk. One of these was the headmaster’s tall, throne-like seat, which was ornately carved with falcons. She could probably take all three downstairs at the same time using magic, but with Quinn and the large desk blocking the doorway, she had a couple of minutes to spare.

With the others preoccupied, Leyna turned back to the closet door. Taking a calming breath, she tried to open the lock again, this time feeling the tumbler carefully. Her charm pushed the pins away gently, holding them out of the way until she found the problem: the lock was enchanted, and the magical protective layer had thwarted her first attempt. The headmaster had gone to a lot of trouble to secure a closet.

Overcoming the enchantment would have been difficult for most of her classmates, but for Leyna, it was as natural as reaching out to draw a curtain. She pulled the protective charm aside and was met with the satisfying click of the lock mechanism.

The door creaked noisily as she pushed it open, revealing that the closet wasn’t really a closet after all. Instead, the narrow door led to a dark space beyond. She gestured at her light orb, and it floated inside, illuminating a small room that had a disused smell. A tingling sensation crawled along the back of her neck, and she shuddered. Something about the room was wrong, and it wasn’t just the fact that she was an intruder.

I shouldn’t be here, she thought, her heart pounding. Every fibre of her being was ready to flee, except her feet, which had a mind of their own and took her deeper inside. The room had a small desk, much smaller than the one that the others were moving downstairs. There was also a simple wooden chair and shelves full of books that seemed to slip out of sight whenever she tried to focus on them. Instead, her eyes were drawn to the desk, which was completely bare, without so much as a quill or inkpot, save for a single object.

A rectangular paper package tied with string. When she touched the chair, two wall sconces she hadn’t noticed burst alight with green flame, making her jump.

I need to leave. Now.

She tried to tear her eyes away from the package, but she couldn’t.

Feeling compelled by a force she did not understand, she sat down at the desk, which was layered with thick dust. She swiped a finger along the table, but the dust remained undisturbed.

Odd.

The package in front of her could only be a book, and her fingers shook as she began to undo the bow.

No. Stop. Leave now. Logically, she knew she shouldn’t be opening the package, shouldn’t be in this hidden room, and shouldn’t be in Headmaster Emsworth’s office in the middle of the night like a thief.

But I am here. It was her voice, but it whispered slyly to her as if it weren’t her own. May as well have a peek.

She fumbled at the string and managed to knot it, making it impossible to untie.

Open it, came the voice, hissing and insistent in her head. With a whimper, Leyna ripped at the paper packaging, her fingers clawing until she had unearthed a dark, heavy tome. There was no title—no friendly or informative words—and yet she knew with certainty what it contained.

Open. Open. Open.

The knotted string made it impossible to open the book, and yet it seemed urgent that she find a way. Dread filled her. It was as if her life depended on being able to open the book. She yanked at the coarse string, trying to snap it, but it only dug into her fingers. Desperate, she leant forward and gnawed at it with her teeth until it finally tore, and the book sprang open, the flurry of pages causing air to whip her hair away from her face.

Good. Now, read.

Her eyes scanned the pages where the tome sat open. The left page was full of text, the script sharp and angled as if the writer had been tormented or angry as he wrote it. The summoning text was obvious—it was boxed in with solid, unhappy borders, and the words there were all printed in capital letters.

Leyna gritted her teeth. No, this is wrong. I shouldn’t be here.

The page on the right held an illustration of the demon that would be conjured forth if she read the spell out loud, but she couldn’t look at it. She tried to look, prepared for a drawing of a creature too hideous to be of this world, but no matter how much she struggled, her eyes would always slide off the page, and her focus would shift back to the start of the summoning spell, locking onto the first word.

Read, encouraged the voice, sweet and threatening. Read.

Leyna’s lips parted, but she hesitated, on the verge of speaking the first word—the opening syntax that would begin the spell and commit her to complete it. It was a long spell, the summoning words taking up most of the page.

Read.

She began to breathe fast, her chest rising in short bursts as she tried to tear her eyes away from the page. Away from the danger.

Read! Now!

The words came tumbling out, almost too fast for her to manage. She couldn’t slow down, could only scan the page left to right, her tongue trying not to trip over the complicated syllables. One mistake, and the contract would be flawed.

One mistake, and anything could happen. She could die—or worse.

She was halfway through the spell now, and she could feel the pull of energy from the Other Side as she called the demon forth from their world. It was long past the point of return. The demon would appear now, no matter what.

Her only hope was to complete the spell correctly. That way, the demon would be under her control—at least, that was how most contracts worked. But even in her demon law classes, the focus had been on the relationship between magic and the Other Side, and she had only learnt about demon summonings in passing, as they were strictly forbidden in all kingdoms. Demons were dangerous—they were ill-intentioned, thrived on chaos, and would seek to misinterpret a contract at every opportunity to suit their lust for destruction.

“Leyna?” called a voice.

She doubled down on her concentration, trying to block out the distraction as she continued with the incantation. Her own voice sounded foreign to her as she spoke the words out loud.

She was near the end of the spell now.

“Leyna?” came the voice again, louder this time.

It was Quinn. She would have cursed if she could, but she couldn’t break off now. The spell had to be completed fully and safely—their lives all depended on it.

Dimly, she heard footsteps behind her, and it took all her effort to continue reading.

“What are you doing? Shit—” Quinn’s voice broke off, but it was too late.

She had fumbled the last sentence, gotten the words wrong. With no other choice, she hurriedly finished the spell as best as she could, hoping the ending hadn’t been vital.

And then it was done.

With a shaky breath, she tried to close the book, but it was too heavy for her. Or maybe she just didn’t have the willpower because Quinn appeared by her side and reached past her to slam the book shut.

“What the hell are you doing?” he demanded. His tone was angry, but his dark eyes betrayed his fear.

“I…I don’t…I…” She shook her head, at a loss for words.

Suddenly, a loud snap sounded against the desk, making them flinch. The book had flung itself open, back to the page that it had been on. The words were aglow, the previously black ink now shining with a green light that hurt her eyes.

“What the hell have you done?” groaned Quinn, grabbing her arm and pulling her back.

“Let go of me,” she snapped, wrenching her arm free. “This is your fault. You interrupted my summoning.”

“Summoning? You mean you summoned a demon? Shit.”

“Look, I didn’t mean to, alright? But—”

A hissing sound interrupted their argument. In unison, they both turned back to look at the book. A faint bubbling could be heard as the words slid slowly off the page, the ink congealing on the wooden desk. Taking a step forward, Leyna found that she could now view the illustration.

Her eyes widened at the twisted and grotesque form depicted in the drawing. It was unlike the small, dog-size demons that ran around on all fours that she had learnt about in demon law, which were supposedly more tractable and had been frequently used in the wars. This was something different—it was bi-pedal and almost humanlike in form.

A loud, unearthly roar shook the room as a blinding light appeared, causing Leyna to stumble backwards into Quinn, who caught her by the shoulders. The white light began to swirl rapidly until a portal had formed in front of them, releasing thick, dark smoke that smelt of sulphur.

“Don’t look at it!” said Quinn, and Leyna tore her eyes away from the portal just as the smoke began to clear. It was crucial to never to look into a portal—not that she had expected to ever see one with her own eyes. Her demon law professor had warned them that a mortal who dared to look through one at the monstrous world beyond would go mad and lose more than their wits.

She heard the sound of raspy clicking coming from the portal as Quinn dragged her out of the room. They were both coughing from the smoke as they returned to the office, which seemed empty with the furniture missing. A dark rectangular imprint on the rug was the only evidence of where the heavy desk had been.

“What’s going on?” asked Mary, entering from the corridor outside, Grace in tow. She wrinkled her nose. “We heard a noise. And what’s that smell?”

“A demon,” said Quinn, his voice stern. “Mary—run and get help. Fetch the headmaster. Go.”

Mary paled but left almost immediately, and Leyna couldn’t help but be impressed by Quinn’s command.

“Quinn—” began Grace, but he cut her off.

“Grace, I don’t want you here. It’s not safe. Go. Go now.”

Before Grace could reply, slow, heavy footsteps sounded from the other room.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Flinching at each footstep, Leyna turned to see a tall, thin figure appear in the doorway of the secret room. It stooped to fit under the frame, and when it straightened, it towered over them. A scream caught in her throat as she beheld the creature—she had been mistaken if she thought it looked anything like a human. Its skin might have once been pink, but now it was grey and tinged with blue, and the eyes were lifeless and unseeing, pale and milky as if it were blind.

But she knew that it could see her with the sharpness of a hawk because it pointed directly at her.

She was rooted to the spot as she waited to see what the demon would do. Would it submit to her as its master? Perhaps she should have stepped forth and said something authoritative, but it wouldn’t have made a difference—the contract either guaranteed her safety, or it would leave her at the mercy of the demon. And she didn’t think she could have mustered a convincing command even if she wanted to.

The demon opened its mouth, which was unnaturally wide and full of razor-sharp teeth. A clicking noise sounded, mixed with a gurgling that made her shiver.

No human could understand the demon tongue—but she didn’t need to.

Its arm was still stretched out, pointing at her, and she could hear the demon inside her head, a hissing that spoke in her own voice: Little wizard. How you tremble. Is this your first summoning?

“Leyna, what’s happening?” asked Grace behind her.

“Get back, Grace,” came Quinn’s voice. “Let us handle it.”

Us? thought Leyna. Since when had she and Quinn been a team?

Meanwhile, the demon was waiting for her to answer, its pale eyes haunting. How did it know that this was her first summoning? She gave a small nod, wondering if she would die today.

The demon made another short clicking noise. Pity, it hissed.

“Pity?” asked Leyna out loud. “W-what’s a p-pity?”

A pity for you. You were doing so well for a novice. If not for your error, you would not have to die now.

By the time the clicking had come to an end, her whole body was trembling.

“Leyna, what’s going on?” asked Quinn.

Petrified, she couldn’t move—could only wait, terrified, as the demon tilted its head at her. Suddenly, moving so fast that she barely registered it, the demon leapt at her, seizing her by the legs and wrenching her closer. Her head and shoulders slammed against the hard floor before she could scream, and then she was breathless.

People were yelling and screaming, but she couldn’t make sense of anything, could only watch in horror as the clawed hands dragged her across the floor. She tried to roll onto her stomach, flailing, but it was useless. Briefly, she was able to grab onto the doorframe, clutching at it for a moment, the tendons in her fingers screaming in protest as the demon forcefully tugged her by the leg.

She caught a glimpse of Quinn leaping towards her, reaching to seize her hand as he landed heavily on the floor.

And then she was yanked into the darkness of the secret room. Sheer terror engulfed her. It was pitch black, and she couldn’t see anything. She could only hear screaming, which was loud in her ears. The sound was piercing and terrifying, and she realised that it was coming from her lungs.

The dragging stopped. Her world was black, consisting only of the cold floor under her body, and a white pain that grew in her leg as searing-hot hands burnt through her clothing. She tried to kick her legs free of the monster’s grip, but its clawed hands held tight.

Suddenly, a blue orb appeared, illuminating the room with a bright glow.

Raising her head, Leyna saw a tall wizard standing there.

“Quinn,” she murmured.

Propping herself up on her elbows, she whipped her head around to try and get a glimpse of the demon. The last thing she saw was a wide mouth with ugly triangular teeth hovering near her calf. A second later, the demon snapped its jaws around her leg, the teeth piercing her flesh. She fell forward and screamed as the demon shook its head like a dog, tearing at the skin and muscles there.

New voices were yelling, and she was dimly aware of flashes of magic lighting up the room as more people entered, but she only caught a glimpse of their feet as, blinded from the pain, the demon tore at her leg savagely.

Out of nowhere, a fireball flew overhead and landed nearby, the heat wave washing over her. The demon gave an unearthly roar, releasing her leg in the process. Gasping, she tried to shift her weight so she could cast a spell at the demon behind her, but something had fallen on her, and she couldn’t get her arm free.

No, not something. Someone had fallen on her, and the weight of the body had trapped her. She tried to lift her head to see, but the body blocked her vision, and she only saw the legs of a table. She began to sob against the hard floor, convinced that the person who had fallen on her was now dead.

But then the weight shifted and the person lifted themselves off, and she was free.

Leyna couldn’t bring herself to get up, however. Hot spells crashed around her, narrowly missing her, and she kept her head down and eyes squeezed shut, praying that the newcomers had subdued the demon, that it was all over.

But it wasn’t.

The demon grunted as it seized her leg again, and she cried out as excruciating pain ripped through her.

Whatever the wizards were doing to stop the demon wasn’t working. Every time a spell was cast, it would only bring her a brief reprieve: the gnawing at her leg would stop, at least for a while, as hot spells boomed around her, making the room flicker and glow with light.

And yet, the minutes ticked by, and time and time again, the demon would return to her leg. Pain exploded every time its teeth found her limb, gnawing at the bone and flesh there.

By the time the headmaster arrived, she had lost consciousness.

Chapter Five

Medical Bay

LEYNA OPENED HER EYES to see a stark-white ceiling. Tilting her head down, she saw that she was tucked into a bed with white sheets. At the end of the metal bed frame sat a slender man with an angled face and sun-kissed hair. It was the wizard from the medical tent.

“Finally awake?” he asked, resting an arm on the metal frame.

Her mouth was parched, and she had to swallow several times before speaking, but the words were croaky. “Where am I?”

“In the Guild’s medical bay.”

She cleared her throat, and the wizard stood and offered her a glass of water, which she drained eagerly. He then handed her a teaspoon laden with a crystalline gold syrup.

“What’s this?” she asked, taking the spoon uncertainly.

“Honey. It will help.”

She ate the honey, which tasted unusually bitter, before turning back to the wizard. “How long have I been—”

“Allow me to fill you in,” he interjected, beginning to tick a list off with his fingers. “Let’s see now…you’ve been here for eight days, and you’ve been unconscious for most of it—partly due to trauma, but mostly due to the sleeping draughts we’ve given you. Your left leg is in a bad way, but Master Emsworth and I have done all we can to save it.”

He paused. “Are you following me so far?”

“Yes. How’s my leg?”

“It’s fine.”

“Just fine?” she asked. Something about his tone suggested that it was not fine.

The wizard tilted his head, which caused the hair of his side part to fall across his forehead. His words were slow and careful as he regarded her. “Do you remember what happened to your leg?”

“Yes,” she said quietly. “I remember.”

If only she could forget. Memories flashed of the demon in the office. Her nightmares had been full of screams as a blue-skinned demon stalked the school, slaughtering hundreds of sleeping students and teachers in their beds. She had also dreamt of a swirling, smoky portal that led to a world too deranged to even set eyes on—except that in her numerous nightmares, she had dared to look. She had looked through to the world beyond and lost her mind.

“Are you alright?” prompted the wizard, breaking through her thoughts.

“Yes,” she said. “What happened with the demon?”

“The headmaster fought it…and won. It was sent back to its world.”

Leyna swallowed. “Did anyone die?”

“No, thankfully.”

She let out a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding.

“So, how is my leg?”

“Well, I have done all I can to save it. I’d say it’s looking better than anyone could have hoped—but whether you can walk remains to be seen.”

She felt like something hard and cold had dropped into her stomach.

“W-walk?”

The man pressed his lips into a thin line and nodded down at the foot of the bed. The sinking feeling in her stomach increased as she followed his gaze down to the outline of her body beneath the sheets, and it occurred to her that she might not have a leg anymore.

“Is it…is it still there? Or is it amputated?”

“It’s still there. We were able to restore it, for the most part. Do you want to see?”

“Yes,” said Leyna immediately, and began to pull the sheet back, but pain shot down her body as she leant forward, short and sharp, causing her to cry out. The man rose swiftly and moved to stand by the bed, gently pushing her back onto the pillow.

“Try not to sit up yet. You need to rest. Allow me.” With a swift motion, he pulled the sheet back.

She was wearing a hospital gown, white like the rest of the room except for the pale-pink pattern. The air felt cool through the thin fabric, which flowed down to her ankles. She had both her feet, and they looked perfectly normal.

Leyna let out a shaky sigh of relief to find that she could wriggle her toes.

“That’s a good sign,” said the wizard, watching her tilt her feet back and forth.

“They’re fine,” she exclaimed, laughing in astonishment. “My feet are fine. I can move them!”

“Yes, that’s a good sign,” said the wizard again, his tone neutral. He reached down towards her foot, his fingers brushing the skin there as he took hold of the nightgown’s hem. It looked as if he was about to lift the fabric up.

She tensed at the intimate gesture and opened her mouth to protest. But then she noticed that he was looking at her, waiting for permission to do exactly that—to lift the gown away and expose her legs. Her stomach sank as she realised why.

“Th-there’s more?” she asked, eyeing the outline of her legs through the gown. Surely, if her feet were normal, then both her legs were fine as well?

“Yes.”

“Show me.”

Much slower than he had been with the bedsheets, the man lifted the hem away with great care. Travelling down the side of her gown was a high split, which was uneven as if it had been cut with shears or scissors. The wizard’s hands moved deftly, parting the fabric easily to reveal her legs, all the way to the tops of her thighs.

Catching sight of her legs, Leyna’s throat constricted, making it difficult to swallow.

The right leg was perfectly normal—the skin smooth and pale.

But the left was nothing like she remembered. Both her legs lay straight on the mattress, with a slight bend in the knee, but the left had a moth-eaten appearance as if chunks of it had gone missing, and the skin was heavily scarred. A motley of white, pink, and angry reds covered her misshapen leg.

It was ugly.

But at least she had a leg. It was more than she could have hoped for, and for a moment, she wondered if it would make for an impressive battle scar. But then she remembered the real reason for the injury, which was not from a battle at all, but a result of her own foolishness. It was not a story she would ever wish to tell, and the embarrassing memory made her want to throw up.

“Leyna?” prompted the wizard, his tone not unkind.

She didn’t speak, worried that she would cry if she did. Fighting back the tears, all she could do was stare with lips pressed together at the new limb. The top of her thigh was plump and unscathed, and the bare foot was normal, but everything between her ankle and her knee was scarred and hideous. What would her mother say? And if she ever met a potential suitor, how would she explain it? Though unmarried, she’d had enough flings in her early years at the Guild to know that this was not something that could be hidden from a partner for long.

Damn what my future husband thinks, Leyna thought, trying to bolster her spirits. I’m the one who has to live with this.

Deep down, however, she did care. One of her goals in becoming a huskarl had been to achieve independence from the pressure to marry, which was partly financial but mostly parental. This career path would secure her the kind of stability that marriage couldn’t compete with, as well as the status and recognition that she longed for.

Sadly, despite her achievements throughout her years at the Wizarding Guild, her mother’s desperation to see her settled had not diminished. In fact, it had only increased, which was evidenced in the letters she had sent to Leyna over the years. The letters were usually presented as a general inquiry into her health, but, in reality, they were thinly veiled attempts at matchmaking.

And she did wish to get married eventually—just not now, and not for anything less than having found true love.

The minutes stretched until, finally, the wizard broke the silence, his head tilted as he appraised her. “What are you thinking?”

“I…I don’t know what to think.” This was an opportune time to express her gratitude to him, but she was too shocked by the state of her leg to find the words.

“I can understand if you feel upset,” he said carefully. “And this may not be of any consolation, but what you see now is a vast improvement from when you first came in.”

“Of course,” she said quickly, not wanting to fathom what that must have looked like. She knew that she was lucky to still have both her legs, even if the wizard had the grace not to say so.

“And you’re due for another round of healing in the morning. It will help with the residual pain.”

“And will it help with the appearance?” she asked.

“No, I’m afraid not. Your leg was broken…The bone was shattered and had to be reset…the muscles remade…the skin and vasculature regenerated…I’m afraid that’s the best we could do. I tried to improve the skin today, but I feel we’ve reached the limit of my abilities and what your body can cope with.”

Leyna shut her eyes. “I’ve seen enough. Cover it, please.”

She heard the rustle of fabric as the sheets were laid back over her.

“Your parents visited,” said the man matter-of-factly, his tone lighthearted as if they had been in the middle of idle chitchat. As if he were trying to divert her attention from her leg. “As have your friends.”

She perked up. “Which friends?” She generally got along with everyone in her class, but she was touched that any of her classmates had cared enough to visit.

The wizard gave her a small smile. “The girl with the dark brown hair…the bubbly one.”

“Grace?”

“Could be. And Quinn was here, as well.”

“Quinn?” she asked. “What was he doing here?”

“I can only imagine he was making sure that you were alright. You gave everyone a scare, you know. And he was here for himself, as well.”

Leyna scoffed before she could stop herself. “Yes, well, I imagine he was solely here for himself. Perhaps visiting me helped to dissolve some of his guilt.”

She was thinking of the Renegade spell Quinn had used on her in the maze, as well as the break into Master Emsworth’s office, a prank she should never have gone along with. What was I thinking?

The man gave her a funny look. “Actually, I meant that he was here for injuries of his own. Quinn sustained severe burns to his hands and forearms. From what I understand, he tried to pull the demon off you.”

“Oh.” Leyna looked away, embarrassed at the pettiness of her statement.

“His hands are fully healed, with minimal scarring—in case you were thinking of asking,” added the wizard.

“Oh yes,” she said, trying to recover. “That’s good to know—that his hands are well, I mean.”

An awkward silence passed as she searched for something to say. Peering around the room, she saw five other beds, all vacant. Several candles were burning low on a nearby cabinet, and the chair the wizard had been sitting on was draped with a blanket. The smell of antiseptic, and perhaps vinegar, filled the air.

“What time is it?” she asked.

“The late hours,” said the wizard, returning to his chair and draping the blanket over his legs. “Everyone is asleep.”

“But you’re not asleep,” she pointed out.

“No, I’m not.”

“How long have you been here?”

“A little while.”

“Why?”

“Keeping an eye on you. You’ve had nightmares.”

“And you’ve been sitting in that chair all night?”

The man laughed. “Actually, I’ve been sitting in this chair every night. Although, when Healer Helene isn’t here, I’ve been sleeping on that other bed. But let’s keep that our little secret—she has a no-shoes-on-bed policy, you know.”

Leyna nearly smiled at his humour. But the image of her scarred leg, a reminder of the prank gone wrong and of a demon with ashen skin, filled her with despair. Another thought occurred to her.

“Wait…you said I’ve been here for eight days? What about my viva voce? My final exam?”

“What about it?”

“It was supposed to be a couple of days ago. Does that mean I’ve missed it?”

He shrugged. “I suppose it does.”

She inhaled sharply. That meant that she had failed, and the Wizarding Guild’s rules were clear: she would be required to repeat the entire seventh year all over again. It would be another year from home, and another year of waiting, before she could finally leave the Guild and begin her life.

But there were no second chances at the Guild—and she didn’t expect that they would make an exception for her, especially not when the reason she’d missed the exam was because she’d broken into the headmaster’s office.

It was all too much, and she felt her face crumple as she tried and failed to hold back the tears, which rolled freely down her cheeks.

“There, there,” said the man reassuringly. “It will be alright. Try and sleep.”

Leyna wiped away the hot tears with her sleeve, but fresh ones replaced them. It had been a long time since she’d let herself cry, but for some reason, she felt comfortable doing so in front of the wizard.

“I’m a failure,” she said in a low undertone, the words sounding pitiful even as she said them.

To her surprise, the man only chuckled.

“Leyna, it’s really not so bad as how it may seem now.”

“What isn’t so bad?” she demanded, desperate for his statement to be true.

“Any of it. It’s just an exam.”

“You’re wrong. It’s not ‘just an exam’. Don’t you understand? I’ll need to repeat the whole year!” Her voice was growing more high-pitched with every word.

“Is that really so bad?”

“Yes.”

The man cocked his head. “Because from an outside perspective, your present situation is good, given the circumstances.”

“How so?”

“Well, for starters, you’re here—alive and well.”

She wasn’t convinced. “I’ll wait to see if I can walk first.”

“Look,” continued the wizard. “There’s really no need to examine all your troubles at once. Try to focus on just one thing at a time.”

She wiped her face again, this time with the edge of the sheets.

“Like what?”

“Like resting. So you can recover.”

“But I don’t want to rest. In fact…” She began to sit up. “I want to walk.”

“And you can…tomorrow.” He walked around to the side of the bed and proceeded to tuck her back in as if she were a child.

When he had returned to his chair, she asked: “Do you really think I’ll be able to walk on my leg again?”

“I don’t want to make any promises.”

“But do you think I’ll be able to?”

The wizard had been looking off to the side casually, but now he turned, his eyes so piercing that she blinked twice before looking away.

“Yes, I think you will.”

Although it wasn’t a promise, his words had a profound effect on her, and she let out a deep breath as some of the tension in her chest eased. It made all the difference in the world to her that there was someone who believed that her ability to walk again was at least possible. It allowed her to hope.

“Any other questions?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, stifling a yawn. “Lots.”

He smiled as if he found her answer entertaining, which made smile lines appear around his mouth. “Try one.”

Leyna prepared to speak, but another yawn overcame her. Why was she so sleepy? She had millions of questions about what had happened in the days past, but her mind was foggy, and she couldn’t quite think of them.

“What’s your name?” she finally asked, feeling herself drift as if the bed beneath her were a fluffy cloud. It was hard to keep her eyes open.

“It hardly matters. You won’t be seeing me again.”

It was a strange reply. “Why not?”

“I’ll be gone by the time you’re awake.”

“Where are you going—?”

“Shh, just rest now.” The voice was calm and reassuring.

Her eyelids grew heavy, but even with her eyes closed, she was still aware of the wizard’s presence. She willed herself to speak, wanting to at least thank him for his help and attentiveness, but sleepiness rendered the task difficult.

Finally, just before she fell into a deep slumber, she managed to ask him: “What was it you put in the honey?”

She heard his laugh, the timbre echoing pleasantly.

“Good things to help you fall asleep.”

She made one last effort to speak. “I would still like to know…what is your name?”

If he answered, Leyna didn’t remember when she woke.

Chapter Six

Visitors

NO SOONER HAD LEYNA opened her eyes than a happy squeal pierced the air. Grace leapt up from a nearby chair and hurried over to hug her.

“Oh, Leyna, you’re awake! Thank goodness.”

“Grace? What are you doing here?”

“I came to visit you, silly,” Grace responded. “We both have.”

She gestured to the corner of the room, where Quinn was camouflaged against an ebony cabinet, his pale skin contrasting with his black hair and clothes.

“Morning.” he greeted.

“Good morning,” Leyna replied, trying to sit up.

“Here,” offered Grace, slipping a hand behind her back to help her scoot forward and fluffing the pillows. “There. How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” she lied. Her stomach roiled at the memory of the demon summoning. Her actions, however involuntary, had endangered everyone—not only Quinn, Grace and Mary, but the entire school. “How are the two of you?”

“We’re both perfectly well,” said Grace brightly, plopping herself down on the edge of the bed. “We’re just glad you’re alright.”

“Were either of you hurt by the demon?”

Grace shook her head. “Only Quinn, but he recovered quickly.”

Quinn stood awkwardly several feet away, if he was unsure whether to approach.

“How are your hands?” asked Leyna. “I heard you burnt them.”

Quinn shrugged. “Yes, but they’re fine now.”

“There’s really no need to worry,” said Grace. “They’ve been healed and they’re good as new. Show her, Quinn.”

Grace beckoned Quinn to come closer, and he obeyed, loping to stand by Leyna’s bed. Pulling back his sleeves, he held out his hands with the palms facing up.

She winced. His forearms were normal, but the skin on his palms and fingers was eerily smooth, with many of the natural lines and markings gone, including the fingerprints. The burn had probably been severe, and an image flashed in her mind of blistered, weeping skin.

“It must have been very painful,” she said, glancing up at Quinn.

He didn’t meet her eyes. “It was.”

“Can you feel with them? Do you still have your sense of touch?”

“Yes, they feel normal.”

“Good.” She exhaled and sunk back against the pillows. “And no one else was hurt?”

“Everyone is fine,” said Grace. “The duel between Headmaster Emsworth and the demon was quite something, though!”

“Oh?”

“It was scary. The battle went for a long time, and afterwards, the headmaster said the demon you summoned was nothing like the demon hounds used in the wars. It was…fearsome. I can’t imagine what would have happened if he hadn’t shown up when he did!”

Leyna didn’t want to know.

Quinn raised a surly eyebrow. “Of all the demons, you sure know how to pick them.”

Leyna’s mouth dropped. “I didn’t pick the demon. It chose me.”

Quinn didn’t reply, his eyes narrowed as if sceptical.

“I think Cornelius was the real hero,” sighed Grace dreamily, eyelashes fluttering as she leant against the bed. “Simply remarkable.”

“Cornelius?” asked Leyna. “Who’s that?”

“Why, he’s the wizard who healed you. Haven’t you met him yet?”

“Um, sort of,” she said, mulling over the name.

“He’s the handsome one.” Grace gave another wistful sigh that earned her a raised eyebrow from Quinn. “Originally, Healer Helene was going to heal Quinn’s hands, but then Cornelius came, and she said that he should do it because he would do a better job! Can you imagine that? To be that good at healing spells?”

Everyone at the Guild was familiar with Healer Helene’s protectiveness when it came to her patients, so it was indeed a testament to Cornelius’ skills that she had entrusted him to care for even one of the injured students.

“I heard he was the only one willing to heal your leg,” continued Grace.

Leyna sat up a little straighter. “Really?”

It was Quinn who answered. “Everyone else thought your leg was written off.”

“But they were wrong,” said Grace, nodding proudly. “Cornelius was with you nearly night and day trying to save it.”

“That was nice of him,” she conceded, wondering why a stranger would do that for her. She picked at a stubborn piece of lint on the covers, frowning. “Was my leg really that hopeless?”

“Helene wanted to amputate,” said Quinn, earning him a poke in the ribs from Grace. “What? It’s true.”

As Grace and Quinn bickered, it was all she could do to contain the tears that had welled up in her eyes.

It’s my fault. We nearly died, and it’s my fault.

It was time to address the elephant in the room.

“I want to apologise for the other night,” she said, raising her voice. “I shouldn’t have wandered off. It’s my fault that things got out of hand. I’m really sorry.”

“There’s no need to be—” began Grace, but Leyna cut her off.

“There is, and I’m sorry.”

“It must have been one heck of a book,” said Quinn, to which Grace shot him a warning look. “What? She’s normally so cautious.”

“It’s true,” said Leyna, interjecting before they began to argue again. “I am usually quite cautious.”

“Why did you go in there?” asked Quinn, and even Grace looked curious to hear the answer.

Leyna pressed her lips into a thin line. Had it just been curiosity? Or had it been the book of demons calling her? She shrugged, unwilling to share how powerless she had felt once she was inside the room. “I don’t know. I guess I was just curious. I thought I could handle it, but…I was in over my head.”

Quinn sniffed. “No kidding.”

“Quinn!” scolded Grace.

“What?”

“She’s sick!”

“I’m fine,” said Leyna.

“See?” Quinn put his hands in his pockets. “Leyna says she’s fine.”

Another voice interrupted their conversation.

“Alright, time to go, chop-chop. Lady Leyna has another visitor, and I need to see her before then.”

Leyna tilted her head as Cornelius strolled closer, appearing every bit a gentleman in light grey clothes. The doublet had silver buttons and the cerulean blue trim running from the collar down his chest accentuated his caramel hair. Grace was right. He was handsome.

“Bye, Leyna,” whispered Grace, rising from the bed. “And good luck with walking today! I’ll come visit you later!”

She and Quinn left, leaving Leyna and Cornelius alone in the medical bay.

“What are you doing here?” she asked. “I thought you said you were leaving.”

“True. I did say that. But then I decided my business can keep another day. And mostly, I was interested in seeing if you can walk.”

“Interested?” she echoed back. “Are you interested because you care about your patients? Or interested from a magical science perspective?”

He smiled. “Why can’t it be both? Now, are you ready to walk again?”

“Yes,” she said. “Now?”

“I’ll do one last round of healing. And then we’ll see.”

“Alright.” She hugged herself and turned to stare out the window as Cornelius pulled back the sheets. She was restless after spending so many days in bed, and the view of the pine tree outside made her yearn to be outside.

She focused on the tree, trying to ignore the hands that touched her leg. Though they weren’t unpleasant, everything about the situation felt unnatural and clinical. She followed Cornelius’ instructions—wriggling her toes, bending her knee, lifting her leg—and reported on her symptoms.

When the bright-blue healing spell began, she tried to block out everything but the dark, rough scales of the tree trunk and the green needles, which moved with the breeze like gentle whiskers. She could almost smell the fresh scent of pine, and wished there was no glass between her and the garden.

“All done,” said Cornelius, yanking her nightgown back down. “Ready to give it a try?”

She nodded, and with his help, carefully sat up, angling her body until her legs dangled over the edge of the bed. No pain so far.

“Good,” he said. “Now, I suggest you let me support you, at least until we see how you do.”

He wove an arm under hers, supporting her as she stood up, keeping all her weight on her right leg.

“Time for the first step,” he said. Go easy, now…”

“Wait!” she cried, her grip tightening on his shoulder as her breathing hitched. “Just wait. I need a moment.”

“Everything alright?” he asked, concerned.

No, it’s not alright, Leyna thought, squeezing her eyes shut. The realisation that she might never walk again was terrifying.

What if she had a lame leg for the rest of her life? There would be no chance of a career as a guard, no more ballroom dancing, no more riding her horse, Budsworth, and no taking the stairs two at a time when she was in a hurry…she would be impacted in countless ways.

“Leyna? Everything alright?”

She kept her eyes shut, hand still gripping the wizard’s shoulder for support.

“Just give me a moment.”

Her heart thundered in her chest, but as panic spiked, Cornelius’ voice broke through, his voice kind: “You know, when I’m worried, I find it helps to imagine the worst-case scenario.”

“How is that helpful?” she retorted, imagining how impossible it would be to climb into Budsworth’s saddle with only one good leg.

No, not impossible. Just challenging—but I could learn to manage.

As a child, she had seen a veteran in the marketplace who was so dashing on his horse that she hadn’t even noticed he was missing a leg until he’d dismounted. If he could learn to do it, then so could she.

She took a deep breath.

Whatever the state of her leg, it was time to face reality.

“What if I can’t do it?” she finally whispered, hating how her voice wavered.

“Well, I wouldn’t worry,” said Cornelius cheerfully. “We can always find you a nice pair of crutches.”

She scoffed in disbelief at his comment, but he seemed unfazed by her scowl. “Whenever you’re ready, Leyna.”

Here goes, she thought, and took a shaky step forward, gently easing her weight onto her left foot.

And then she took a step with her right.

And then another with her left.

Relief washed over her, and she laughed. “I can walk!”

“You certainly can.” Cornelius beamed, his smile so sincere that she had to look away. “Now, why don’t you walk around the room a few times without my help? I want to see if there’s any restriction in movement.”

Her celebration had been premature. While certainly better than losing her leg, there were weaknesses that hadn’t been there before—and these became more apparent the more she walked. Certain positions made her leg want to give out, but if she was careful, she was able to kick and even jump, provided she landed in a certain way.

“Good,” said Cornelius. “If you like, I can recommend some exercises to help strengthen your leg.”

“Will they get rid of this limp?” she asked, leaning down to massage her thigh.

He raised an eyebrow. “They’ll help strengthen your leg.”

That was the only answer she was going to get, apparently.

“Is your name really Cornelius?” she asked after he had shown her various ways to stretch, flex, and train the new muscles of her left leg.

“It is indeed. Why, don’t you like it?”

“No, it’s not that,” she said quickly, before catching the glint in his eye; he was teasing her. She cleared her throat. “I just wanted to thank you, Cornelius, for everything you’ve done for me.”

“Why, you’re very welcome. It was my pleasure. You were a good patient over the past week and a half—you made my job easy.”

Leyna frowned. “But…I was unconscious.”

He grinned. “Precisely. Now, you have an important visitor who has been waiting patiently. Shall I fetch him?”

“Er, yes. No, wait—”

“Hm?”

“Will I be seeing you again? I mean…” Her ears instantly began to burn. She hadn’t meant her words to sound so hopeful. “Are you leaving the Guild now?”

“Not just yet. But soon—I’m leaving tomorrow afternoon.”

He left the room, and she eased herself into a chair while she waited for the visitor. It was frustrating that she already needed to rest, but she had no desire to return to bed. She longed to go horse riding, but her body wasn’t up to it.

Perhaps those leg exercises will be worth doing after all.

Cornelius was speaking to someone out in the corridor. Judging by their hushed voices, they were talking about her.

The last person she expected to visit her was the lord chamberlain of Rutherford Castle, Percival O’Haire. He was wearing a formal doublet bearing the Rutherford insignia, and his short, silver hair was lying flat today, as if his nervous hands had forgotten to muss it up.

She tried to stand, but her left leg gave a wobble, and she fell back onto the chair stiffly.

“Lady Leyna, please don’t get up.” Chamberlain Percy gave her a friendly smile as he pulled a chair closer. It was strange to see him in such an informal setting, and it seemed he was uncomfortable as well, because he couldn’t stop fidgeting, as if unsure what to do with his hands without a quill and stack of papers to occupy them. “Are you well?”

“Yes, I am quite well, thank you Lord Chamberlain. But may I ask, what are you doing here?” He had undoubtedly returned to the castle after the maze exam, and she was sure the chamberlain had better things to do than to visit a student in the medical bay.

“The king was concerned about you,” he said. “As was I. But I am beyond pleased to hear that you can walk again.”

His answer didn’t make sense—King Rutherford would not have sent an important court official just to visit her at the Guild, even if she was a distant relation to the king. There had to be another reason for his visit.

“I was so sad to hear you were injured,” he continued. “A demon summoning, of some kind?”

“It was…my fault,” she said.

“I’m sure that’s not true.”

“But it was,” she insisted. She appreciated Percy’s kindness, but this was her opportunity to share her version of events and accept responsibility for what had happened. The last thing she wanted was for Grace, Quinn and Mary to be blamed for the summoning. “You see, sir, it was meant to be a harmless prank—and it would have been if I hadn’t broken into the secret room.”

The chamberlain scratched his nose. “The secret room? I’m sorry, I don’t quite follow…”

“Well, I don’t really know what to call it,” she admitted. “A side room, I suppose? Inside the headmaster’s office, there was another door that led to a small room. That’s where I found the book.”

Percy leant forward with interest, removing his spectacles to clean them with a cloth he’d fished from his pockets.

“Really? How peculiar. And what sort of book was this, out of curiosity?”

“I’m not sure. A spell book of some kind, full of demons.”

The chamberlain froze.

“You don’t mean a Demon Book?”

“A Demon Book?” she repeated.

“Yes…that’s what it’s called.” He was muttering more to himself than to her. “A Demon Book—how fascinating.”

“You’ve seen one before, sir?” she asked.

He shook his head, a frown creasing his forehead as he resumed cleaning his spectacles. “No, never. They’re forbidden, of course, along with summonings in general and other demon artefacts. So, I’d be curious to see how the headmaster came by it, and whether he obtained the proper permissions needed to store one here…”

He was talking to himself again.

“Sir, I don’t wish to get the headmaster into trouble,” she said.

“Oh, of course not,” he said, pushing the spectacles back onto his face and giving her a concerned half-smile. “But student safety comes first, and I find it rather strange that the headmaster didn’t mention the book to me earlier. “So, Lady Leyna, tell me, how on earth did you manage to summon a demon? Surely, it’s not part of the Guild curriculum?”

“It’s not. I’m studying demon law as one of my subjects, but we’ve never been taught how to summon demons.”

Percy nodded. “Good. But then how—?”

“I don’t know how I did it,” she said. Suddenly, the need to confide in someone was overwhelming, and she began to tell Percy everything—from their drunken escapade through the castle to the terrible beast she had unleashed by accident. “It was almost as if the book was speaking to me, calling me. And I’m not denying responsibility, sir, but I swear, it was almost as if I had no choice, as if I had summoned the demon against my will. It was out of my control…”

Leyna shut her mouth, regretting her words and wishing she could call them back. There was nothing worse than a wizard who had lost control. Thankfully, the chamberlain was nodding sympathetically.

“I completely understand. You mustn’t blame yourself.” He patted her arm awkwardly. “It sounds like a dangerous book. It really should have been much better guarded.” He bobbed his head. “Thank you for bringing this matter to my attention, Lady Leyna. I shall speak with the headmaster to learn how he is storing the Demon Book—and rest assured, I’ll make sure that, in the future, more appropriate measures are taken to secure it. I was not aware that such dangerous artefacts were being stored here, and we certainly don’t want a repeat of what happened, do we?”

“No sir.”

“In any case, the important thing is that you’re alright, and that nobody was hurt.” He stood and bowed, an acknowledgement of her station. “A pleasure seeing you, Lady Leyna. I wish you a speedy recovery.”

She gripped the armrest, resisting the urge to stand lest she fall back again.

“Sir, wait—please. Before you go.”

He hesitated. “Yes?”

This was it. Her chance to get closure.

“Sir, you may be aware that I’ve missed one of my final exams—the viva voce. Do you know if the Guild is going to let me graduate? So I can be considered for the Royal Guard?”

It was a presumptuous question, but she couldn’t help but ask. There was too much at stake.

The chamberlain adjusted his spectacles nervously. “I remember you expressing your interest in joining the Royal Guard, Leyna, and I appreciate how driven you are. But any offers that the Royal Guard might make are, of course, dependent on students graduating. As for your exams and whether you will be allowed to graduate, that’s a matter for the Wizarding Guild.”

But he knew—she could tell by how he ran his hand through his previously neat hair. One of the professors, perhaps even Headmaster Emsworth, would no doubt have mentioned it to him.

“Lord Chamberlain, please,” she begged. “Just tell me. No one’s come to say anything yet, and I need to know.”

Percy’s look of pity made the feeble hope inside her shrivel, and his next words punched it out completely. “Well…” he pulled at his collar. “Then let me just say…that I was so sorry to hear that you will not be graduating this year. I think it’s such a shame.”

Her heart pounded loudly in her ears, and she made no effort to stand as the chamberlain began to pull on riding gloves.

“Lady Leyna, before I go…I just want you to know that you will always be welcome back at Castle Rutherford. When you do become a wizard, you can count on me to find you a position at the castle—if not as a guard, but perhaps in the library.”

She gave her head a small shake. She did not want to end up in a dark musty library, forgotten like the ancient books she archived.

“Or, perhaps, as a healer?” he ventured. “Are you competent in healing?”

She was not. Percy continued to speak, but his words rang against her ears like too many church bells.

“In the meantime, I hope we shall see you at the castle over the summer break, before your next semester?”

Next semester?

She didn’t want to think about next semester; she would once again be a seventh year, forced to retake all her current subjects and face the current sixth years, who would become her new classmates.

Percy didn’t quite meet her eyes as he said goodbye, as if he felt sorry for her.

Cornelius returned after the chamberlain had left.

“How’d it go?” he asked.

“Fine,” she said, walking to stand by the window, where she could better see the pine tree. A tiny finch with fluffy grey feathers and a dappled brown splodge was chirping amongst the pine needles. The finch swayed with the thin branch in the gentle breeze. She envied its serenity.

“Did the chamberlain have much to say?” asked Cornelius.

She sighed. “Only that my career is over before it’s even begun. It seems I won’t be graduating this year.”

There was a pause.

“I’m very sorry to hear that, Leyna.” His voice contained a trace of pity, and she avoided turning so she wouldn’t have to see it written on his face.

The chamberlain’s meaning had been loud and clear: without a wizarding qualification, she would receive no offer letter to join the Royal Guard this year, and there was no guarantee that she would receive one next year, either. Although it was a blow, there was some relief in having closure, to accept that even though the worst had happened and her greatest fear had come to pass, she was fine.

She had failed, and yet, she was still standing.

And maybe not today, but once she was fully recovered, she would work even harder to achieve her goal so that, one day, she would hold that offer letter in her hands, and she would be a wizard and a huskarl, revered by all.

Chapter Seven

Viva Voce

THE SUNLIT GROUNDS OF the Wizarding Guild called to Leyna, but Cornelius insisted on keeping her in the medical bay for another day, so she had little opportunity to enjoy it. She might have ignored his order—after all, he wasn’t a professor or staff member—but she was fearful of Healer Helene, who watched the medical bay door from her office like a hawk.

So instead, she remained cooped up, pacing the medical bay to make use of the time she had to exercise her injured leg.

Grace came by after lunch and spent an hour with her playing chess, and although Grace wasn’t very good, Leyna enjoyed listening to her recount the events of the past week. According to Grace, the final exams had concluded for all subjects and the seventh years were relaxing by the lake outside. Leyna longed to join them.

Grace left, but promised to send Quinn in to keep her company, ignoring Leyna’s protests. There had been no polite way of telling Grace that she’d rather be alone than see Quinn, and he arrived ten minutes later.

Leyna wasn’t in the mood to discuss the Renegade spell, nor the demon attack, and it seemed Quinn was content to leave those subjects alone, too. To fill the silence, she recounted her conversation with the chamberlain.

“I guess I’m repeating the year,” she sighed. “Which means no graduation for me. But I guess we’re both in the same boat, right?”

Quinn looked away, visibly uncomfortable.

“Quinn? What is it?”

“Actually, I passed all my exams, including the Maze Exam.”

Leyna blinked. After the chamberlain’s visit, she had consoled herself that she wasn’t the only student to fail—Quinn would no doubt be repeating the year as well. They could share the failure together.

“Why did they let you pass, and not me?”

“They were going to fail me too,” said Quinn.

“Well, why didn’t they?” she demanded, her voice cattier than she meant it to be.

Quinn shrugged. “It’s complicated.”

“But how can they fail me just for missing an exam? You cast the Renegade. And we both took part in the senior prank. And as for the demon, I know the summoning was my fault, but you’re the reason it got out of control. You interrupted the spell.”

She had gone too far.

Quinn stood abruptly.

“Leyna, I’m sorry if I’ve made you upset. But I also came to tell you that I have received an offer to join the Royal Guard.”

She went still, her breathing fast and shallow as she glared at the wizard.

It was all she could do not to yell at him again—being confined to this small room was not helping her temper. She clasped her hands in an attempt to calm herself.

“When did you find out?” she asked stiffly.

“The chamberlain gave me my offer letter yesterday.”

Her breathing stopped. He did what? Suddenly, the reason for the chamberlain’s visit yesterday made more sense. He hadn’t simply been here to check on her in the medical bay—he had come to deliver offer letters on behalf of Rutherford Castle, although it was still unusual that he would hand-deliver them himself.

“This is one of the reasons I came to visit you, Leyna,” said Quinn. “I wanted to tell you about the letters.”

Her eyes widened. “Letters? You mean there was more than one? Was there one for me?”

She hated the note of desperation in her voice.

Quinn shook his head. “No letter for you. Only for Grace and I. She also received an offer to join the Royal Guard.”

His words were like the twist of a knife.

She rubbed her forehead. “Grace didn’t mention the letters, and she was only here a few minutes ago. Why didn’t she—?“

“Because I asked her not to tell you.”

Leyna snapped her head up, fixing Quinn with an incredulous look. “You asked her not to tell me?”

“Yes,” he said with a straight face. “I wanted to be the one to tell you.”

Her jaw dropped.

So you can rub it in my face? She did not say this out loud, too dumbfounded by Quinn’s steely expression. He truly believes he’s done me a favour by telling me he was accepted into the Guard. That he’s succeeded where I’ve failed.

“Please leave,” she said, hugging herself.

Quinn startled. “What?”

“Please. Just leave me alone.”

She didn’t voice the underlying reason for her hurt—that she suspected he’d cast the Renegade spell on her on purpose. The other week, when he’d apologised in the common room, she hadn’t been sure. But the more she thought about it, the more convinced she’d become. He’d been warned before, and if she’d thought for a moment it had been an accident, she would have forgiven him. But this wasn’t the sort of mistake that was easily committed, especially not by a competent wizard like Quinn. For one, not many wizards could transform into an animal, and his ability to morph into a wolf, which was partly a family trait, but mostly a result of his dedication to his morphing subject, was a skill he’d mastered exceptionally well. And then there were his combat skills, which rivalled her own.

So it couldn’t be accident—he had intentionally cast a Renegade Spell and endangered her life in the process. But why?

And on top of that, how did he have the nerve to lord his job offer over her? That was just rubbing salt in the wound.

He didn’t say another word as he left the medical bay. She watched him go, jealous that in a few days’ time, he and Grace would be travelling to Castle Rutherford. They would kneel before the king, and swear his oath before the court, and wear the Royal Guard’s banderole. And she would be left behind.

It only took a few minutes for her anger to abate. Regretting her outburst, she sat with her head in her hands, feeling so sorry for herself that she didn’t even look up when the door opened.

“Leyna, can I have a word?” It was Cornelius.

“What is it?” she asked through her hands, which were still cradling her face.

The chair scraped as he sat near her.

“Are you going to come out?” he asked.

She peeked at him through her fingers, but not liking the amusement on his face, she snapped them shut again. “No.”

Cornelius chuckled. “I suppose that’s your prerogative. No matter. Did you talk to Quinn?”

“Yes.”

“Did you see his hands?” he asked.

“Yes.

“And?”

Leyna didn’t understand what he was asking. “And…his hands are fully healed.”

Cornelius sighed. “I’m afraid I can hardly hear you. You’re rather muffled.”

Leyna raised her voice. “I said, they’re fully healed.”

“Indeed, they are. And do you know how I healed them?”

She lifted her head. “Does it matter?”

He smiled. “Humour me.”

“I don’t know. I was never good at healing.”

A silence stretched before them, and she realised he was waiting for her to answer.

“Fine. Um…A burn wound…on the hands. I suppose…I suppose you accelerated the healing spell’s effects using Kardam elixir? That’s fine for external use, isn’t it?” She had smelt the vinegar-like scent of the herb mixture on her first night.

“Excellent,” he said softly. “And do you know the Kardam herb’s origin?”

“Well, I assume it’s oceanic, like the Kardam Sea.”

Cornelius shook his head, which caused a caramel lock to move about his forehead. “Wrong. That’s a common misconception. It’s actually a rainforest plant, and it’s rare to come by in Rosaria with the rainforests dwindling, which is partly thanks to our tin mines.”

She raised her hands in frustration. “If it has nothing to do with the sea, then why do they call it Kardam?”

“It was a trick question. The herb’s name is actually derived from the Kormendian who discovered it, Radek Kardam, and not for its locality.”

She resisted rolling her eyes. She liked Cornelius, but if he was intent on discussing healing, she would almost rather be speaking to Quinn. “I didn’t think Kormend had rainforests.”

“It doesn’t,” he said. “This was a long time ago, before the wars.”

“Cornelius, where is this going? I’m not a botanist.”

“No, but you are a wizard.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Jeffrey, who flung the door open, breathless.

“Leyna, come quickly. You’re wanted in 7A.”

She frowned. “As in classroom 7A? Why?”

“They’re giving you the chance to do the viva voce—right now. I’ve been sent to fetch you.”

“What? How? I don’t understand.”

“I don’t know. But you need to come now. The examiners are already waiting.”

She was grateful to be sitting because, otherwise, she was sure her legs would have given out.

“I…I can’t.”

“Yes, you can! Don’t be daft.”

“No…Jeffrey, you don’t understand.” She took a steadying breath as her skin turned clammy. “I haven’t had a chance to study. And my notes…I usually look at my notes before an exam.”

“Sorry, Leyna,” said Jeffrey. “I know it’s a surprise. But there’s really no time. You have to come now if you want to take the viva.”

She began to stand, and was grateful for Cornelius’ help getting up. Her legs trembled, and it had nothing to do with her bad leg.

“Oh, before you go,” said Cornelius, taking hold of her sleeve and tugging her towards him lightly. “One more thing.”

“Yes?” She swallowed nervously, conscious of Cornelius’ height as she looked up at him.

He smiled. “Do you know how many times I applied the Kardam elixir to Quinn’s hands?”

“What? I don’t have time for—”

“Just answer the question.”

She gaped at him, at a loss as to where this was going. Jeffrey was waiting impatiently out in the corridor. “I don’t know…but I’m guessing you used the elixir each time you tried to heal his hands with the spell, right?”

Cornelius shook his head. “Wrong. I only used Kardam the first time, to act as a catalyst. Subsequent applications, in quick succession, can lead to sensory damage.”

“Um…good to know…”

She tried to move towards the door, but he still held tight to her sleeve. He tugged her back playfully, and she was too surprised to protest.

“Hold on,” he said. “Do you know what I mean by sensory damage?”

“Nerves?” she guessed, distracted as Cornelius began to fasten the cloak up, hiding the hospital gown underneath. “It means Quinn would have lost the feeling in his hands, right?”

Cornelius flashed her a smile. “Good luck with the viva.”

She threw him a confused look before leaving the medical bay, doing her best to keep up with Jeffrey as she limped after him through the corridors.

Leyna stood before the three examiners, who were seated in the otherwise empty classroom at a long table. Their chairs were designed to intimidate, with tall backs carved of wood. She sat opposite them on a simple chair that placed her below the eye level of the examiners. Someone had closed the shutters, and the room was dim.

Professor Mathers, the teacher of enchantments, was a thin, austere man in his sixties wearing an academic gown and a pointed cap. He greeted her formally, and though he was understanding of her lateness, even offering a polite smile, he seemed anxious for the viva to begin as he incessantly opened and closed his pocket watch.

Professor Carlton, in contrast, looked as pleased as punch, as if there was no place he’d rather be than sitting across from Leyna. He beamed at her when she entered, leaning back easily in his chair and lightly drumming his ample midsection, which was barely contained by his waistcoat.

“Glad you could make it, Leyna,” said Professor Carlton. “Why don’t you have a seat?”

But Professor Fry was less forgiving.

Leyna’s heart fell when she spotted the healing professor, whose blonde hair was pulled back into an immaculate bun, the hairstyle so tight that it pulled the skin near the outer corners of her eyes. She regarded Leyna with loathing as she explained how the viva would proceed, shuffling a set of white cards in her hands as she spoke.

“The questions are random and may relate to any subject that you have taken. Is that understood?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Professor Fry lay the cards facedown on the table. “Choose five.”

With trembling hands, Leyna chose five cards from the pile.

She tried to hand them to Professor Carlton, the kind general charms teacher, but Professor Fry was quicker and plucked them from her hands. Fry looked through the cards one by one, analysing each one critically. A slow smile crept across her face, which did not bode well.

“Fine,” she said, handing two cards to each of the other examiners and retaining one. “Let us begin.”

All in all, the questions were fair, and despite Leyna’s initial nervousness, Carlton and Mathers helped put her at ease. Some of Mathers’ follow-up questions were challenging, but she could gauge from Carlton’s small smiles and nods that her answers were hitting the mark. She sat a little taller.

Fry was unusually quiet and spent the entire time staring down at the card clutched in her talons, deep in thought.

It gave Leyna hope. Maybe Professor Fry was simply bored and wanted to wrap up the viva quickly? Maybe she would just read out her card and let the other two professors do the talking? Maybe she had better things to do than to torment Leyna, like enjoy the summer sun outside?

This was a false hope. After seven years, Leyna continued to underestimate the effort that Fry was willing to devote to making her suffer.

Professor Fry’s chair creaked ominously as she leant forward. “Final question.”

Leyna straightened, waiting tensely.

It may have been the last card, but the professors would be allowed three follow-up questions. Fry bent the card between her fingers.

Leyna tried to ignore the twinge of doubt that grated against her senses, like one of Fry’s long nails scratching against a blackboard. She couldn’t let the professor intimidate her—after all, the other questions had been right up her alley, so why should this be any different? She just had to steady her nerves.

“Leyna Saunders,” began Professor Fry, her voice imperious as she began to read from the card. “What are the fundamental principles that govern the safe use of Demon Portals?”

Leyna relaxed her shoulders. It was a demon law question—as long as she wasn’t asked to state any specific laws verbatim, she would be fine.

“There are five principles to ensure a Demon Portal is used safely—”

“In theory,” interjected Professor Fry, her eyes flashing maliciously. “I’m not condoning the use of Demon Portals—that is illegal, as I’m sure you’re aware, Leyna Saunders.”

Leyna gave a stiff nod, hiding her hands in her cloak pockets to hide her clenched fists. It was a thinly-veiled reminder of the demon portal that she had summoned on the night of the prank. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Erm, perhaps we ought to let the girl answer?” asked Professor Mathers, glancing at his jewelled pocket watch. “Only, I’ve got somewhere to be—”

“I agree, go on, Leyna,” encouraged Professor Carlton, smiling kindly. “Tell us about Demon Portals. What are the five principles to use them safely?”

Professor Fry did not look pleased to have another examiner take over her line of questioning, and that suited Leyna just fine.

She cleared her throat.

“So, firstly…the wizard must establish and retain complete and effective control of the primary demon that is being summoned, which opens the portal.

“Secondly, safely design the portal, with consideration of its capabilities, and include this in the primary demon’s contract.

“Thirdly, manage risk, including never leaving an active portal unsupervised.

“Fourth, be mindful of the life cycle of the portal, including closing the portal when not in use.

“Fifth, retain a log of all demons that have entered into our world, and report any incidents or unintentional arrivals immediately to the authorities.”

She took a deep breath and exchanged a relieved look with Professor Carlton.

“That was quite a mouthful, eh, Leyna?” he said good-naturedly. “Well done. I’m glad we’ve banned the use of portals, to be honest!”

“My first follow-up question,” said Fry, raising her voice for emphasis, “is this: should a wizard fail to achieve and maintain effective control of a portal, describe three consequences that could arise.”

Leyna tried not to let her relief show. If Professor Fry was trying to punish her for what had happened with the Demon Book, or was trying to catch her off-guard, she would be disappointed. Describing all the bad things that could happen if a wizard lost control of a portal was easy, the subject material interesting enough in its morbidity that it had made its way into bedtime fairy tales told to children, as her parents had done with her. Thanks to her education, however, she was able to give a more sophisticated answer.

“Three consequences may include:

“One: injury or death of the user—that is, the wizard.

“Two: unintentional facilitation of movement of demons into Our World.

“And three: the potential invasion of Our World, including injury and or death of others, as well as damage and destruction of human society.”

She couldn’t help but puff out her chest, satisfied with her answer. The last consequence that she had listed was all-encompassing, and she was sure it would win her points.

The two male examiners were nodding happily, but Leyna was more interested in Professor Fry’s reaction. Even now, a part of her longed to win her approval.

And, in fact, Fry was smiling at her warmly—but Leyna had learnt long ago that this was the most dangerous expression of all, a warning sign that she had walked into a trap.

“That was delightful, Leyna,” she said, her voice almost motherly. “Now, sweetheart, for my second follow-up question: I understand that you recently had a run-in with a demon, and it created a portal in the process. Is this correct?”

“Yes,” said Leyna, her voice growing small. She dreaded where this was going.

“Was that the question?” Professor Carlton joked, winking at her. “Be a nice easy one, eh, Leyna?”

“If only it were quite that easy, Carlton,” Fry tittered back, but the amusement was feigned. “Now, sweetheart—”

Leyna winced. She hated it when Fry called her ‘sweetheart.’

“—in the event that a consequence occurs, specifically, a person is burnt from touching a demon, how would you treat such a wound?”

Leyna’s mouth went dry. “That’s a healing question,” she protested, looking at Professor Carlton for help.

“She has a point,” said Carlton.

“But in this context, it relates to demon law.” Fry smiled, turning back to Leyna. “For, as you know, all magical disciplines intertwine, particularly the Great Four. Did you, or did you not, learn about the disciplines in first year?”

“Yes, ma’am, I did.” It was one of the first thing they learnt at the Guild. She could see Fry herding her into a corner, but didn’t know how to avoid the trap.

“And can you kindly name the Great Four disciplines, from which all other magic can be derived? And this does not count towards the follow-up questions, mind you—I would expect even a first year to know this.”

Leyna clenched her fists tighter, her fingernails biting into her palms. It was crystal clear, at least to her, that Fry was enjoying her humiliation.

“Spells, charms, wards, and enchantment.” She ticked them off quickly, hoping Fry would stop toying with her.

“That’s right. Which means that there’s an interrelationship between all magical disciplines—isn’t that right, Leyna?”

Fry was forcing her to admit that all magical subjects were related, and therefore fair game when it came to the viva. If she agreed, she would be consenting to Fry’s question on healing, even though she hadn’t studied the subject in years. But what choice did she have?

The male professors were of no help—Professor Carlton seemed uncertain on how to intercede, and Mathers was too busy frowning at his pocket watch.

Leyna looked down at her hands. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Good,” Fry simpered. “Now, I shall repeat my question: How would you treat a burn wound sustained from a demon?”

She didn’t know the answer. What would happen if she couldn’t answer the question? Would it be enough for Fry to fail her? She had no doubt in her mind that, given the opportunity, Fry would do everything in her power to make that happen.

As the silence stretched on, Carlton and Mathers glanced at each other, but Fry waited hungrily, fingers pressed together.

Leyna’s mind had gone blank. Fry had succeeded in shaking her—she was stumped.

“Well?” asked Fry. “We’re waiting, sweetheart. Have you an answer for us?”

Her breathing halted. What had Cornelius said to her earlier? It was on the tip of her tongue. Something about treating Quinn’s burns. How had Cornelius known that Fry would ask this question? And more importantly, what had he said?

She licked her lips and did her best to repeat his words on the healing process, describing the role of the Kardam plant and drawing on what little knowledge she had of healing spells. Her answer was subpar, but Carlton and Mathers, at the very least, appeared satisfied.

“That’ll do,” said Carlton with a jolly smile. “Well done, Leyna.”

“Yes, bravo,” said Mathers distractedly, snapping his pocket watch shut and preparing to rise from his chair.

But Fry was not finished. “Not so fast, please. I still have one question left.”

“Let’s make it quick,” muttered Mathers, glancing at the clock on the wall, as if it might read something different.

“Oh, it will be.” Fry smiled, leaning across the table, her eyes glinting as she went in for the kill, like a snake about to strike. “Leyna, sweetheart. Please describe for us, in as much detail as you can, the properties and origin of the Kardam herb you just mentioned.”

The question was unfair. She had not studied healing in a long time and had never covered the subfield of herbalism. In fact, she was certain that Fry had never even discussed the origin of the Kardam plant, at least not while she had taken the class. But the answer was no doubt hidden somewhere in the fine print of one of her many old, thick textbooks on healing, which meant that Fry could justify the question even if she protested.

Armed with the knowledge that Cornelius had given to her—although how he had known what the question would be, she couldn’t begin to imagine—she had a fighting chance of answering correctly.

But wasn’t that cheating? If someone had given her the answers beforehand?

Probably. And I’m not a cheater.

And yet…the question was not random or spontaneous, as it was supposed to be. Though she had chosen from a deck of cards, she had not been able to view the cards herself. Had Fry used sleight of hand to swap out her card? Or had Fry simply twisted the question to suit her own plans? Leyna suspected it was the latter.

One thing was for certain—the exam was not fair. Professor Fry had cheated.

This realisation brought a strange calmness over Leyna, and as she sat before the three examiners—one of them kind, one of them disinterested, and one with only hate in her heart—she felt something shift inside of her. The feeling was subtle yet profound, and though she couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was, she had been changed forever, at least in a small way.

Because, suddenly, she wasn’t afraid of Professor Fry anymore.

To Leyna’s relief, she passed all of her exams, including the viva voce. One of her dreams would be coming true after all: she was going to graduate and become a qualified wizard. She wouldn’t have to stay behind after all.

Graduation day came and went. Leyna thought that it would be one of the happiest days of her life, but it wasn’t.

Wearing the graduation gown and tasselled wizard’s hat, she had thought she would feel different, but she didn’t.

The graduation ceremony paled in comparison to how she’d imagined it in her head; she found no fault in the music and decorations, and the evening passed pleasantly. Her parents had been in attendance, and even her mother, who had not wanted her to become a wizard in the first place, seemed happier than Leyna was. When she climbed the stage to shake the headmaster’s hand, she had felt only a glimmer of triumph.

So what now? As a qualified wizard, she would have no difficulty in finding a position of some form. Nothing would compare to the glory of being a huskarl, a bodyguard to the royal family, but at least she would have time to build the strength in her leg.

Meanwhile, the offer letters continued to arrive. Some students had already received multiple offers, whilst others—like her—were still waiting. With her links to Rutherford Castle being common knowledge, it was unlikely that other employers would send her a letter at all, for fear of giving the impression that they were trying to poach her from the king. When she expressed this concern, the headmaster was quick to reassure her.

“I understand your concerns, Leyna, but you needn’t worry. Let’s give it some more time, eh? In the absence of a letter, the Guild will begin to solicit prospective employers on your behalf. In the meantime, why not enjoy the grounds with the others?”

Leyna had left the headmaster’s office hoping the delay wouldn’t cause her to miss out on a decent offer. Wizards may have been in high-demand, but they were expensive to retain, and the irony of the shortage of wizards was that long-term positions that paid well weren’t always easy to come by. Leyna hoped she would receive a decent offer. As hopeless as it was, a secret part of her still yearned to receive an offer to become a huskarl.

Graduation day may have been anticlimactic, but the days that followed brought her some of the happiest days of her life. Following Headmaster Emsworth’s suggestion, she joined the other students by the lake, sitting near the former seventh years, all of whom had graduated. They came to the lake every day to relax, swim, and picnic, and she loved every second of it. She was dangling her feet in the water, eyes closed against the warm sun on her skin, when the messenger arrived.

“Leyna Saunders?” asked the young man, whose tall riding boots indicated that he’d come by horse.

“What’s this?” she asked, watching intently as the messenger produced a crisp letter. The red wax seal was stamped with the Rutherford monogram, and her heart sped up as she took it.

“Is that an offer letter?” called Grace from the water, wading over to where Leyna was perched on the grassy bank.

“I don’t know,” she replied, frowning down at the letter.

“Well, go on, open it!” Grace urged. “See what it says!”

Carefully, Leyna broke the seal and unrolled the parchment, her eyes darting over the elegant words. With a deep breath, she looked up at Grace, hardly able to breathe.

Grace climbed onto the bank beside her, dripping water as she joined her. “Well? Is that what I think it is?”

“Yes,” said Leyna, rereading the words just to be sure. “It is.”

“Oh my gosh,” squealed Grace. “Did you get it? Did you really get it? Are you going to be in the Royal Guard?”

“Yes,” she said, a slow smile spreading across her face.

“Oh my goodness! Congratulations Leyna!”

Leyna could only laugh as Grace squeezed her in a tight hug. Grace finally released her and indicated the letter, asking: “May I?”

Leyna handed her the letter, and after reading it, Grace beckoned the nearby students closer and eagerly shared the good news, her obvious joy reflecting Leyna’s happiness better than she could have expressed it herself.

As well-wishers patted Leyna on the back, she was glad to have someone as kind-hearted as Grace in her life, and didn’t even care that the offer letter was growing damp in Grace’s wet hands as she read it out loud for all to hear.

Chapter Eight

A Trio of Two

“WAIT FOR ME!” SQUEALED Grace, her cheeks rosy as she hurried down the corridor to join Leyna. It wasn’t yet dawn, and the corridors were still lit by torches. Like her, Grace carried a travel bag full of her belongings. “I’m so excited. I can’t believe we’re all going to Rutherford Castle! Although, I suppose it’s just home for you, isn’t it?”

“The castle is still quite special,” said Leyna.

“Oh, I’m sure it’s very grand. I can’t wait to see it! Is it much larger than the Guild?”

Leyna tried to suppress a smile. Set upon a large estate in Pine Shire, the Wizarding Guild was a large multi-storey mansion made of stone. It had many rooms, including classrooms, offices, student dormitories, staff quarters, kitchens, a library, and so on. But it could not compare to Rutherford Castle, which featured over one thousand rooms, with hundreds of bedrooms and suites in the guest wing alone.

“Yes,” said Leyna. “The castle is bigger than the Guild. You’ll see for yourself in a few hours.”

Today was the day. Leyna, Grace, and Quinn had all accepted their offers to join the Royal Guard, and they would be sworn in before the king that afternoon. At long last, she would be a huskarl.

Grace continued to chatter as they moved along the corridor.

“I wasn’t sure how I’d do, especially coming thirteenth in the maze, although I suppose that’s still quite good. And I’m relieved we all passed the viva—nobody ever really knows if they did well on that, do they? And I certainly never expected to be offered a position so prestigious as a huskarl.”

“Well, you deserve it,” said Leyna sincerely. While combat wasn’t Grace’s strong suit, her magical abilities were undeniably exceptional. Leyna had witnessed the female wizard’s charms first-hand at the beginning of the Maze Exam, when they had teamed up with several other wizards to increase their odds of surviving the competition for longer. As the number of competitors fell, the students had turned on each other. Leyna had tried to protect Grace from the others, but she was too trusting and kind, and was one of the first to be betrayed.

“Oh, I don’t know…you did much better in the maze.” Grace blinked her doe eyes modestly, which were the same shade of brown as her thick hair.

“You do deserve it,” insisted Leyna. “Your charms were remarkable.”

She stole a glance at Grace as they walked down the polished timber stairs. Grace was beautiful, and she was beautiful in everything she did. Even now, she was smiling with excitement, and her round, pale face was flushed pink as she glided down the stairs like a swan. Leyna was not nearly so smooth and lingered a step behind. Her wounded leg made it tricky to navigate the curved staircase, and she did not want Grace to see her holding the bannister for support.

Leyna was not a swan. Even before her injury, she had preferred to move with purpose than to dillydally. Hopefully, with time, the limp would go away.

They reached the circular entrance hall, the walls of which were decorated with plaques, and continued past an ancient grandfather clock made of walnut that ticked their final seconds at the Guild away. Dim light filtered through the leadlight windows as they crossed the hall. Leyna adjusted her bag over her shoulder, prepared to push the front doors open.

This was it; she was finally leaving the Guild once and for all.

She quickened her pace. It felt surreal, and she was half convinced that an examiner would suddenly run down the stairs, calling after her that there had been a mistake—that she had failed one of the exams and would have to stay back for another year after all. Her grip tightened on the handle of her travel bag, just in case Professor Fry appeared to wrench it out of her hand.

The door creaked open and she tensed her shoulders…

But the hall and stairways remained deserted in the early-morning gloom, and no one tried to stop her as she stepped over the threshold. She let out a sigh, then breathed in deeply. The sun had hardly begun to peek over the crest of the pine woods, but the air was already warm and full of promise, the scent of flowers wafting on a gentle breeze.

“I’m just relieved our entire class graduated,” Grace was saying, keeping up a steady pace of conversation as they walked down the long set of stone steps. “I’m so excited to get to the castle!” She sighed wistfully as they set their bags down. “I’m going to miss this place.”

“Me too,” replied Leyna automatically, but glancing back at the Guild, she wasn’t so sure. Seven years of training to be a wizard had been a long commitment. Combined with homesickness, she had long been eager to leave the Guild and finally begin her life.

She took one last look at the building. A chink of soft dawn light grazed the straight walls of the Guild, suggesting that it could be a friendly place. The ivy-covered stone was still mostly in grey shadow, but the golden sunbeam played with the purple flowers that had bloomed on the vines. The first time she had glimpsed the wizarding school, it was like something from a fairy tale, enchanted and full of secrets. Was anyone watching them now from the colourful windows? Or would their departure go unnoticed?

She faced ahead. The pebbled driveway circled the yard and meandered into the distant hills, beyond which the city, the castle and her future awaited.

“Ready?” asked Grace.

“What about Quinn?” The yard was deserted. “He should have been here by now.”

“Er, Leyna…he’s already left.”

“What do you mean, ‘he’s already left?’” She rubbed her forehead. “Don’t tell me he’s charged ahead by himself? We were instructed to travel together.” It was just like Quinn to flout the rules. Would he be an asset or a liability to the Royal Guard?

“Actually,” said Grace gently, “he was summoned to the castle last night. He received orders to leave straightaway.”

“How come he told you and not me?”

Grace seemed momentarily at a loss for words. “I guess he didn’t want to wake you. The summons came quite late at night—only a few hours ago, in fact.”

Leyna swiped at the strands of blonde hair that had escaped her braids. “So, he’s already left?”

“Yes, a couple of hours ago. His orders summons sounded urgent. I think it came straight from the king.”

“Did he say why he was summoned?”

“No…Quinn just woke me to say that he was leaving.”

Leyna pursed her lips. Why had Quinn woken Grace, and not her? They were meant to be a team, soon-to-be colleagues.

“Leyna?” Grace was peering at her with concern. “You look put out.”

“No, not at all. I’m just waking up still. It’s early.”

It was a lie. In reality, she was fighting to quash her anxiety at the thought of Quinn arriving at the castle before her. What if he were presented to the king first? What if he made a good impression and gained the king’s favour before she’d even set foot in the castle? Given how court politics operated, she did not want her own presentation ceremony with the king to be a mere afterthought. It was important the three of them were presented together.

“Shall we go?” asked Grace tentatively.

“Yes. Let’s hurry—if we travel fast, we can be at the castle by noon.” And catch up to Quinn on the road, she thought to herself, summoning her mount. The spell took her less than a minute to cast, a dusty whirlwind gradually materialising into a pale-yellow mare.

“Budsworth,” she greeted, patting the horse, who whinnied and pawed the ground, reflecting Leyna’s own eagerness to set off.

Grace, who had politely waited for her to complete the summoning spell, now spoke urgently: “Leyna, what about the performers? I don’t think we’ll get to the castle by noon…”

She hesitated. “The what?”

“The performers. You know, our new orders?”

Leyna drew a blank. “What new orders?”

“You know, to escort Bernie’s travelling troupe of performers to the castle. Don’t you remember? You were with me when Master Emsworth assigned us the mission. Oh no—wait.” Grace clucked her tongue in annoyance. “I have it all wrong. That was Quinn who was with me—you weren’t there, were you? But—”

“But Quinn was going to tell me?” Leyna finished, laughing bitterly. “I guess he forgot.”

“Oops. I guess he did forget. Sorry.”

She sighed. “It’s fine. It is what it is. So…Bernie’s performers, is it? Caravans and all?”

“I believe so. They’re camped at the showgrounds, apparently.”

Leyna scratched her head. It seemed an unorthodox mission. Why would a travelling troupe of performers suddenly need two wizards to guard them? The king’s highway was well patrolled and cleared of trees on either side, all to deny cover to brigands who preyed on travellers.

Why the troupe should need security on the safest road in Rosaria was beyond her, but it was a mission she would take seriously. Her older sister had died at the hands of a highwayman many years ago, and while robberies were comparatively rare nowadays, it was still a valid threat. She brushed the painful memory of her sister aside and asked: “Are we to escort the troupe all the way to Royad? Because that’s going to slow us down.”

“Not just to Royad,” said Grace. “All the way to the castle.”

Home of the royal family, the Rutherfords, the castle sat perched high above the city of Royad. For two swift riders, it was not a long journey. But hindered by wagons…

“All the way to the castle,” repeated Leyna. “Are you sure? Perhaps the headmaster said to just take them to the city?”

“No, he was very specific,” said Grace, nodding resolutely. “He’s given me papers, hold on—”

After rummaging in her bag, Grace handed Leyna a thick wad of paper. There were dozens upon dozens of travel documents granting each of the performers safe passage into the castle.

Leyna shook her head as she finished securing her travel bag to Budsworth. “What’s so special about these performers?”

“Well, you know…it’s Bernie’s…they’re quite good, aren’t they? Rather fun. And I think there’s some big event on at the castle tonight. The headmaster said they’ll be performing.”

“What big event?”

“I don’t know, he didn’t say,” said Grace. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologise,” said Leyna, climbing into the saddle. “So, to the showgrounds?”

A white light pooled in front of Grace as she summoned her own mount. A radiant white horse took form within seconds.

“Wow.” She nodded her approval. “I wish I could summon my horse that quickly.”

“I’ll have to teach you!” Grace smiled, looking almost angelic as she took her place upon the slender white mare.

Leyna fixed her eyes on the road ahead. Travelling with other people would be slow. She was suddenly weary, and the journey to Rutherford Castle seemed impossibly long, the road stretching infinite miles in her mind as she imagined the trundle of caravan wheels on the dirt road.

A small part of her clung to the hope that they would reach the castle before Quinn.

“Yah!” she yelled, urging Budsworth forward, and the energetic mare sprung forward eagerly.

Chapter Nine

The Jester

WHEN THE DEWY GREEN fields of the showground came into view, Leyna groaned internally; the sprawling camp was completely unpacked. There was a mishmash of painted caravans, wagons, and carts, and the tents were pitched and erect with no signs that any effort had been made to dismantle them. Crates littered the scene, clotheslines swayed with pegged fabric, and horses stood unsaddled, grazing placidly. People in vibrant, colourful clothes were relaxing by the campfires, talking and laughing merrily. There was no sign they intended to move on.

“This looks cheerful,” said Grace. “I’ve never seen so many colours in one place!”

Although Leyna generally enjoyed watching entertainers perform, she did not share Grace’s enthusiasm. The performers hadn’t even begun to pack up. Her shoulders dropped as she grudgingly accepted that her goal of reaching the castle before Quinn was impossible.

“Let’s go say hello,” said Grace, and before Leyna could object, she had already dismounted and bounded over to the campfire where the entertainers were sitting.

Leyna remained mounted and walked her horse forward. The smell of bacon greeted her approach.

“Greetings, fair maidens!” said a man in checked clothes, leaping to his feet and bowing low. He was tall, lithe, and wore an elaborate masquerade mask over the top half of his face, which extended upwards into wavy triangles, the tips of which bore a bell that jingled when he moved. A jester. “Come, join our little celebration!”

The others smiled and nodded in greeting.

“What are you celebrating?” asked Grace, who, to Leyna’s chagrin, sat down to join the group.

The jester grinned. “Why, to life, of course!” He raised a cup in a toast.

“To life!” repeated the other entertainers, raising their cups before drinking.

The jester, however, did not drink from his cup, instead fixing Leyna and Grace with gleaming eyes. “So, you two must be the new magical talent at the castle. Perhaps you can show us a little magic trick while we breakfast?”

Leyna blinked, taken aback. “We are not here to amuse you with parlour tricks. Grace and I are huskarls of His Majesty’s Royal Guard.”

“Indeed?” asked the jester.

She hesitated before nodding. Technically, she had told a white lie. Officially, they wouldn’t be sworn in until that afternoon. But she was sure a jester wouldn’t know that.

“We’re here to escort you, quickly and safely, to Rutherford Castle, as per our orders.” She emphasised the word ‘quickly’. “How soon can you be packed and ready to leave?”

“Well, we haven’t had our breakfast yet,” replied the jester, settling back down. He made a show of stretching out lazily next to the fire, a movement which Leyna suspected was contrived to irk her.

“Eat quickly, then get packing,” she said, and her horse pawed the ground impatiently, reflecting her mood. “The king is waiting.”

“What’s the hurry? The king can wait,” said the jester matter-of-factly. “After all, he’s not going anywhere. But I’m hungry now. Care for some breakfast?” He loaded his plate with a second helping of bacon and eggs.

“No, thank you—”

“Ahh, is it because they’re scrambled? Do you prefer them sunny-side up?”

“I…I don’t care,” she said, annoyed at being side-tracked.

The jester tilted his head at her, looking oddly owl-like as he peered at her from behind the mask. “Don’t care for them scrambled, or don’t care for eggs?”

“Just no,” said Leyna firmly, trying to end the conversation. “No eggs.”

“Bacon, then?”

“No.”

“But all wizards like bacon!” The jester waggled a finger at her. “Don’t deny it, it’s a universal truth.”

Grace bit her lip to hold back a smile.

“Well, not this wizard,” said Leyna stiffly. She didn’t know what to make of the jests, and to save face, she spun her mount around and rode away.

The jester’s teasing voice trailed after her. “Well, scrambled or not, I can fix you eggs, but I can’t fix you.”

The other entertainers laughed appreciatively at the jester’s wordplay, but Leyna didn’t bother turning back to acknowledge him. Instead, she busied herself in circling the camp, still sitting astride Budsworth. She preferred the horse not only for its vantage point, but because she did not have to worry about hiding the weakness of her leg. Cornelius had said that it would probably strengthen with time—she hoped he was right.

Her surroundings blended into one gaudy mass of decorations, and it was hard to know where to look. The entertainers seemed intent on showcasing any colour that was not naturally found in nature, with fabrics, rugs, tents, tassels, and painted wagons boasting rich shades of colour.

She glanced back at Grace, who was chatting animatedly by the campfire. A part of her wished that Grace would show more restraint, but her stomach churned at the sight of a bacon-filled bread bun in the woman’s hands. She didn’t normally eat breakfast, but the smells coming from the fires were enticing. Someone had even made pancakes, and when she saw what looked like orange juice being poured into Grace’s cup, her mouth went dry.

“Leyna, are you sure you won’t have something?” called Grace, licking grease from her fingers.

“No, I’m fine,” she called back. “Just tell them to pack up camp, will you?”

But the hour ticked by, and growing sore in the saddle, Leyna allowed Budsworth to graze in the field while she tried to rouse the other travellers. Even with Grace’s help, their efforts were politely rebuffed. The performers did not seem to understand the concept of urgency, and they lazed about after their meal, talking and merrymaking. Music and poetry filled the air, and Grace had conjured purple bubbles to float into the sky. Each time one popped, a note would sound, forming a peaceful melody that complemented the pleasant weather.

Leyna would ordinarily have enjoyed the entertainment, but she grew anxious as the sun rose quickly in the sky. She had given up any hope of catching up with Quinn—but grew steadily anxious that they would miss the inauguration altogether.

She tried to reason with a fortune-teller to pack up her tent, but the old woman was more interested in her coin than following Leyna’s instructions. In the end, coin did exchange hands, and though the wispy-haired woman had much to say about Leyna’s future, including a prediction that she would find true love within the year, she was unable to give any guarantees that Leyna would make it to the castle on time.

“He will be a handsome man.” The fortune-teller winked, rubbing a silver coin against her palm. “Tall and fair. A stranger but familiar. Intelligent but a fool. Loyal but a trickster.”

“Sounds like I could do better,” said Leyna coolly. “But what I really need is for you to pack up your belongings. Can you foresee that happening anytime soon in your future?”

Her sarcasm was not lost on the woman, who abruptly ended the palm reading and wished her a ’good morning.’

More like midmorning. Another hour and it would be midday. She decided to find the jester. He had seemed like something of a ringleader, and at this point, she was desperate to try anything that would spur the troupe into action.

Just as she was making her way over to the main campfire, however, something changed. Without warning, the entertainers sprang into action as if a secret signal had been given, and they began to pack up the campsite.

Leyna stood back with Grace, stunned by the rapid motion of people around them, who moved with military-like precision; fires were doused, bedding was rolled, tents disassembled, shade cloths folded, and horses hitched and saddled.

Within minutes, the performers stood assembled and ready to leave, and the trodden grass and campfire ashes were the only evidence that the camp had been there at all. The procession was looking at her as if awaiting her orders, and the jester gave her a small wink that did not escape her attention.

“Right,” she said, clearing her throat. “Onward.”

With Grace by her side, she led the troupe away from the showgrounds via a narrow country lane lined with trees. It was pleasant in the shade, and some entertainers walked or danced on the road, whilst others rode in the wagons and caravans. A few darted between the various transports, slapping tambourines and singing gaily.

It was chaos. The festivity helped break up the mundanity of travel, and Leyna recognised many of the songs. She glanced at Grace, envious of how freely she joined in with the singing.

Once they reached the main road, there was no tree line to shelter them and the sun that pressed on their backs. The leather collar of her Guild cloak stuck to her neck as she perspired, and as it grew hotter, she was forced to remove it, undoing her braids and smoothing her hair over her neck for protection from the sun.

An hour and a half later, the cream-coloured castle finally loomed into sight in the far distance, overshadowed by the giant mountains behind it.

It was tempting to abandon the performers and break into a gallop. She longed to feel the breeze in her hair and to have the folds of her wizard’s cloak flutter behind her for the citizens of Royad to see. It would certainly have painted a better picture than leading a band of entertainers and their pack animals, which was not the regal homecoming she had envisioned.

Budsworth snorted as if reading her thoughts, eager to stretch her legs and break into a gallop.

“Sorry, girl,” Leyna said, patting the mare as she resigned them to a steady walk, the horse shifting under her in a rolling motion as the caravans trundled along behind them.

Her stomach growled loudly.

Grace looked over at her. “Hungry? I have some travel biscuits.”

Leyna accepted the small brown package Grace held out to her.

“You really should have eaten with us back at camp,” Grace said. “It was fun.”

Leyna was about to respond when a shriek rang out behind them, making her flinch. But it was only one of many voices laughing raucously from one of the nearby caravans. Wooden cups clinked together and someone began a toast.

“How can they drink so early in the day?” she complained in a low voice to Grace, who was swaying gently in time with her horse.

A male voice answered.

“They’re warming up for tonight’s performance.” It was the jester, perched high on the edge of a tall cart with his legs dangling.

“Warming up?” asked Leyna sceptically, tilting her head to look up at the jester. “By drinking?”

“Indeed. It’s all part of good preparation—especially for the actors. It’s far too easy to be oneself when one is sober.”

She took a while to unravel his words. Meanwhile, Grace called up, “Where are you all performing tonight?”

The jester grinned down at her, bells jingling as the cart rattled forward. “Why, don’t you know? We’ll be your entertainment tonight at the castle.”

“Why? What’s happening tonight?” asked Grace excitedly.

The jester shook his head. “Oh no, I won’t spoil it for you, fair Grace. The anticipation will be all the greater for not knowing. But I assure you, you’re in for a treat.”

Grace giggled, but Leyna didn’t appreciate how he dodged the question.

“Well, I myself would prefer to know,” she said, pulling her shoulders back. She hoped whatever was planned wouldn’t ruin her chances of being presented to the king. “Just tell us. What’s happening tonight?”

“You’ll just have to wait and see,” he said smugly. “Now, I have a question for you young ladies—and you must forgive me for asking—but aren’t the two of you a little young to be wizards?”

“We’re twenty-two,” said Leyna, ignoring the urge to cross her arms.

“Oh, my apologies.” The jester gasped, clutching his heart dramatically. “That changes everything! I thought you were far younger—I would have placed you ladies in your early twenties, or perhaps nineteen-going-on-twenty. But now, I understand how grievously mistaken I was.”

“Why, how old are you?” asked Leyna flatly.

He smirked. “Older than that.”

She squinted at him. It was hard to judge the man’s age; the vibrant jester mask covered the top half of his face, extending down to the bridge of his nose and cheekbones. Meanwhile, thick white-and-gold makeup obscured the lower half. She could tell that he was older than them, but couldn’t place by how much.

Curious against her better judgement, she asked: “Aren’t you going to tell us your age?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

He grinned. “Because you’re making it more fun not to tell you.”

Her smile slipped.

The jester leant closer, seemingly unfazed by his precarious position upon the cart as it shook from the uneven ground. “Not accustomed to being teased?”

“Can’t say I care for it.” She sniffed.

“So serious.” He clucked his tongue, then turned to Grace. “Is she always this serious?”

“Well…” began Grace uncertainly.

“Perhaps you’d rather rejoin your friends?” interrupted Leyna pointedly, hoping to be rid of the jester.

But he shook his head, which made the bells jingle. For the first time, she noticed his shaggy dark brown hair, which appeared as though he’d made an attempt to comb it back with oil. “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of leaving, especially not now when we’re all just getting to know each other!”

He leant back again to take a swig from a leather flask. A bead of what looked like water ran down his chin and marked his checked doublet.

“You don’t seem to be drinking with the others,” she observed.

“You are correct—no drinks for me. I prefer to keep my wits about. You never know when a fox needs outfoxing, or a beeline needs making, or a rat needs smelling, or a fair maiden needs layin—”

“Ugh.” Leyna rolled her eyes and used her feet to encourage Budsworth into a trot. She quickly put some distance between herself and the rest of the party—and between her and the jester.

But as they approached the city’s large main gate, she could still feel his eyes on her.

Chapter Ten

Royad

IT TOOK SEVERAL MINUTES for their papers to be processed, and the troupe used that opportunity to water their animals from the nearby troughs. Leyna slid off Budsworth and stumbled for a moment, her muscles stiff after riding. While Budsworth drank, she shook her legs loose and spent a few minutes stretching.

Short, sharp bursts of pain were emanating from her left leg. She tried to massage the muscles through her riding boots and was considering removing the boot when the jester spoke:

“Is everything quite alright with your leg?”

He almost sounded concerned.

“Yes,” she said quickly, straightening. “Just unaccustomed to riding.”

This was only half-true; she had ridden nearly every day at the Guild, relishing the fresh air as Budsworth tore along the pine forest trails. But they’d never been gone for more than an hour, and those rides had been very different to simply sitting in a saddle for hours on end.

“Really?” asked the jester, tilting his head to one side as he appraised her. “You’re unaccustomed to riding? I find that hard to believe. It’s clear to me that you are a very skilled rider.”

She had been about to walk away but couldn’t help but glance up at the compliment. “Really? What makes you say that?”

Jester grinned triumphantly, crossing his arms, and she realised too late that she had walked into his trap. “Let’s just say that I can tell you’re the sort of woman who enjoys sitting in the saddle.”

“Ugh.” She threw her hands up and marched away, whistling for Budsworth to follow her back to the city gate. She was anxious for the guards to approve the entertainers’ papers. Signed by both Headmaster Emsworth and the king, the thick stack of documents granted the whole party entry into not only Royad, but to Rutherford Castle as well.

The guard with the documents had not yet returned from the gatehouse, so Leyna used the time to tidy her appearance. She re-braided her hair, licking her fingers to smooth the loose strands from her face, before braiding a section of Budsworth’s mane, weaving a bright-pink ribbon into the long golden hair.

“Cute,” commented Grace, watching the mare toss her head proudly.

“Thanks,” she said, climbing astride Budsworth. Despite the stifling afternoon heat, she had donned the wizard’s cloak again and was now carefully arranging the long folds of fabric so they draped down the horse’s back and flanks majestically.

“Pride yourself on presentation?” quipped the jester, arms crossed as he leant against a nearby caravan.

Leyna’s skin prickled.

“Only, I noticed you preening, and I was hoping the devoted effort was for my benefit.”

“What’s wrong with wanting to look dignified?” she demanded.

“Why, nothing at all,” said the jester, pushing himself off the caravan and strolling over. “Except it doesn’t mix well with your vanity.”

“My vanity?”

“Yes. Vanity is the constant enemy of dignity. You cannot be both dignified and vain—it’s futile.”

Leyna squared her shoulders. “Well, that shouldn’t be a problem—I’m certainly not vain.”

“Oh no?” The jester plucked the end of a pink ribbon from Budsworth’s mane and twist it around one finger, holding it up as if it were proof.

“I mean, I’m no more vain than the next person,” she conceded.

The jester grinned and released the twisted ribbon, which unfurled in the air before falling back limply against the horse’s mane.

“I would say you’re at least as vain as the next person, and then some.”

“Yes, well…appearances matter. As a huskarl, I represent the king. I can hardly show up looking scruffy.” She didn’t like explaining herself to a jester, but she couldn’t help herself.

“I don’t disagree,” he said, inclining his head. “So, if we can agree that you look rather dignified—which you do, if I may say so—but also that you suffer from the affliction that is vanity…and we have established that vanity is the enemy of dignity, then does it not, therefore, follow that you have made an enemy of yourself?”

Leyna didn’t like the way he’d twisted her words and wished the guards would hurry up and let them in. She faced the jester with folded arms.

“You’re teasing me for caring about my appearance, but what about you?” She gestured critically at his ensemble, but had to admit to herself that while flamboyant, his clothes were far from comical, boasting lush fabrics and embroidery that was normally reserved for aristocrats. The mask had cat-eye holes rendering his gaze intimidating, and even his makeup had been applied with artistry. She swallowed, momentarily put-off as she looked him up and down, but she ploughed on. “I wager your ensemble took quite a bit of time to put together this morning, didn’t it? So wouldn’t you own that you yourself are vain?”

Spreading his arms wide, as if to show that he had nothing to hide, the jester drew himself up to his full height, which, had she not been sitting astride Budsworth, was rather tall. “Ah, but I do own that fact. And, in fact, I will flatter myself and say that I am all vanity.”

“And yet,” said Leyna, suddenly intrigued by the conversation, “you are not without dignity. So, by your earlier statement, if one is the constant enemy of the other, then have you not made an enemy of yourself?”

Through the mask, the jester’s eyes widened in surprise before he burst out laughing. “Why, Leyna, I do believe you just called me dignified! Were you so busy trying to prove your point that you paid me a compliment?”

She looked away in embarrassment. “Perhaps…indirectly.”

The jester winked. “In any case, it is true for most people, regardless of their qualities: they are their own worst enemy.”

His last statement made her pause for thought. She hoped that it didn’t hold true for her—the thought that the pursuit of her goals could ever backfire was unsettling. Her momentary enjoyment of the exchange of wits had passed, and she was tired of standing in the baking sun. Budsworth, who had been pleased to drink from the trough earlier, was now pawing the ground impatiently.

Noticing the restless horse, the jester took a step closer to stand in front of Budsworth and reached to stroke her snout. To her credit, the mare snorted at him loudly, nostrils flaring. It summed up Leyna’s own sentiments towards the performer perfectly.

“I’d stand back if I were you,” she said.

The jester didn’t even flinch as horse phlegm speckled his face and neck. “Actually, I’m rather sure the snort means it likes me.”

Leyna wasn’t convinced, but was taken aback when Budsworth happily accepted a sugar cube from the jester’s hand, crunching it loudly before giving another loud snort.

“What a delightful pony,” said the jester.

“Horse,” she corrected firmly.

“Horse,” he repeated as if mulling the word over. “And does the nice horsey have a name?”

“Perhaps horsey prefers to remain anonymous.” Despite Grace and Leyna’s attempts to find out more about the jester, he had managed to say a lot while giving away nothing about himself, going so far as to pry into their lives to ‘extract juicy details,’ as he had put it. Meanwhile, he had refused to divulge his own name and had insisted they call him by his first name—Jester. A surname, fabricated or otherwise, had not been forthcoming. The hot sun beat down on her back and Leyna was reaching her limit of how much more of his wisecracks she could take.

Finally, the guards indicated that they could approach the gate. Budsworth trotted forward eagerly, her broad chest pushing past the jester. To Leyna’s annoyance, he found a way to keep pace.

“Do you mind?” he asked Grace, leaping up deftly to sit sidesaddle on her horse.

Leyna tried to face ahead as they passed through the city gate, but with Grace riding by her side, she was only too aware of the masked man perched on the white horse, staring at her with an impish smile plastered across his face. Even with the distractions of the packed streets ahead, it was almost impossible not to glance his way, and when she did, his smile widened. She gritted her teeth. It didn’t help that Grace was hopeless at hiding her giggles.

“You look a little mad,” said the jester to Leyna, after the guard told them to wait for their escort.

She didn’t reply, doing her best to ignore him as she adjusted her leather cloak, trying to let out the heat that was trapped underneath. She was dying to take it off but was determined to wear it for the ride through Royad; the Guild tunic she wore underneath was not nearly so remarkable, the small insignia on the chest being the only indicator that she was a wizard. The long, dashing cloak was far more likely to draw the approval of the city folk.

Jester nodded at Budsworth. “So? What’s the horse’s name?”

She didn’t answer.

“I’ll just guess then, shall I? Shouldn’t be too hard with a yellow horse. Is it called Sunny?”

Leyna didn’t answer.

“Butterscotch?” he tried. “Goldie? Sunflower? Daffodil?”

Silence.

“Sundrop? Marigold? Sandy? Custard? Yellow? Lemon?”

It was Grace who answered, perhaps realising that Leyna had resolved to ignore the entertainer. “Budsworth.”

The jester chortled. “Budsworth?”

Leyna shot him an affronted look but remained silent.

“Budsworth?” he repeated. “Budsworth? Why, I’m all astonishment!”

“What’s wrong with ‘Budsworth’?” she asked, breaking her vow of silence.

“Why, nothing at all,” said Jester, making no attempt to hide his smile. “Very dignified, indeed. And, may I enquire, for future reference…is your Budsworth a ‘mister,’ perchance? Or a lord? Or perhaps a sir? Goodness, I don’t suppose he’s been knighted?”

“Budsworth is a her,” Leyna said stiffly, patting Budsworth’s mane.

“Ah,” said Jester. “A her. How very modern.”

“It’s a surname. I named her after my father’s favourite poet.”

“The great Lord Franklin Budsworth? My, my. Well, I’m sure that Lord Budsworth would be honoured to know you named your horse after him.”

Leyna couldn’t tell if he was mocking her, but at this point, it was safe to assume that most of what he said was in jest.

“And speaking of Budsworth the poet,” said Jester, scratching his nose, “did you know he was also a playwright? I rather like his comedic works.”

She stared at him. “Comedic works? Franklin Budsworth wrote tragedies.”

Jester shrugged. “Yes, well…I suppose that depends on your interpretation.”

She uttered a sound of disbelief, but before she could argue, the city guard returned with their documents, followed by two guards from the castle who wore the Rutherford colours of blue and gold over their armour.

“Straight ter the castle?” one of the castle guards asked, eyeing the long line of wagons and caravans uncertainly. “All of ’em?”

“That’s what the papers say,” said the city guard, pushing the papers back at Leyna.

“Right ya are, then.” He gestured at Leyna to follow. “This way.”

Once they were clear of the lower streets, they merged onto a wide, cobbled road, which was framed with buildings and houses on either side. Excited to return home, she raised her head and squinted against the sun at the distant castle.

The city was spread across the vast hillside, and the main road was straight and steep, climbing higher as they advanced. Far away at the end of the road, Rutherford Castle towered over the city.

Behind the castle, the Maidstone Mountains formed an immense backdrop of blue and purple that stretched up to the clouds. While not visible from so far away, the mountain river flowed down to the castle and through the city, where it provided precious water to its citizens within the walls and out into the farmlands beyond. Leyna couldn’t wait to see the gardens and fountains on the castle grounds and the waterfalls in the mountain’s foothills. Those had been her favourite places to explore when she was young.

Leading the procession along the busy road, it was clear that the streets had not been designed with such a large population in mind. After the war with Kormend ended thirty years ago, the mountain river had been redirected to flow down through the castle grounds to Royad, and the city had subsequently boomed, enjoying decades of expansion and prosperity. Though efforts had been made to improve the infrastructure, the roads remained congested with citizens, merchants, and visitors.

The crowd parted to let their procession pass, some of them cheering and waving, others retreating into shops or down alleyways to avoid being crushed. The cheers grew louder, and Leyna waved to the crowd. She was pleased with the attention, at least until she realised that the crowd was not cheering for her, but for the acrobats who were juggling and doing cartwheels behind her.

She dropped her hand quickly.

The jester caught her eye but said nothing, the corner of his mouth twitching.

Once they reached the wealthier districts higher up in the city, the streets quietened, but the musicians still attracted a crowd with their lively music. The bawdy songs made her lower her chin to hide her face, self-conscious as people in fine silks stopped to stare. The nobles and wealthy merchants, however, did not seem to mind, and soon began to smile and clap. Even Budsworth was swinging her tail happily, and Leyna relaxed, patting the horse’s mane.

A young girl called out from the crowd: “Look, Mummy! A wizard!”

Leyna turned in her saddle to offer a friendly smile to the little girl, who was holding her mother’s hand shyly.

She nudged Grace, who followed her gaze and smiled before conjuring a small glowing butterfly in her palm. Leyna followed suit, and the two wispy illusions fluttered towards the little girl, one of them landing on her arm, the other on her nose. The butterflies batted their wings gently before vanishing in a puff of gold dust. Leyna and Grace grinned as the young girl squealed in excitement and clapped her hands happily, her enthusiasm reminding Leyna of how much she had loved magic as a child.

The guards led the way up the main street towards the castle, bearing the prominent Rutherford banners, and Leyna’s chest swelled with pride as she followed behind, head held high.

But her jubilance deflated as a familiar side street caught her eye, and a bittersweet memory that had long been tucked away now flared up, seizing her heart, mind, and soul. Sensing her distress, Budsworth flicked her ears and halted.

Leyna sat frozen, peering down the side street. Grand houses of white stone, with neat hedges and rosebushes, beckoned. The street curved, hiding the house where the ghosts and memories of her childhood lived…

Do I have the courage to go and look? Will my sister be there, waiting beneath the oak tree?

The large tree in the front yard would be in full bloom this time of year, with leaves of bright and dark green. A soft breeze brushed her face.

“Leyna?” asked Grace, her voice breaking through her reverie. “Why did you stop?”

Leyna gave her head a quick shake, blinking away the tears that had formed. Even after all these years, it was still hard to believe that her sister, Tash, was gone. Would she be proud to see Leyna now? In many ways, it was Tash who had inspired her to become a huskarl, and it seemed fitting that she remember Tash on the day of her inauguration.

“Are you alright?” asked the jester, his voice soft and sincere.

“Fine,” she muttered, sniffing and turning away from the side street. But the jester had noticed her looking at the street of white houses.

“Nice neighbourhood. What’s down there?”

The house where I used to live, Leyna thought. But that information was too private to share with the jester.

“Nothing. Just memories. Let’s go.”

As they drew closer to the castle’s gatehouse, more guards rode out to meet them, flanking their procession and escorting them through the gate.

The portcullis was raised. The heavy grating had not been lowered since the wars ended as a sign of confidence in the peacetime that had been achieved. Instead, the gatehouse was always heavily manned by guards, and this had been sufficient to keep out intruders.

As they passed through the gatehouse, which formed a long, arched tunnel, Leyna leant in towards Grace to point out the disused tricks and traps hidden in the walls.

“It’s all designed to make it difficult for enemies to enter the castle,” she explained. “But we haven’t had to worry about that since before I was born.”

“Don’t you get nervous being under them?” asked Grace, eyeing the murder holes above.

“There’s no one up there.” She laughed, following Grace’s gaze to the holes in the stone ceiling. “But during the siege, our soldiers would throw down rocks at enemies or pour boiling water onto them.”

“Oh no, that’s terrible,” moaned Grace, shielding her face with a hand as if expecting boiling water to come raining down on them at any second. “I don’t want that to ever happen to me!”

They emerged from the gatehouse, and Grace’s jaw dropped as she stared up at the cream-coloured castle, which stretched high above them.

“Oh my gosh. It’s incredible!”

Round towers loomed above, connected by enormous walls. The castle had been rendered a friendly, creamy colour that made it look more like a palace than the fortified grey-stone fortress that had preceded it.

Though masked by the recent wall rendering, the ancient castle had stood the test of time. Beneath the facade, the original grey stone remained, and though much of the castle had been refurbished inside and out, its outward appearance was misleading, and it was the same rugged castle it had always been.

News of their arrival had drawn a small crowd of castle folk, many of whom she recognised. In normal circumstances, she might have revelled in the glory of it, but she was still thinking of Tash, the sister she had lost.

“Wow.” Grace had slid off her horse, and still holding the reins, was turning in a circle, staring up at the castle, apparently oblivious to the way the reins twisted around her, forcing her mare to walk in a circle. “Did you really grow up here?”

Leyna’s mouth had gone dry, but she made an affirmative sound as she followed Grace’s gaze up to the slender stone towers. The windows gleamed white in the sun, and the pale cream mortar and slate-grey roof tiles were striking against the clear blue sky. It was good to be home.

Chapter Eleven

Rutherford Castle

A SERVANT LEFT THEM to wait on a polished bench in the Foyer. She was perspiring from the journey, and the large cool room was a welcome relief after the baking sun. Grace stood beside her, gaping with astonishment at their surroundings.

The decorations in the Foyer were new for Leyna, too. She had last visited the castle six months ago, and everything had consisted of dark wood with red furnishings and drapery. But now, the Foyer was brighter, and the creamy wall panels made it airy and full of light.

The suits of armour and mounted animal trophies were gone, and in their place were elegant white sculptures and renaissance art. Instead of the heavy curtains that once shrouded the tall windows, crisp lace sheers glimmered in the sunlight, and the repainted ceiling now boasted a crystal chandelier. Even the flooring had been replaced by glossy tiles, which featured a modern geometric pattern. Everything about the large room signalled a new era.

The lord steward, Marek Volak, rounded the corner.

“He’s here,” Leyna muttered, and they both jumped up from the bench as he marched towards them. The wide sleeves and layers of his black coat flared around him, and the green-and-yellow doublet did little to brighten the dark expression on his face.

The steward did not greet them. Instead, he looked them up and down with narrowed eyes. Leyna was a sorry figure beneath his scrutiny, uncomfortably aware of the hair strands plastered to her flushed cheeks. A glance at the gilded mirror on the wall showed that her long wizard’s cloak was dusty; the embroidered emblem of the Wizarding Guild was no longer white, the bright-purple trim faded.

“You’re late,” said the steward, his thick accent betraying his Kormendian heritage. “What took you so long? Report.”

Leyna didn’t mind the order—it reaffirmed that, at least in the steward’s eyes, she was already a huskarl. She drew herself up and recounted the events of the day, trying not to stammer. The steward was an imposing figure with the same black hair and eyes as Quinn, and had bequeathed him his hollow cheeks and curved, eagle-like nose. The father and son even shared the same thick surly eyebrows that sat low. But unlike his son, the steward wore his hair longer to his shoulders, and his long cleft chin contrasted with Quinn’s square jaw.

When Leyna finished recounting the details of their mission, the steward clicked his tongue. “Well, this is inconvenient.” He eyed the state of their clothes and hair. Even Grace looked dishevelled. “You’ll just have to be presented to the king as you are. There’s no time to clean up.”

Leyna’s stomach turned. “Now?” She became panicky, and her eyes snapped to the mirror as she assessed her appearance more intensely. Was that dirt on her face? She glanced at her hands, which were dirty and clammy. The worst were her nails, which had accumulated black grime.

“Yes, of course now,” said the steward impatiently. “There won’t be time later. Wait here.” He stalked away, leaving them alone.

Leyna turned to Grace and offered an apologetic shrug. “Welcome to Castle Rutherford.”

“Oh my gosh, I can’t believe I’m actually here!” said Grace. “And it’s nice to finally meet Quinn’s father.”

Leyna frowned. “Is it?”

Grace did not reply, gaping instead at the expansive ceiling. “Is this the ballroom?”

She repressed a chuckle. “It’s just the Foyer.”

Suddenly, Grace gave a small shriek and ran over to a far wall.

“What is it?” Leyna followed her, alarmed.

Grace stopped in front of a wall of trellis windows and pressed her face against the latticework. The light filtering through the screen pockmarked her face with specks of golden light. “Oh, it’s gorgeous,” she sighed.

Beyond the trellis, the lush landscaped gardens greeted Leyna’s senses. Tall hedges bordered a green lawn, which proudly displayed a large white-stone fountain in the centre of an expansive circular basin. The water shimmered as droplets danced across the surface, and the perfume of the floating water lilies eased Leyna’s soul. She was suddenly aware of how thirsty she was and longed to plunge herself into the cool, clear water.

“I’m never leaving,” whispered Grace, her delicate fingers tracing the trellis.

“I’ve missed the gardens so much,” admitted Leyna. The wild pine forests of the Guild had their own wild beauty, but she had often fantasised about walking through the majestic palace gardens. It was the most beautiful place in the world.

She heard the pattering footsteps of a servant and tried to get his attention. She was desperate for a drink of water, but the servant was in a hurry, and he disappeared down the corridor while balancing a teetering tower of fruit on a tray.

“And I love these walls,” Grace continued, walking over to touch a wall panel carved with swirls of leaves and grapevines. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Y-you won’t,” said a friendly voice behind them. “They’re unique to the castle.”

Leyna turned and was relieved to see a familiar face. “Lord Chamberlain,” she greeted, giving a respectful bow.

Grace followed suit.

“Welcome back to Rutherford Castle, Lady Leyna,” said the chamberlain, adjusting his spectacles nervously before offering his hand in greeting. Today, his attire was the colour of whitewash, which in combination with his pallid skin and silver hair made him fade into the background of pale walls. “Congratulations on attaining your qualification! We are honoured to have you back to serve the Royal Guard, especially as a wizard.”

Leyna shook his hand, pleased that a royal official should extend a gesture of equality, but his hand was moist and limp in her grasp, and she fought to stop the smile from slipping off her face. Compared to the steward’s powerful figure, the young chamberlain looked delicate as he clutched a mess of parchments to his chest.

The chamberlain controlled the castle’s purses, and despite his clumsiness, he was adept with numbers and kept a close record of the estate accounts. The steward, meanwhile, was in charge of the royal council, overseeing prominent court cases and law-making. While both men were on par in terms of rank, it was clear to Leyna which of them wielded more power. Whilst she found Chamberlain Percy to be more likeable, Steward Marek was easily a more impressive leader.

The chamberlain turned to Grace. “And, Grace Wakefield, a pleasure to see you again.”

Grace returned the greeting before turning to point at the cream panels. “The walls are so beautiful!”

“Ah yes,” said the chamberlain with an approving nod. “They really do lighten up the room, don’t they?

“Yes, I imagine so,” said Leyna, distracted as she picked at her dirty travel clothes. “Excuse me, Lord Chamberlain…but may we freshen up before meeting the king? The steward said there may not be time, but I was hoping—”

“There’s no time, I’m afraid,” he said. “But please do not worry. The ceremony won’t take long. In fact, the proceedings will be as follows: we shall present you to the king, at which time you can pay homage and pledge your allegiance, and then His Majesty, with the powers vested in him, will—I am certain—accept and grant you your huskarl title. But we’ll need to forgo the usual formalities, unfortunately…the entire castle is in an uproar for tonight, so the event will be expedited.”

“What’s happening tonight?” asked Leyna and Grace simultaneously.

“Tonight is the farewell feast for the king,” he explained, shuffling his papers incessantly. “He leaves for the Baxton estate early tomorrow morning with the queen and the court. I don’t expect he’ll be back until autumn, for he plans to visit many of his own estates as well.”

“Why is the king leaving?” asked Grace in disbelief. “Doesn’t he always stay here? On his throne?”

“It’s so the people can see him,” Leyna answered. “To show that he is in control.”

“Yes, that’s more or less correc—oh no.” The sheets of parchment that Chamberlain Percy had been holding flew out of his grasp and scattered to the floor. “Oh dear. My apologies…”

Leyna and Grace both dropped to help him regather his papers, several of which bore the title Tax Collections Royad Shire, which was where Leyna’s curiosity ended.

“The king often travels with his court,” continued the chamberlain, sorting through the pile on the tiled floor. “It’s so he can meet with his subjects and receive the homage of vassals. Therefore, he is rarely at the castle.”

“So, what about us?” asked Leyna. “Does that mean we’re going with the court as well?” The king and his court never travelled without a guard, even when visiting his own properties, and together with the nobles, servants and soldiers, the travelling party often equated to several hundred people.

“No, no, you’ll be staying here to guard Prince Seth,” said Percy. “The king and queen wish for him to stay at the castle to focus on his studies, so you will both be rostered to the prince’s guard as part of your other duties. You should report to Captain Marton tomorrow morning for your orders. We won’t have enough wizards to spare, so I know the captain will be relying on the two of you to supplement the prince’s guard.”

“The two of us?” asked Leyna. “What about Quinn?”

“Lord Quinn has been selected to accompany the king and his court on their travels. In the meantime, the two of you will remain behind to guard the prince and help maintain order here. I’m afraid you’ll be the only wizards left at the castle, unless we include Healer James, of course. And there is probably not much point in counting myself. I do hold a licence, you see, but I am somewhat out of practice. That being said, should either of you ever desire mentorship…”

Leyna nodded politely, but she was confident that the nervous man before her was the last person she would want as her mentor.

As for Quinn, she was undecided on how to feel about him being selected over her. Protecting the court as it toured the countryside seemed more prestigious than guarding the young prince at the castle. In some ways, it was a relief to be staying behind; now that she was finally home, she was reluctant to leave again, and was conscious of the saddle sores that had formed after only one day of riding, not to mention the stiffness of her left leg.

Travelling on the road could not compare to the comforts of the castle. Unlike the nobles, who travelled in relative comfort in carriages and stayed in splendid tents, inns or noble houses, Quinn and the other guards would be on horseback and sleeping on thin mats for the entire journey.

Her desire for a hot bath and a soft bed trumped all other ambitions, and she hoped her new quarters would be as fine as her old rooms beside her parents’ suite. It would be good to see her parents, but she wanted a healthy distance in her own quarters without her mother watching her every move.

Leyna became aware of herself nodding and realised that the chamberlain had been speaking to them for some time now. She glanced at Grace, who was also nodding along, but her eyes had glazed over as the chamberlain droned on about the tariffs that he was petitioning King Rutherford to lift.

His long-winded explanation was mercifully interrupted by the clack of footsteps coming down the stairs. A nobleman came into view, looking dashing in formal attire. He called out a greeting to them in a familiar, brusque voice that carried hints of a Kormendian accent.

It took Leyna a moment to realise that it was Quinn, and she had to look twice just to be sure. She was so used to seeing him wear blacks and greys that his sapphire-blue doublet, draped with a gold-braided surcoat of an even brighter blue, seemed out of place. Even stranger was his jet-black hair, which had been combed and oiled neatly into a side part. On the whole, he looked as stately as any nobleman. Leyna had never seen Quinn present so well, even at court, and found herself speechless as he strode towards them.

“Oh, Quinn, you look amazing!” exclaimed Grace, almost bouncing up and down as he sauntered over. Quinn looked remarkably unfazed as she reached out to touch his hair. “Oh, and I can see your face, how nice! You look like a real nobleman!”

“He is a nobleman,” interjected the chamberlain kindly. “And it’s Lord Quinn, if you please.”

“Quinn is fine,” he said stiffly, bowing to the chamberlain before turning to Grace and Leyna. “I thought you two would be here sooner. What took you so long?”

“A better question yet,” Leyna interjected, “is what summons was so urgent that you couldn’t wait for us at the Guild?”

Before Quinn could answer, a harsh voice barked across the hall.

“Quinn! Stop idling. The king is waiting!”

Quinn flinched at the sound of his father’s voice, who was standing near a set of grand doors that led to the Great Hall. The steward jabbed a finger in their direction.

“All three of you, here. Now.”

As Chamberlain Percy shepherded them towards the large doors, Leyna gulped. This was it—her big moment. Her chance to gain the favour of the king and make her family proud. She was grateful for the warmth of Grace’s hand as it slipped into hers, and she squeezed back, realising that, unlike her, Grace had a greater reason to be nervous; she hadn’t grown up with as fortunate circumstances, and though Leyna didn’t know much about her background, she knew that Grace’s parents weren’t wealthy. She made a mental note to ask Grace about her family later.

They entered the Great Hall, a vast rectangular room with a tall ceiling from which unlit chandeliers were suspended. Sun filtered into the dim room through windows set along the room’s long sides, and a tall set of doors led out to a balcony. The Great Hall was typically used for a range of activities, including dining and entertainment. More formal events such as hearings and trials were also held here, but Leyna best remembered the hall for its lavish balls and ceremonies.

Currently, however, it was in a state of disarray, with servants in the throes of decorating the hall for the farewell feast. Despite the noisy clatter of plates and cutlery, her focus was immediately drawn to the tall dais, a raised platform with steps that led up to the High Table. Rich blue-and-gold banners and fabrics hung on the wall, and there, sitting upon a large throne of gilded mahogany, was…

Leyna’s heart skipped a beat as the gleam of a gold crown caught her eye.

It was the king.

Chapter Twelve

The Oath

IT WAS OVER WITHIN minutes. Leyna was stunned as they left the Great Hall, feeling detached from her body. The king had looked older than she remembered him, his blond hair beginning to thin.

The ceremony had been disappointing. Over the years, she’d dreamt of the day she would finally pay homage to King Rutherford, and the details of this fantasy were ingrained in her mind. She would already be dressed in the huskarl uniform as she knelt before the king, and with the whole court watching, she would swear the Oath of Fealty.

In her most optimistic of fantasies, the king would be so impressed with her declarations of loyalty that he would not only confirm her titles as huskarl but would also request that she guard him personally from that day forth. Seeing His Majesty bestow his favour upon Leyna, the lords and ladies of the court would applaud with gusto, and when the ceremony was over, they would swarm around her, extending invitations and anxious to be her friend.

But that was a childish fantasy. The reality had been very different.

The chamberlain had ushered Leyna, Grace and Quinn into the Great Hall, which was devoid of an audience. There were no nobles to witness the ceremony, and even her parents were absent. If not for the commotion of the servants preparing for the feast, the Great Hall would have been deserted.

Everyone was busy getting ready for the king’s farewell feast that evening, and many of the nobles and servants were also packing for tomorrow’s journey. Even the king had only grudgingly made an appearance so that he could accept their homage. While not an impatient man, he drummed his fingers on the armrest of the throne, his vague expression suggesting he was miles away, preoccupied with other matters.

Leyna’s spirits lifted when she spotted Bancroft guarding the doors that exited the hall. She had not noticed him when she first entered, but was pleased to see him, and had to resist the urge to run over and hug him in the king’s presence.

In his fifties, Bancroft was a wizard in the Royal Guard, and while not of noble birth, his dapper appearance strongly suggested otherwise; he had a sturdy frame and held himself proudly, and was well-groomed with black hair oiled back and a neat thin moustache. Growing up, Bancroft had been like an uncle to her and was popular with everyone, always ready with a joke to lighten the mood. Just before Leyna turned back to the dais, he caught her eye and gave her a wink, his moustache twitching with a smile.

The only indication that the ceremony had started was when the king rose from the High Table. He walked around to the edge of the dais and descended the steps.

Grace was the first to give her oath. Kneeling before the king, her hands were clasped together and stretched out in front as she swore the Oath of Fealty, her voice ringing loud and clear:

“I promise on my faith that I will in the future be faithful to my king, never cause him harm, and will protect him and his subjects completely against all enemies in good faith and without deceit.”

Grace did well, given she had only memorised the oath on the journey here with Leyna’s help. The king, however, looked distracted as she spoke, his eyes following the servants as they moved furniture around. When Grace finished speaking, the king took her hand unceremoniously and announced his acceptance before releasing it again. Chamberlain Percy moved forward, holding a folded cloth of royal blue, the sight of which made Leyna’s eyes widen.

It was the Royal Guard’s banderole.

She couldn’t look away from the blue fabric, which shone like satin as Percy pinned one end to Grace’s shoulder and let the rest unfurl to the tiled floor, where it ended in a sharp cleft. The banderole’s edges were trimmed with gold, and it bore the Rutherford coat of arms.

Grace was now a huskarl of the Royal Guard.

“Lady Leyna, your turn,” smiled Percy, gesturing for her to approach the king.

Her body quivered with nerves as she walked forward to kneel before the king. As she lowered her body, her left calf spasmed in warning, causing her to wince. Hoping no one had noticed, she bowed her head and began to recite the oath. Her voice was strong, but in the middle of her delivery, a large table scraped loudly across the floor as it was dragged to a far wall, and the noise disrupted the dignity of the moment.

Worst of all, as she had tried to continue speaking, the king had surged to his feet and, addressing the servants moving the table, demanded to know why the feast tables were being moved away.

“The queen has ordered us to make room for dancing,” answered one servant.

“But it’s a feast!” complained the king. “A feast! What does dancing have to do with it? How on earth are we supposed to have a feast with no tables?”

With a sigh, he gestured for Leyna to continue.

But she had forgotten where she’d left off. Despite years of envisioning this moment, of lying awake in bed and reciting the oath silently so as not to disturb her dormmates, her mind drew a blank.

“Go on,” said the king impatiently. “Start again, if you must.”

But the command made her inability to recall the oath all the worse. Her face grew hot, her cloak stifling as it trapped in both her body heat and shame. As the seconds stretched on, she began to think it was a mercy that the court wasn’t assembled to see her make a fool of herself.

Leyna squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she could disappear.

Suddenly, a soft voice whispered behind her:

“I promise…!”

Leyna didn’t have to turn to know it was Grace.

The prompt was what she'd needed to trigger her memory, and with a new burst of confidence, she was able to recite the oath perfectly, the words resonating in the hall. Head bowed, arms outstretched, she stared at the rug, waiting.

And then she’d felt it.

Her breathing stilled as she felt the touch of His Majesty’s hands on hers, and though the gesture was fleeting, the sensation lingered for minutes afterwards, echoing the monarch’s acknowledgement. When she was told to rise, it took her a moment to get to her feet, and not only because of the weakness in her leg—she couldn’t believe that it was over.

Is that it?

She didn’t even notice that the chamberlain had pinned the banderole to her shoulder until she’d returned to stand by Grace.

She’d missed it.

The moment she'd been dreaming of—the moment the banderole was pinned to her shoulder—had happened in the blink of an eye.

As Quinn moved to kneel before the king, she reached around with one hand to stroke the banderole. It felt foreign, the fabric cool and smooth. She had grown up admiring the huskarls who guarded the royal family, looking elegant in uniform with the banner draping down their backs.

It was dreamlike to realise that she was wearing one as well. It didn’t feel real. And it didn’t feel great. Instead, it felt like nothing…as if nothing had changed.

Exiting the Great Hall, Leyna was still dazed by the brevity of the ceremony. If she’d been expecting a moment of sudden insight or self-discovery, then this wasn’t it. The most real moment had been when Grace hugged her tightly, uncaring of whether it was a proper thing to do or not in front of the king, and Leyna hadn’t minded, and was half convinced the king was suppressing a small smile at the exchange.

Back in the Foyer, she let out a sigh of relief. Though the ceremony was anticlimactic, she was finally a huskarl of the Royal Guard, and perhaps once she had her uniform, she would feel that it was true.

I just wish my parents had been here, she thought sadly, but did not say the words out loud. Grace’s parents hadn’t been here either. As for Quinn, he was estranged from his mother, who lived in the Kingdom of Kormend, and though his father had been present, it was no secret that their relationship was strained.

“Leyna?”

Grace’s voice interrupted her thoughts.

“Are you alright?” she asked gently.

“I’m fine, thank you Grace. Excuse me a minute—”

She spotted the chamberlain leaving the Great Hall and hastened to him.

“Lord Chamberlain?”

“Huskarl Leyna,” he smiled, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “How may I help you? Congratulations on your huskarlship, by the way.”

“Thank you, sir. Actually, there’s something else I’d like to thank you for…”

“Oh?”

“I believe that it was thanks to you that the Guild allowed me to take the exam I missed—the viva voce. I wanted to thank you. I’m truly grateful.”

The chamberlain’s brow furrowed, his thin silvery eyebrows knitting together as he regarded her with bewilderment.

“That…that wasn’t you?” she asked.

Percy gave a quick shake of his head. “I’m afraid not, my lady—although I do wish I could take the credit. And, indeed, I’m pleased that you graduated and are here as one of our newest huskarls. But that kindness must have been rendered by someone else.”

“Oh, my apologies.” She shuffled her feet. “Do you know who did, er, render that kindness?”

The chamberlain shook his head, and she walked away feeling confused.

Could it simply have been Headmaster Emsworth taking pity on her? It was unlikely. Leyna had been at the Wizarding Guild for long enough to know there were very few exceptions for missing an exam—and a near-fatal injury was not one of them.

Bancroft tapped her on the shoulder and they exchanged a quick hug. She could tell that he resisted the urge to lift her up and spin her like he had when she was younger—which was probably for the best.

“Congratulations, kiddo.” He beamed. “I can’t stay long. The king won’t guard himself, will he? Just wanted to say hello. Are you coming to the feast tonight?”

“I suppose I am,” she said.

“Perfect. It’ll be a good chance for you to meet some of the huskarls before they leave tomorrow—most of them are leaving with the court.”

“What about you?” she asked. “Are you leaving tomorrow?”

She must have looked worried, because Bancroft laughed and clapped her on the back.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere. There’ll be plenty of time to catch up this week—can’t wait to see your stuff in the training ring. Anyway, I’ll see you tonight!”

Leyna made her way back to Grace but was intercepted by the jester.

“Hello again, Huskarl Leyna,” he said, putting emphasis on her title. “I hear congratulations are in order?”

“What are you doing here?” she said, startled to see him here. None of the other performers were in the Foyer, and she was surprised that he’d been granted access inside so quickly.

“Why, I’ve come to bask in your shining success,” he mused. “Was the ceremony everything you had dreamt it would be?”

“It was fine.”

“Oh, just fine? Not grand? Magnificent? Stately? Opulent? Dignified?”

Leyna peered past him, trying to find an excuse to escape the conversation. “Just fine,” she reaffirmed.

“Oh, well, not to worry,” he said, placing the back of his hand over his forehead dramatically. “You aren’t the first lass to suffer disillusionment.”

She glanced back at him warily. “Meaning…?”

“Meaning that perhaps you should pray—pray that success does not find you any faster than you are able to endure it.”

Leyna sighed in exasperation. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

“Leyna!” called Grace, waving her over, and Leyna seized the opportunity to step past the jester. He made no attempt to move out of the way, however, and this caused her arm to brush past his as she passed. The touch made her shiver, and she couldn’t help but glance back.

The jester had not moved and appeared to be inspecting his arm.

She snapped her head back forward and hastened towards Grace, who was waiting with a maid.

“Leyna, this is Melissa,” said Grace breathlessly. “Melissa is a maid here in the castle. She’s going to show us to our rooms! Did you know we’re each getting our own private quarters?”

Grace seemed to be unaware that she’d just committed a social faux pas, but Leyna bit her tongue and—because she wasn’t wearing a dress—bowed to the maid. Melissa bobbed a nervous curtsy, clearly unaccustomed to being introduced to a lady in this way. Leyna wondered if she should speak to Grace about court etiquette at some stage—navigating court politics was difficult enough without respecting class divisions.

They followed the maid, who led them through the corridors to a far side of the castle.

Grace discussed that night’s feast excitedly, wondering what it would be like and telling Leyna about the dress she had brought with her. Upon seeing the king’s banderole hanging from their shoulders, people in the corridors would give them a respectful nod, and depending on rank, some would stop altogether to bow or curtsy.

Leyna’s feet slowed as they entered a familiar stone walkway near the barracks. She exchanged an excited smile with Grace as the maid unlocked the door to the first set of rooms. It would no doubt be smaller and less grand than her old rooms in her family’s suite, but at least it would give her privacy and reassert her independence from her parents.

How bad can it be? It might even have a bath tub.

It did not have a bathtub.

The quarters were small, with a bed frame on one side and a shelving unit on the other. The back rooms were lacklustre—there was a study without a window that was hardly bigger than a wardrobe, and a bathroom not deserving of the name, containing several buckets and a chamber pot that had seen better days. Leyna returned to the bedroom, but her first impression did not improve upon further inspection.

The bed was small, with a thin pillow and a woollen blanket that were probably clean. A chair sat in the corner. The only source of light was a small window, which gave a view of the training yards, the sound of swords clashing clearly audible. A threadbare rug, clean bedding and a lantern were amongst the only luxuries in the room. There was no wardrobe, no chaise sofa, no fireplace, and no bathtub.

Leyna bit her lip. She had been willing to lower her standards of living—but not by this much.

Grace’s rooms were identical and equally underwhelming.

“This won’t do,” said Leyna, after a cursory glance. Someone had made an effort to brighten the space with a small ceramic vase of flowers, but it struggled to break up the greyness.

“What do you mean?” asked Grace, looking around the room. “This is lovely.” She sat on the bed and gave a small bounce to try the mattress, which was evidently so stiff that it did not even have the decency to creak.

“‘Lovely’ is not the word,” said Leyna, turning back to the maid. “Can’t we do better? We’re huskarls of the Royal Guard—and wizards. There must be other accommodations that are better suited.”

“My apologies, m’lady…but there are no more rooms available. We are hosting many guests for the feast tonight.”

Leyna frowned. “But what about the officer’s rooms? Our understanding was that officer’s rooms would be prepared for us.”

The maid hesitated before stammering: “M-my apologies, your huskarlship. But these are officer’s rooms. They are both private, w-with their own window.”

Leyna rubbed the back of her neck as she scanned the bedroom again, but the sight of the drab walls and hard bed only increased her longing to see her old room upstairs, along with its pale-pink wallpaper, floral cushions and upholstered furniture.

“Leyna, this is fine,” said Grace.

But Leyna didn’t think ‘this’ was fine. Even their sleeping quarters at the Guild had been better.

She swallowed her pride and turned to Grace.

“I’ve changed my mind. I’m going to stay in my old rooms upstairs. Come, you can stay with me. My family has an extensive suite, and I have my own private rooms next door.”

Grace was modest and tried to decline, but it was easy to sway her.

They made their way upstairs.

Boy, were there a lot of stairs. Leyna had never realised quite how many, and she was soon perspiring as she tried to compensate for the weakness of her leg.

Grace and the maid both slowed their pace to match Leyna’s.

“Here,” said Grace, taking Leyna’s bag, and muttered a levitation charm so it floated in the air.

Melissa gasped and pressed her back to the wall.

“Give me some warning, m’lady!”

“Oh, sorry,” said Grace. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

The maid gave a shaky sigh and smoothed her dress. “It’s…it’s quite alright, your huskarlship. I was just not expecting it, is all.”

Leyna continued to trudge up the steps, leading the way as Grace, Melissa and the floating bags followed behind.

“How’s your leg?” asked Grace.

“Fine,” said Leyna quickly, trying to smooth the grimace from her face.

“Do you want to perhaps lean on me, or—?”

“No, thank you. I’m fine. I just…I have a pebble in my boot that I need to shake out.”

Grace glanced at her uncertainly, and Leyna felt bad for lying. While both Grace and Quinn were no doubt aware of her injury, there was no need for them to know the extent of it—or for them to think that she was any less physically capable than they were. The last thing she needed was for word to spread to Captain Marton. She was uncertain of how the captain would react, and if there was even a chance that her huskarlship could be taken away from her, then she would hide her leg’s condition at all costs—even if it meant holding back the truth from Grace.

When they arrived outside the family suite, Melissa pointed to the travel bags. “I’ll place these in your room, Huskarl Leyna, if…if Huskarl Grace…if you could just…”

Grace released the levitation charm, and the travel bags plopped down onto the carpeted floor. Melissa, who had spent the entire trip staring at the dusty leather bags as if they were wondrous items, hesitated before picking them up.

“Where’s she taking them?” asked Grace, as Sophie moved to the next door along.

“That’s the door to enter my rooms,” explained Leyna. “But I want you to meet my parents first.”

As they entered her family’s suite, the familiar smell of her father’s tobacco greeted them. Home.

Grace gasped out loud when she saw the Saunders’ suite, which boasted multiple sofas and sitting areas, and several doors leading to other rooms, including a modest-sized balcony overlooking the gardens below.

“Wow, Leyna, this is huge! Oh my goodness, is this all yours?”

“This part belongs to my parents,” she said. “But that door leads straight into my rooms. The joint suite was bestowed on my family by the king. You may remember that my father is the king’s second cousin?”

“Second cousin? Does that mean that the king is your…your…?” Grace scrunched up her small round nose as she thought out loud. “So the king would be…would he be your great-grandparents’…no, wait…your great-uncle’s—”

Leyna laughed. “It’s complicated. We’re distant relatives, at any rate.”

They found her father in his study.

“Leyna!” Lord Saunders exclaimed when he saw her and rounded his desk to kiss her forehead. “What are you doing here? I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow.”

“We just arrived this afternoon,” she said, happy to see her father. He looked well, his ink-stained hands suggesting he’d been busy writing. She kissed him on the cheek.

“Good to see you, darling. Now, when are you being presented to the king? Ah,” he went on, cutting Leyna off as she went to answer. “I know what you’re thinking, and yes, we both know these fanciful court proceedings aren’t usually my cup of tea, of course, however…I know tomorrow is a special day. I’d like to make the effort to be there—it’s not every day my daughter is accepted into the Royal Guard, now, is it?”

Leyna looked down at her feet. “Actually, Papa, we were presented to the king already—just before.”

Her father’s greying eyebrows met in confusion.

“Presented? To the king? Oh dear, don’t tell me I got the day wrong? So that means…oh, so the king leaves tomorrow, yes, that’s right.” He frowned, rubbing his chin, which might have been clean-shaven two days ago but presently was dotted with greying whiskers. “Yes, your mother did say. Oh, and now that I think of it, she did say the feast was tonight—I believe she said she would request black pudding pie for me. So, the feast is tonight…that’s right…isn’t it, dear?”

Leyna nodded.

“Ah. And I missed your big day.” His face fell sadly.

“Oh, it’s alright, Papa!” said Leyna, pushing her disappointment aside. “I don’t mind, and look—” She turned so he would see the blue-and-gold sash draped down her back.

“The Royal Guard’s banderole.” Lord Saunders nodded approvingly, lifting the end of the cleft fabric to examine it. “Congratulations, Leyna. You’ve worked hard for this, and the years have finally paid off. But I see the banderole is pinned to your left shoulder?”

Leyna shrugged. “That’s where the chamberlain placed it.”

“Hmm. I thought it went on the right. No matter…so, how was the ceremony?”

“It was a quick affair,” she admitted. “Not quite how I imagined it.”

Her father chuckled, walking back around his desk. “A small mercy that it was a ‘quick affair’. These things can really drag on, and I haven’t the patience for it. Not that I wouldn’t have endured it for you, my dear. Now, Leyna, before I forget, I have something for you. Drats, where is it?”

He began rifling through the papers on his desk, which were spread out to let the ink dry. “Anyway, Leyna, don’t worry. All that ceremonial fluff hardly matters. It’s worth knowing that the important thing”—he began pulling out drawers and scattering parchment onto the ground—“is that you saw the king and that you’ve been sworn in. Never mind what the rest of those lofty-minded elbow-rubbers think.”

Leyna bit her tongue. Her father had never appreciated how court life worked; impressions were everything. The lack of audience during the homage was a missed opportunity to elevate her standing amongst the aristocrats. But perhaps her father was right—the important thing was that she was a huskarl now. It was a solid foundation to build her career on.

“Is Mamma here?” Leyna asked hopefully.

“Oh no, your mother hasn’t been here all day. She’s out buying a hat or something of that nature with Lady Higgins for tonight’s do.” He spotted Leyna’s glum reaction and added: “But I’m sure she’ll be back soon and eager to hear all about your adventures, Leyna. She loves you very much, you know, and she is just as proud as I am that you are a huskarl.”

“Equally proud, I’m sure,” said Leyna, “but not equally pleased.”

They exchanged a small smile.

The huskarlship included a reasonable salary that would allow her to escape the pressures of marriage. She could marry for love—if and when she met the right person. In the meantime, she could focus on something greater than the idleness of court life, all while elevating her family’s status.

Her father had been the main supporter of her dreams, if only because he’d been largely apathetic, whilst her mother had tried everything to talk Leyna out of it. It had taken many loud arguments before Lady Saunders finally agreed to let Leyna enrol at the Wizarding Guild. Even then, she had made it no secret that she hoped becoming a wizard would lead Leyna to settle for a safer occupation, such as teaching, or better yet, that Leyna would simply settle down altogether.

Leyna had received many letters from her mother at the Guild, all written in the same vein. They were usually accompanied by a detailed description of the latest and most eligible bachelors at court, and each letter would end with a plea for her to return to the castle and meet said bachelors. The notable qualities of the most desirable gentleman was usually re-emphasised in a P.S.

Now that she had secured a position for herself in her own right, Leyna was hopeful that her mother would put her matchmaking efforts to rest.

Grace was peering at the mess of parchments scattered about the study.

“Is that poetry you’re writing, Lord Saunders?”

“Oh, yes, well…this and that, Grace. Just some prose…”

Grace began to read from one of the pages. “Gentle little flower, nodding in the breeze, sweet and blooming silently…Lord Saunders, this is beautiful! Are you writing about Lady Saunders?”

“Oh, goodness gracious, no!” He chuckled, still searching his desk. He stopped to frown at a sheet of paper. “Can either of you think of a word that rhymes with ‘discombobulate’? I’m quite stumped…” He discarded the incomplete poem and continued searching. “Confound it all. Where is it…? Leyna, your mother will wring my neck—aha! Here we are.”

He pulled out a jewellery case and handed it to Leyna.

“What’s this?” she asked, holding the smooth case.

“A graduation present from your mother and I…well, truthfully, mostly from your mother. She thinks of these things.”

Inside the case was a glittering gold…something.

“What’s this?” she asked again, lifting out a semicircle of golden leaves.

“Wow,” exclaimed Grace. “It’s a laurel wreath! Mary’s mother wore one at graduation, remember? Oh gosh, and look at the tiny blue gems!”

“Yes, a laurel wreath,” said Lord Saunders, nodding along. “And I was meant to tell you something about the gems—they’re the expensive kind, apparently. Oh, and I was also meant to tell you, darling—and this, I believe, is very important…” He leant closer. “Your mother wants you to wear the wreath tonight.”

“Tonight?” asked Leyna, looking at the dazzling headpiece. “It’s lovely, but it’s very…”

“Showy?” asked her father. “Vibrant? Sumptuous? Oh—” He leant down to scribble something on a sheet. “S…u…sum…sumptuous. That might work…hmm.” He tapped his quill against the page, then looked up as if remembering they were there.

“Err, I’ll show you your room,” she said to Grace, snapping the case shut and leaving the study.

The large living area contained several doors, one of which led to her adjoining suite. “You can enter from outside in the hallway,” she explained, handing Grace her spare key. “So there’s no need to go through the family suite next time—although you’re more than welcome to, of course.”

The door opened, and the sight of her childhood bedroom triggered a rush of nostalgia, the brush of it warm and enticing as it drew her inside.

Grace seemed so astonished at the furnishings that Leyna wondered what her life had been like before she joined the Wizarding Guild. She possessed such poise that, apart from her incomprehension of class divisions, it was easy to forget that she wasn’t a noblewoman herself.

“Is this where you grew up?” asked Grace, gazing around the room.

“For the most part—I moved here with my parents when I was a little girl,” explained Leyna. “We used to have a house in Upper Royad.”

Leyna gave Grace a tour of the rooms. It was wonderful to see her bedroom again. The orange light of sunset illuminated the suite with a happy radiance, and their travel bags sat beside the wardrobe, waiting for Leyna’s maid, Sophie, to unpack them. A large bed draped with velvet curtains occupied the centre of the room, and Leyna longed to fall onto its motley of pink-and-yellow pastels.

The sitting room contained a much-loved chaise and fireplace that Leyna had spent many winters reading by. The hearth was clean and cold now, and would most likely remain that way until the heat of summer passed.

Tucked away, a tiny bathroom without windows was lit with candles. Leyna clapped her hands together in delight to find the copper tub full. Pulling back her sleeve, she dipped her arm into the water. It was still hot, with steam rising into the air. Thank you, Sophie!

“You first.” She grinned at Grace, nodding at the bath. “I’ll ring for some refreshments.”

Before she had rung the thick cord located near her bed, the door opened, and Sophie entered carrying a tray.

“Sophie!” said Leyna, moving forward to hug the maid, who barely had a chance to set the tray down.

“Lady Leyna!” cried Sophie, returning the hug. Short and plump, Sophie had a pretty face with a button nose, strawberry-blonde hair and a sweet disposition. “Or Huskarl Leyna, as I should say. Welcome home! It’s good to have you back. I’ve missed you.”

“Thank you, Sophie,” said Leyna, beaming. “I’ve missed you, too.” A familiar scent reached her nose. Looking at the tray, she asked: “Is that what I think it is?”

“Yes, m’lady, it’s mint tea—made with fresh mint leaves and sweetened with sugar, just as you like it.”

“My favourite,” smiled Leyna, seating herself at a small table. “You remembered.”

The maid tittered. “Well, of course, I remembered. It’s your favourite, after all. I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t remember that!”

“Well, I appreciate it. Join me for a cup?”

Sophie hesitated before sitting down.

When Leyna had first arrived at the castle, she had been an inconsolable young girl mourning the death of her sister, Tash. She had refused to speak to anyone but her parents, and even then, she’d said little. To her credit, Sophie had gone to much effort to try and cheer her up. Served with biscuits, the mint tea had been the starting point for their friendship, and to this day, the small gesture still held significance for her.

Leyna poured them both a cup. The tea was pale green, the flavour sweet and refreshing. “These are fresh leaves, you said?”

“Yes, I picked them myself. Truth be told, m’lady, the gardens didn’t do so well for fresh mint this year. Didn’t like the new soil, I think. But I know a place where it grows.”

Leyna raised her eyebrows. “The Royad market?”

Sophie shook her head, a small, secretive smile on her face. “In the mountain woods.”

Leyna set her cup down. “Do you mean to tell me that you hiked into the mountains just so you could brew me a pot of tea? Is that safe?”

Sophie bobbed her head modestly. “There’s no need to worry yourself, m’lady. I can take care of myself. And it’s an excuse to enjoy the fresh air, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

“No, I don’t mind.” Leyna smiled, sipping her tea contentedly as Sophie chattered away.

Leyna gazed around at the room’s elegance, as if she was seeing it for the first time.

I made the right call—it’s much nicer here than in the barracks.

She longed to pull off her tall boots, but for the time being, contented herself to simply sit and cradle the ceramic cup, enjoying the warmth of it against her palms.

The occasional small splash could be heard from the bathroom. It would be good to soak in the hot bath. Her body was sore, her left leg aching. Yawning, Leyna rested her head on her shoulder, confident that Grace or Sophie would wake her soon. For at least a few minutes, the usual doubts that often filled her receded, and she was just a girl at peace in her bedroom.

Chapter Thirteen

The King’s Feast

“YOU DON’T THINK IT’S too much?”

“You should wear it,” insisted Grace. “It looks beautiful.”

The golden laurel wreath gleamed amongst Leyna’s blonde hair. She was wearing an emerald-green dress from her wardrobe that matched her eyes, and the generous fabric was decorated with a dark baroque pattern. The sleeves were long and elegant, and although she suspected her dress was dated by court standards, she felt handsome all the same.

Much to Grace’s dismay, her only formal dress was wrinkled and musty from the journey. Leyna had been quick to offer her alternatives from her own collection. They settled on a silver dress, and as Grace twirled, it looked so enchanting on her that a secret part of Leyna regretted not having worn it herself.

It felt strange to be wearing a ball gown again, and though it was magnificent with its long cape and bouffant skirts, the low décolletage—although modest—revealed far more than her Guild uniform ever had. It would take some getting used to.

Originally, she had intended to wear a set of formal wizard’s robes, loose and comfortable with wide velvet panels that—in her opinion—made her look very dignified. But Grace had wrinkled her nose and argued against it heatedly—“it makes you look like a tent”—and yanked at the garment until Leyna relinquished it.

In hindsight, she had to admit that Grace had been right—the emerald-green dress was far more flattering, especially for a ball. As a huskarl, trousers and doublets would soon become the norm, and since they were technically off duty until their meeting with Captain Marton the next morning, this was a rare opportunity for them to dress up.

Grace eased the laurel onto Leyna’s head and added the finishing touches, using a charm to curl a few more strands of hair until she was satisfied.

“It’s time to go soon,” said Leyna, watching the last glow of the sun sink behind the mountain ridges.

It had been so long since Leyna had attended a grand event at the castle that she hardly recognised herself in the tall mirror. The makeup had helped lift out her best features, including her angular face and cheekbones, which contrasted with Grace’s soft, round face.

But the biggest transformation was her hair. Sophie had braided some of it up, then curled the rest with Grace’s help, creating loose, twisting waves that cascaded down her shoulders.

As for Grace’s hairstyle, Sophie quickly proved that she could do just as good a job, if not better, of styling Grace’s hair using no magic at all.

“You’re an artist, Sophie,” said Grace, touching the curls as if she’d never had her hair styled like this before—which, Leyna realised, she probably hadn’t. The maid beamed and curtsied before leaving the room. Meanwhile, Grace leapt out of her chair and pulled Leyna into a semi-hug. “Oh my gosh, you look so beautiful, Leyna! We both do!” She released Leyna and began to twirl, laughing as the sparkling fabric lifted and blossomed around her.

With Grace distracted, Leyna crept behind a screen and exchanged the pointed, heeled shoes that they had agreed upon earlier for her riding boots. While not eager to step back into them after the day of travel, the knee-high boots helped cover the broken, misshapen skin of her leg, and although her gown had full-length skirts that hid her feet completely, she felt better wearing them all the same. The length of the boots also helped stabilise her leg for the night ahead, although she hoped that much of it could be spent sitting at the feast tables. She whispered a charm to do up the lacings, but ran out of time to clean the dirt off as Grace poked her head around the screen.

“Leyna? What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” she said hurriedly, smoothing her dress. “Let’s go down.”

They met Leyna’s mother in the Foyer outside the Great Hall.

“Leyna, darling!” cried Lady Saunders, running to hug her. “I’m so sorry I missed your inauguration—I got held up in town!”

“It’s alright—” began Leyna, but her mother talked over her breathlessly.

“—and there’s the banderole, I see. How nice.” She clasped her hands together, and for a moment, Leyna wondered if her mother would congratulate her for her huskarlship. She did not—but she gave Leyna a warm hug instead. “Well. Now that you are back, we can finally see to finding you a husband, dear. I even have a few suitors in mind who’ll be present tonight!”

The smile slipped from Leyna’s face.

“Mamma, I’m a huskarl now,” she groaned, spreading her hands defeatedly. “I’m a qualified wizard…and the royal family’s protector. I don’t want a husband…”

“Oh, pish-posh,” said her mother with a dismissive wave. “Of course you want a husband. You can’t expect to spend your years prancing around on that horse, with no one to come home to! And time is slipping by, my dear…”

Leyna glanced at Grace, who was staring at Lady Saunders with wide eyes.

“Now, Leyna, dear,” her mother was saying, “I know you’ve taken your oath, but you don’t have to stay a huskarl if you don’t want to—”

“—but I do want to—”

“—I’ve asked around, and guess what I learnt: the king has been known to make exceptions in the past for huskarls who wish to step down to marry. Isn’t that good news? It’s not too late to change paths!”

Leyna bristled. “Mamma, I don’t want to change paths.”

Her mother linked her arm around hers and patted her hand. “Maybe not now, my dear. But perhaps in a few months? It’s too late for a spring wedding, but if you meet the right man tonight, you could still have the ceremony before the autumn sets in! Summer weddings are becoming more popular.”

“A wedding?” asked Grace, perking up. “That sounds lovely!”

“You get married then,” Leyna muttered in an undertone. Her dreams of being married had long been smothered by her mother’s interference.

“Leyna, life is full of compromise,” Lady Saunders continued, “and I see no reason why you can’t devote a little attention to courtship while you’re faffing around as a huskarl.”

“Faffing around?” Leyna repeated, raising a hand to her temple. “Mamma, a huskarl is a serious position.”

“Serious and dangerous!” Her mother sighed. “Oh, Leyna, you mustn’t be cross. I only mean what’s best. And you look very lovely tonight, yes, very lovely indeed. But you must look to your future. The best is yet to come, believe me. Once you have children of your own—”

“Thank you, Mamma,” she said sharply, desperate to end the conversation as others passed them in the hall, their heads turning at Lady Saunders’s shrill voice, which echoed into every corner of the Foyer.

A familiar, playful sound grabbed Leyna’s attention. To her horror, it was the jester, clad in brilliant shades of red and gold. He was walking towards them slowly, the bells jingling softly with each step, and the tilt of his head made it clear he was listening.

Oh no. She ducked her head, praying that he would not recognise her, that he would continue past without stopping. She prayed even harder that her mother would drop the topic of marriage altogether—the jester didn’t need any more ammunition with which to tease her. Unfortunately, her mother was resolved to drive her point home.

“But, darling, trust me, you may be in your prime now, but your looks won’t last forever. You must take advantage of tonight to consider potential suitors! There’s Lord Brighton, for instance—now he’s a handsome fellow. It’s a shame he won’t be here tonight…but no matter, there are plenty of other eligible bachelors—”

“Mamma!”

The jester drew closer, now easily within ear shot.

“—such as Sir Waldorf, for instance. You’ve met him before, my dear. He has a very large fortune, and while he may be a little older—”

“He’s as old as Papa,” Leyna hissed, keeping an eye on Jester, who to her annoyance, had stopped to speak to examine a painting nearby. “And I would be his second wife!”

“Third wife,” said Lady Saunders, producing a fan from her bosom and snapping it open to fan herself. “But at least he knows what to expect. I know he might not be what you had in mind, but you should at least consider him. He’s a very nice man, very agreeable, and still quite handsome—he was the prince charming of the castle, once upon a time! If I hadn’t already been married to your father—”

Leyna shook her head furiously, trying to silence her mother with warning looks, but to no avail. She glanced up—the jester was still lingering nearby. She wished he would move along.

“And then there’s Lord Frederick,” her mother was saying. “I’ll make sure the two of you are introduced.”

Leyna gritted her teeth, and doing her best to keep a level voice, said, “Mamma, while I appreciate your help, can we continue this conversation another time?”

“Oh, of course, dear. But it won’t hurt for you to at least meet the gentlemen I have in mind. You still have time to find a good husband—just not a lot of it.”

“Mamma, I’m twenty-two!”

“Precisely. And goodness, soon you’ll be thirty! Then, before you know it, fifty! And then you’ll wish you had listened to your loving Mamma. You must seize these opportunities while you are young, my dear. And make no mistake—you may be in your prime now, but the clock is ticking, and one day, you’ll look around only to see that the good ones have all been taken! And then there’ll be nothing that I, nor Sir Waldorf, nor anyone else, can do to help you!”

Leyna sighed. It was like nothing had changed between them. Any hope she’d harboured that her mother would drop the idea of marriage once she became a huskarl vanished.

“Now Leyna, tonight is the perfect opportunity for you to make sure that people see you—especially the gentlemen.”

“Mamma!” she warned, unable to stop the rising pitch in her voice. She was biting her lip so hard that she wondered if she would draw blood. Nearby, the jester finally tore his eyes away from the landscape painting that had left him so enraptured.

Their eyes met for the briefest of moments, causing a jolt to ripple through her. She looked away hastily, conscious of her face burning. She heard rather than saw him pass by, the sound of bells less frequent as he slowed his pace, lingering to listen.

Gently but firmly, Leyna detangled herself from her mother’s hold.

“Can we not discuss this now, Mamma?”

She wished the jester would hurry up and move along, and wished even harder that she was somewhere else.

“Remember, shoulders back, dear,” said her mother kindly. “And stand tall. I have no doubt that you can land a husband this very night, now that you’ve made an effort to look pretty. But you mustn’t bite your lip so—you’ll get lipstick on your teeth.”

As her mother insisted on checking her teeth, proceeding to dab at them with a handkerchief, she was aware of the jester entering the Great Hall, the jingling finally fading out of earshot. But the damage was done—he had heard every word, as had everyone else in the Foyer.

Leyna’s attention returned to her mother.

“Mamma, why is me finding a suitor so important? I’m a huskarl now.”

The seemingly permanent smile that had been fixed on Lady Saunders’ face faltered, revealing fear underneath. She cleared her throat, and when she next spoke, her voice was soft. “Darling, you’re my only living daughter. I just want to see you safe. I worry for you. You’re so determined to follow in Tasha‘s footsteps.” Her lower lip wobbled. “I don’t want to lose you like I lost her.”

“Oh, Mamma…” Sadness pulsed through her and she embraced her mother, who held her more tightly than she had earlier, as if afraid to let go.

The reason that Lady Saunders was so determined to see her married was the same reason that Leyna wanted to become a huskarl: Tash.

Leyna had been six years old when her sister, Tasha Cook, had died at the age of eighteen. In truth, they were half sisters, but Leyna hadn’t known that at the time, and had only known that her loving sister, who was brave and kind, wouldn’t be coming home anymore. As a relatively new recruit for the city guard, Tash had been trying to stop a coach robbery on the outskirts of Royad, and had died at the hands of a highwayman.

Losing Tash had been painful, and even more painful when her parents sold their townhouse and moved to the castle. Lord Saunders had been immensely fond of his step-daughter, and after her death, he grew more distant, rarely leaving his study except at meal times.

In contrast, Lady Saunders grew fiercely protective of Leyna, and when they moved to the castle, a strange, frenzied cheeriness overtook her previously serene personality.

Leyna, meanwhile, withdrew into a state of sadness, receiving too little attention from her father and far too much from her mother. As the years passed, Leyna realised two things: that she wanted to be respected, to be heard and listened to; and that she wanted to become a guard like Tash. She had promised herself that she would fulfil Tash’s dream of protecting others. Seeing the wizard huskarls at the castle had resonated with something deep in her core, and her mother’s objections to her goal of joining their ranks had only cemented this wish.

“She looked so fine in her city guard uniform,” her mother sniffed, still holding on tightly to Leyna. “We were so proud of her. As we are of you.”

Except that Leyna was aiming for the stars; as a huskarl, she was in a greater position to bring about change in the kingdom than Tash could ever have been. The name of the highwayman who had killed her sister was a mystery, but she would settle for making Rosaria a safer place. It was a small step towards avenging Tash’s death, and giving it some meaning.

Lady Saunders finally pulled away, ending the hug. Standing awkwardly in the Foyer, Leyna felt conflicted as she watched her mother dab at her eyes with a handkerchief.

“Goodness,” Lady Saunders said, taking a steadying breath. “My eyes have grown teary. Must be pollen from the gardens.”

“Mamma, I wanted to thank you for the laurel,” said Leyna. She was intent on moving the conversation to calmer waters that would hopefully draw less attention.

Lady Saunders accepted the change in topic and began to adjust the laurel, which caused the golden wreath to pull Leyna’s hair uncomfortably.

“Isn’t it the most exquisite piece you’ve ever seen, darling?”

“It is,” Leyna agreed. “It’s beautiful, thank you, Mamma.”

“I had to get you something special for your inauguration—it’s the reason I was late, as a matter of fact. The jeweller whom I had commissioned it from is situated next to the most darling hat shop, and, you know, I do love my hats. I simply couldn’t resist.”

It was only then that Leyna noticed several servant boys nearby, each balancing an impressive tower of parcels and hat boxes.

“In hindsight, Leyna, I’m not sure if gold was the best choice for your hair colour…it does rather clash with the blonde—”

“This is Grace Wakefield,” interrupted Leyna, bringing Grace into the conversation.

“Pleasure, dear.” Leyna’s mother smiled, eyeing the top of Grace’s head. “Your hair, young lady, would be perfect for a piece like this. The brown would really contrast the gold.” She sighed, turning her attention back to Leyna. “Oh well, I suppose it hardly matters now. Darling, I really must go. I still need to duck upstairs and freshen up. Is your father dressed yet?”

“I don’t think so.” Remembering her father’s ink-stained hands and clothes, she sent a silent prayer upstairs to her father to warn him of his wife’s imminent approach.

Lady Saunders began to fuss with the laurel again.

“There,” she finally pronounced, apparently satisfied. “Just lovely. The gems are blue sapphire; did your father remember to tell you that? No?” She clucked her tongue in disapproval. “I specifically told him to tell you. And it’s not topaz, mark you—those are real sapphires and cost your father and I a pretty fortune!”

She leant close as if imparting a great secret. “I had them specially designed with the king’s colours in mind—the blue and the gold.” She smiled and brushed Leyna’s cheek affectionately. “I thought you deserved to wear it on your special day…well, at least you get to show it off tonight.”

“Thank you, Mamma,” said Leyna sincerely.

“Oh, one more thing!” her mother exclaimed, rifling through one of the parcels and producing a large perfume bottle. It was made of purple glass, and the neck was tied with a black ribbon. “I found the most wonderful perfume today, and I think this could make all the difference in helping you attract attention.”

Before Leyna could object, her mother had pushed on the pump several times, showering her with a thick scent that might have been pleasant had there not been so much of it.

“Mamma!” she spluttered, trying to step out of the cloud of fragrance.

“Rose and lavender, just for luck,” said Lady Saunders, winking at them before hurrying away, the servant boys following behind.

Leyna suppressed a sneeze. Even after her mother had disappeared up the stairs, the airborne perfume droplets continued to fall around her like misty rain. As the last drops fell, Leyna turned to Grace, her shoulders defeated. “So, that was my mother.”

“She’s lovely,” said Grace, pulling a handkerchief from her sleeve—one that Leyna had given to her earlier, embroidered with her initials, LS. “I can see the resemblance. Here, let me help—”

Grace proceeded to dab at Leyna’s neck, which had taken the brunt of the thick perfume.

“Is it that bad?” Leyna asked, lifting her chin as Grace patted her neck.

“No, it’s actually quite nice…just a little strong.”

“I’ll bet.

Grace smiled as she tucked the handkerchief away. “There, all done.”

They entered the Great Hall, which was well lit with large chandeliers that cast dancing shadows across the domed gold-gilt ceilings.

“Oh my,” said Grace, gloved hands flying over her mouth as she stared around the room in wonder. The hall was already full of people, and the atmosphere buzzed with laughter and revelry.

Even Leyna, who had attended several events when she’d lived at the castle, was impressed by how bright the large space was; thousands of candles must have been required for tonight’s event. Every chandelier beamed with glistening crystal, torches were at full blaze, and elegant candelabras cast a soft radiance around the room. The effect made the ball gowns sparkle, and even the men’s buckled shoes gleamed. The balcony doors sat open on the far side of the room, allowing the summer breeze to roll in, and the row of tall windows revealed a starry night sky.

It took her a moment to spot the feast tables, which instead of occupying the pride and centre of the room like they usually did on feast days, were all pushed aside to the peripheries of the hall. In their place, dozens of finely dressed couples were dancing smoothly to a waltz. The music was coming from the windowless side of the hall where a band of musicians was playing, partially blocked by a large screen.

“I thought this was a feast?” asked Leyna.

“So did I,” said Grace. “But a ball is even better, don’t you think?”

“I suppose.” She generally liked dancing, but she wasn’t sure if her leg would be up for it.

“Do you know how to dance?” asked Grace.

“Yes, of course. I was always expected to dance at these sorts of events. Do you know how to dance?”

“Not really,” said Grace brightly. “But I’m sure I’ll figure it out!”

Leyna marvelled at Grace’s easy confidence as she obtained drinks from a passing servant. In Grace’s place, she would have felt nervous of making a fool of herself in a grand setting such as this.

“Should we go say hello to anyone?” Grace asked.

“Er, sure, why not?” Leyna took a hurried sip of wine. She felt better holding the cool glass; it gave her something to do with her hands.

“Oh look, there’s Quinn,” said Grace, lighting up and waving at the dark-haired wizard who was leaning against a pillar. “Quinn!” She hurried over happily, the silver skirts fluttering around her. Leyna followed more slowly, trying to take even steps and grateful she had forgone the dainty heels that Grace had picked out for her.

Quinn, who had been watching the dancing couples, straightened quickly when he spotted them, his eyes widening as he took in their appearance.

“I thought tonight was meant to be a feast,” said Grace. “When did it become a ball?”

“Since the queen got her way,” he said, kissing her hand. “You look beautiful. As do you,” he added shortly, turning to face Leyna. He offered to take her hand and kiss it.

“Thank you,” Leyna said stiffly. She took his hand but turned the greeting into a handshake, trying to keep the gesture as ladylike as possible. Given that she was wearing a dress, it was a breach in etiquette, but she bristled at the thought of Quinn kissing her hand, even if it was intended as a sign of respect. The gesture felt intimate, and she wasn’t sure if she was ready to forgive him for the Renegade spell he’d cast on her, or his audacity to boast about his offer letter when she’d been lying in bed, injured.

Quinn’s thick eyebrows lifted in surprise, but he shook her hand—his grip too tight for her liking. Was it a show of dominance, or did he simply have a strong handshake?

Grace, oblivious to the tension between them, was turning in one spot to take in the ballroom. “Isn’t it all beautiful?” she fawned, taking hold of Quinn’s arm and hopping in excitement. “Aren’t we all beautiful? Quinn, come dance with me!”

“Oh no. I don’t think so.”

“Oh, but you have to, please Quinn.” Grace tugged on his arm. “I don’t know how to dance very well—but I know I can manage it if you help me.”

“It’s too early for dancing,” he objected.

“It’s never too early for dancing!” she laughed. “Tonight is like a dream come true. I’ve never danced in a ballroom before, let alone in the royal castle! Please, Quinn, please, it’ll be fun!”

Leyna couldn’t help but laugh as Grace dragged him off to the dance floor. Once they began to dance, however, Quinn’s obvious discomfort faded, and they did quite well together; he was a superb dancer, and Grace made up for what she didn’t know by simply being Grace. She giggled throughout the entire number, visibly unfazed by whether she’d made a mistake or what people might say. Leyna envied that.

Grace and Quinn were dancing their second number when Captain Marton appeared, his formal coat tight across his barrel chest.

“Captain Marton, sir.” Leyna saluted the Royal Guard’s captain, a gesture she immediately regretted performing in a ball dress, convinced that she looked ridiculous.

“You’re not on duty until tomorrow, Saunders,” said the captain, giving her a dismissive wave.

She instantly dropped her hand to her side, wishing she still had a drink to occupy her hands. As if on cue, a platter of glasses arrived, and Leyna took one from the servant gratefully.

“Ah, crystal,” said the captain approvingly, peering at the pale-gold wine in his crystal glass.

Leyna drew herself up. “Sir, I’m honoured to be serving under you. I understand I’m to report to you for my orders tomorrow—”

“Yes, yes, tomorrow,” said the captain, shaking his head. “Let’s not discuss work now, Saunders, this is a feast! Duty can wait. Try the wine.”

“Are you not on duty tonight, sir?” she asked, eyeing his uniform.

“Bah. I’m always on duty.” He swirled the pale-yellow liquid in his glass. “Try the wine, Saunders. Can you identify the vintage?”

He drank a mouthful of wine and held it thoughtfully, his cheeks puffed out and his eyes scrunched in effort as if trying to pinpoint the flavours.

Leyna sipped from her own glass. The wine was superb—citrusy and floral. She took another sip. With a hint of something sweet and fragrant…maybe honeysuckle?

Meanwhile, the captain went so far as to gargle the wine before swallowing it, attracting odd looks from those standing nearby. He finished his glass and clanked it down on the servant’s tray.

“Well?” he demanded, looking at Leyna.

“I think it tastes flowery,” she offered.

“It’s sweet,” he said, licking his lips. “It’s a sweet wine.” He glanced at the servant. “Am I right?”

The servant nodded.

Captain Marton made a disapproving sound. “It’s too sweet. Bring me some red.”

The servant scuttled away.

Leyna tried to ask about tomorrow’s itinerary, but the captain shook her off.

“Just report to my office in the morning, Saunders. Bring the other fledgling wizard with you. What’s her name—Gloria? Charity?”

“Grace,” said Leyna.

“Grace,” he repeated. “That’s right. She was very impressive in the maze, showed a bit more finesse than we normally see from wizards—and a little more restraint. I’ve seen enough fireballs to last me a lifetime, let me tell you.”

Leyna waited, hoping there was a compliment incoming for her. There was not.

“Anyway, Saunders, just try to enjoy the party—and for goodness’ sake, if you find anything better than this slosh, be sure to send it my way.”

“Yes, sir,” Leyna said dully, addressing the captain’s back as he walked away. She was left standing alone, observing the Great Hall, which was teeming with revelry.

The queen was near the dance floor, surrounded by a gaggle of court ladies, whilst the king was glued to the High Table on the dais, inseparable from the food and drink. The young prince was nowhere to be seen.

Quinn returned, looking strangely determined as he stopped in front of Leyna. “Your turn,” he said, extending his hand briskly to her.

“Excuse me?”

“It’s your turn to dance.” He kept his hand extended. “Grace’s orders.”

“That won’t be necessary,” said Leyna coolly. “Where’s Grace, anyway?”

“Taking a break.”

Leyna craned to see where Quinn was pointing, just in time to see Grace slump down in exhaustion at a table nearby. She was flushed with exertion and had acquired a fan from someone, which she batted to cool herself, somehow still finding the energy to laugh and chat animatedly with those seated around her.

“She seems to be having fun,” said Leyna, feeling a pang of jealousy at how easily Grace was making new friends. Even growing up at the castle, Leyna had never felt like she belonged with the other noble ladies, and her friendships had been as superficial as they had at the Guild—friendly with everyone but close to no one.

Quinn jerked his head at the dance floor. “Come on, Grace made me promise to dance at least one song with you. And you know she won’t leave us alone until that happens.”

Leyna’s dislike of Quinn warred with her hope of being friends with Grace. “Fine,” she said. “Just one dance…for Grace.” She took his offered hand. “Let’s get this out of the way.”

“Don’t you like dancing?” asked Quinn as he led her over to where the other couples were lining up.

“Actually, I quite like dancing.”

Quinn shot her a perplexed look but said nothing.

As the music started up, the men bowed low to their partners, and Leyna and the other ladies curtsied in response.

Despite being a better dancer than Grace, Leyna couldn’t help but feel that her movements with Quinn were disjointed—and it had nothing to do with her injury; it was gentle contra dance and did not demand too much of her leg.

“Take it easy on me,” said Quinn as they turned in a circle. “It’s hard enough dancing without you leading.”

“Well, only one of us should be leading,” retorted Leyna as they changed direction, turning the other way.

“Agreed,” said Quinn, but he continued to try and lead.

They spent the next minute in silence, and Leyna tried to avoid looking at the wizard more than was necessary. At such close proximity, his dark eyes unsettled her, and her chest felt heavy as she recalled the memory of his wolf form pinning her to the ground.

“I forgot to congratulate you the other day,” she began, but then had to turn and walk in the opposite direction, feet in time with the rhythm.

“For what?” he called, standing in line with the other men who waited for their partners to return.

She turned and walked back towards him slowly, wearing a strained half smile. “For winning the Wizarding Guild’s Maze Exam. What an achievement.”

“Er, thank you.” He took her hand as she reached him and pulled her closer, matching the other couples. They now moved together.

There was a tense silence between them, and she tried to avoid meeting his eyes more than was necessary.

“It could have gone either way, you know,” she finally said.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, just because you came first in the maze exam doesn’t mean you were the best wizard in our class. It just means you outlasted the rest of us.”

He shrugged. “I know that.”

“There were too many of us in that maze. It took more than skill to come out on top—it came down to luck.”

“Agreed.”

Leyna felt encouraged to go on. “So, what I don’t understand is how you managed to hunt everyone down like that and still have enough magic to nearly blast me to oblivion.”

The music continued, but Quinn stopped dead in his tracks, bringing them to a standstill.

“What?”

She could hear the anger in her voice as she continued. “Quinn, I rationed my magic for the entire exam. I was careful. Even when duelling other wizards, I held back as much as I dared. And yet, at the end, when it was just you and me in the maze, my magic was depleted, while you still had plenty to spare. How is that possible?”

Quinn released her as if she had physically burnt him.

“That’s because I hardly used any magic,” he said.

“Oh, really? Then how did you manage to hunt all the other competitors down?”

“I didn’t.”

Leyna frowned. He wasn’t making any sense. The whole aim of the Maze Exam was to fight the other wizards until it was down to the last man standing. If Quinn hadn’t been targeting the other students, then what had he been doing? “But, then how did you hunt us—”

“I never said I hunted anyone down.” His voice was low and dangerous. “At least, not until it was just the two of us left.”

“But…then how did you make it to the top two? I don’t understand.”

“Easy. I just avoided everyone.”

The couples continued to dance, manoeuvring to avoid colliding with them, but neither she nor Quinn paid them any attention.

Leyna couldn’t believe her ears.

“Are you telling me…that you just ran, and hid, for the entire time we were in the maze?”

“Yes,” he said simply.

“In wolf form?”

He nodded.

Leyna rubbed her eye, uncaring if the makeup smudged. “That’s ridiculous. That’s…that’s cheating.”

“No, it’s not. It’s within the rules.”

“Sure, but the point of the Maze Exam is for us to duel each other, and to demonstrate our skills in magical combat—”

“Not just combat,” interjected Quinn. “All magical skills. Charms. Defence. Enchantments. Herbalism. Stealth. And it’s not against the rules to avoid using magic altogether.”

“So, you just turned into a wolf and hid in the bushes?” She gave a derisive laugh. “What kind of a wizard are you?”

Quinn blanched for a moment before his face turned dark.

“I guess I’m the kind of wizard who doesn’t want to hurt anyone with Renegades,” he retorted.

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t be casting forbidden spells, then!”

“I said I was sorry for that.”

It was true, he had. But still. She opened her mouth to argue, but he cut her off.

“Look, I don’t know what your problem is, Leyna, but clearly, you have a bone to pick with me.”

“Quinn—”

“Leyna, I don’t know what you want from me. I know you don’t like me, but can we just leave it at that? Magic never came as easily to me as it did to you—and who cares if I came in first? It doesn’t matter. Everyone knows that you’re the better wizard.”

She was too alarmed by the distress in his eyes to register the compliment. She had the distinct impression that a dam had broken, because the emotions were pouring from Quinn like floodwater, a mix of pain and desperation lacing his voice as he spoke more words than she’d ever heard him string together.

“Especially now,” he continued, speaking more to himself. “You think I took something from you? But I didn’t. We might both be huskarls, but I’m not a proper wizard. I can’t cast combat spells ever again. The wolf’s form is all I have left.”

Shoulders hunched, he stood glaring at his feet, the intensity radiating off him.

Leyna could only gape at him, too taken aback by his outburst to comprehend him. After all these years of feeling frustrated by Quinn, she felt like she’d finally poked the bear, only to find that the formidable beast had been a wounded creature all along. She had never expected to see him so vulnerable, especially not in such a public display, and she wished that she could take back her words.

But it was too late. The surrounding couples were no longer dancing, and were listening keenly to their argument.

Quinn’s eyes flicked left and right like a trapped animal, as if only just becoming aware of the people watching. Before she could think of what to say, he gave a snort of frustration and turned on his heel, pushing through the crowd as he stormed away.

She stared after him, her earlier anger replaced with disbelief.

But he’s always been so arrogant. And so rude…

Pleasant music began to play, which was her first indicator that the music had ceased at all. Conscious of the onlookers, she glanced around, hoping to see a friendly face. Spotting a table piled with food, she headed towards it. Her hunger had vanished, but she needed something to do to calm her nerves, and ladling cold potato salad into her bowl seemed as good a way as any to dodge the whispering nobles.

“Leyna!” someone called heartily, and she nearly dropped the bowl as a hand slapped her on the back in greeting.

“Bancroft!” she exclaimed happily, recognising the older wizard. The tall, broad wizard had his hair slicked-back and his thin moustache lifted as he smiled broadly at her. A man among men, he was the picture of health, loved and admired by all.

“Good to see you, kiddo!” he boomed, pulling her into a half embrace, which she returned awkwardly, trying not to smear his uniform with mayonnaise. “Come, let me introduce you to the other huskarls.”

Bancroft was on duty and wearing the Royal Guard uniform, which was not unlike what the castle guards wore but with two key differences: one, the huskarl uniforms were richly embellished with blue and gold, to a greater extent than the castle guards’ were; and two, the much-coveted banderole which draped down his back. His had a dark mark near the cleft, as if it was dirty or had been burnt.

“Yes, most of us are, but I can spare a few minutes—we’re not expecting any trouble tonight.”

Bancroft introduced her to several other huskarls who were standing guard to one side of the dais. Unlike Bancroft, they weren’t wizards, but despite their lack of magical powers, they were equally formidable. All of them had proficiency in multiple weapons, from blades and axes to ranged weapons. For this reason, the non-magical huskarls were often referred to as blades in an attempt to distinguish them from the wizards.

Growing up in the castle, Leyna was aware of the animosity that was sometimes present between the wizards and blades. It was rarely acknowledged, but always bubbling beneath the surface. Tonight, however, the huskarls seemed to be getting along well, and seemed remarkably relaxed for guards who were on-duty.

At the Guild, Headmaster Emsworth had warned the students never to underestimate non-magical soldiers in combat. “A wizard is only as good as his last spell, and if you aren’t vigilant, it’s easy to be caught off guard. And then there’s a matter of our limitations—we wizards are often too reliant on our magical energy. Once we run out, we’re about as useful as a porcupine without quills.”

Leyna had witnessed this phenomenon in the training yards of the castle long before she left to study wizardry. More than one wizard had surrendered when sparring against a blade, either because they had been too slow to react to a weapon or had simply run out of magic.

Although wizards were in high demand in Rosaria for their unique skill set, it was clear that when it came to combat, they were celebrated by Rosarians to a disproportionate degree. Even the famous veterans of the wars were usually wizards, which painted a false picture that much of the battles had centred around magical combat, when, in fact, the opposite was true. In the wars, wizards were assigned to specialised units on both sides, and they were few and far between, partly because there were so few of them to begin with, and even more so because they were vulnerable to attacks and often targeted by enemy troops.

The few surviving wizards had therefore earned significant prestige after the wars, and this had set a precedent in the years that followed, with wizards gaining more recognition for a simple cantrip than a fearsome warrior might for his bladework. Once, Leyna had seen a festival crowd roar its approval as a wizard levitated an apple into the air. And yet that same crowd had only clapped politely when an archer shot that same apple from atop a maiden’s head, cleaving the fruit cleanly in two.

“Bancroft!” called Damian, a blade in his early forties with coarse features and of average height. Although he was clearly on duty judging by his uniform, he had his feet up on a stool and was leaning back with hands behind his head.

Damian had developed a pot belly since Leyna had last seen him, but this had apparently not diminished his reputation as a ladies’ man; one noblewoman was dotingly plaiting his long hair amidst giggles, whilst another brought him a glass of wine. “Thanks, love,” he said, flashing an easy smile that made the noblewoman blush as she retreated. Perhaps it was the uniform, or his rough charm, but he had more than a few female admirers hovering nearby who were hoping to be noticed.

“Ho, Damian,” said Bancroft. “Working hard?”

“Only when someone’s watching,” replied the long-haired huskarl, but he swung his feet off the stool and rose to shake Bancroft’s hand. Unlike wizard huskarls, who usually joined the Royal Guard at a relatively young age, blades usually had to earn their place by demonstrating years of combat prowess and loyalty. Damian was no exception and had worked as a castle guard for many years before finally being offered a position as a huskarl. “Did ya hear about the break-in at the Guild, Bancroft?”

Leyna’s ears perked up.

“At the headmaster’s office?” asked Bancroft. “Aye. But not the details.”

“Apparently some book on demons was stolen.”

Leyna felt compelled to speak “Actually, that was me. I was the one who broke into his office, along with a few of my classmates.”

The two huskarls looked at her in surprise, and she hurried to explain.

“But it was just a prank gone wrong. We never should have done it. I know you probably heard about the demon that was summoned. But I swear, we didn’t steal the book.”

The two huskarls continued to look at her in astonishment before exchanging looks with each other. She wrung her hands nervously, waiting for their reaction.

Suddenly, they burst out laughing, Bancroft going red from the effort as he slapped a hand across her back.

“Good one, Leyna.”

“What’s so funny?” she asked, looking between the two men.

“Oh, well, I shouldn’t be laughing…” he chortled, wiping away a tear. “In truth, I did hear about your little stunt. Heard you didn’t fare too well—but glad to see you’re still alive and kicking.”

“But then, why did Damian say that the book had been stolen?”

Bancroft cleared his throat. “Because this was a real break-in. Not like what you young ones got up to the other week.”

“Someone broke into the headmaster’s office last night,” clarified Damian. “The only thing that’s gone missing is a book.”

“The Demon Book?” asked Leyna cautiously. It felt dangerous to even mention the book out loud—as if it would know she was thinking of it.

Damian gave her a significant look. “Yeah, the same one.”

“Do you know who stole it?”

“No. Only that magic was used to get in. From what I heard, the headmaster tightened security after the senior prank you and your friends pulled—some sort of protective spell to safeguard it.”

“Ward spells,” said Bancroft.

“That’s the one. Well, there were several wards in place, and the one who stole the book managed to get past all of them.”

“No kidding?” Bancroft glanced at Leyna, and his serious expression melted away into a smile. “But let’s not be so serious, eh, Leyna? Let’s enjoy tonight’s celebration. Come, I’ll introduce you to the others—we’ll leave Damian alone so he can look busy.”

“You can count on me,” he said, making a lazy attempt to look alert as he investigated the contents of a punch bowl.

They had only walked a few feet before they encountered another member of the Royal Guard.

“This is Beatrice,” said Bancroft, introducing Leyna to a tight-lipped huskarl who was standing with her arms crossed, a vicious-looking battle-axe strapped across her back and several daggers at her belt.

“A pleasure to meet you, Huskarl Beatrice,” said Leyna. “I recognise you, of course.”

In her mid- to late forties, the woman had several mean scars across her face and a reputation to match it. The scowl she wore now would have given Steward Marek a run for his money, especially the way it stretched and distorted her scars.

“Leyna, is it?” asked Beatrice shortly, giving her a once-over.

“Yes,” she said breathlessly. “I’m honoured to be working with you, Huskarl Beatrice. It’s been my dream, ever since I was a young girl, to join the Royal Guard. And I’ve always admired you. If you have any advic—”

“Grow a backbone,” interjected Beatrice.

“What?”

“It’s my advice for you.” Beatrice shrugged. “That’s what you were going to ask me, right? For my advice. Well, there it is. Until you grow some balls, learn not to trip over your own dick—”

“Whoa, whoa,” interrupted Bancroft, placing a protective hand on Leyna’s shoulder. “Betty, you’re foulmouthed this evening!”

“Piss off, Bancroft,” said the huskarl through gritted teeth, unfolding her arms and assuming what hinted at a warrior’s stance. “I was just offering Leyna some hard-earned advice.”

“Consider it heard. Now, why don’t you go be bitter in someone else’s ale?”

Beatrice rolled her eyes and began to stalk away but paused next to Leyna, who tensed, unsure what to expect from the fierce, muscled woman.

Beatrice surprised her when she said, “You’ll do well enough.”

Bancroft chuckled once she’d left. “Sorry about her, she doesn’t much like wizards. Or…anybody, truthfully. But she’s loyal to a fault, our Beatrice…”

“That’s alright,” said Leyna, but in truth, she was grateful that Bancroft had been by her side. Having never spoken to Beatrice, she had not been prepared for the huskarl’s abruptness. “Is she usually like that?”

“Eh, she means well,” said Bancroft, shrugging. “Believe me, there’s no one I’d rather have guarding my back than her.”

“She was different to how I imagined,” Leyna admitted. “A little more…”

“Moody?” offered Bancroft.

“I was going to say ‘unfriendly.’”

Bancroft laughed. “Well, they do say ‘never meet your heroes,’ eh? Don’t mind her. She’s just pissed about the magic show.”

Leyna thought she’d misheard.

“Magic show?”

Bancroft nodded. “Yep, it’s as bad as it sounds. The chamberlain thought it would be a ‘treat’ if the wizards put on a show for the court after the feast.”

“Magic show?” repeated Leyna, gaping like a fish. “You mean—“

“Yep. Lights. Fireworks. Bubbles. Sparkles. Animal illusions. The works.”

Leyna struggled to find the words. “That sounds—"

“Terrible?”

“Exactly.” The use of magic for entertainment went against everything they had been taught at the Guild. “And irresponsible. Magic should be respected. It’s not for showing off, or—”

“No need to convince me, kiddo. And you know what? That’s exactly what I said to our dear chamberlain. But Percy reckons it’ll be ‘marvellous.’”

“Can’t you speak to the steward?” asked Leyna.

“No point. Apparently, he’s onboard. A ‘show of force to demonstrate the might and power of the kingdom,’ and ‘good for morale.’” Leyna laughed as Bancroft tried to imitate the steward’s Kormendian accent. “Anyway, it’ll be fine. It’s all easy stuff anyway.”

It probably would be fine—the type of spells required to create bubbles, sparkles, and other illusions were relatively safe to perform. But while the audience would be admiring the spells, the wizards would be drawing on demonic powers from the Other Side to make them happen, and a mistake in performing even a trivial spell carried a risk.

Performing spells for entertainment was not illegal, but the wizarding guidelines strongly advised against it. She and Grace had been guilty of using magic for entertainment that very same day when they’d conjured the butterfly illusions for the little girl in Royad.

Bancroft gave her a sidelong look. “Not tempted to join us, are you?”

Leyna shrugged. In truth, she was tempted. She disapproved of such a grand and frivolous display of magic, but at the same time, if the magic show was going to go ahead regardless, then she wanted to be a part of it. It wasn’t often that a king-sanctioned opportunity for a wizard to dazzle a crowd presented itself. She would enjoy showing off her magical skills to the people of the castle.

Bancroft’s chuckles interrupted her thoughts. “Well, while you’re ruminating on that, why don’t you come meet the others?”

He guided her to a group of huskarls, all of them off duty and in formal wear, laughing as they sat at a round table.

“I’ll leave you here,” said Bancroft, giving a friendly wave.

Leyna joined the huskarls, who were so merry and welcoming that she forgot all about her run-in with Beatrice or her argument with Quinn. Conscious of her poor judgement the last time she’d drunk alcohol, she passed on the offered drinks and found herself at ease without them. She felt proud to sit amongst the huskarls, whose ranks she had longed to join since she was a child, and found herself laughing harder than she had in a long time.

It felt good to be accepted.

Jubilant, she lost track of time, but her elation popped like a bubble when she caught sight of her mother waving from the other side of the hall. Beside her was Lord Saunders, looking as though he might have escaped if not for his wife’s grip on his arm. On her other side, with similar greying hair to her father, was…

Leyna froze, smile fading. It was Sir Waldorf, and he was looking in her direction as her mother spoke in his ear, nodding as he listened. Tall with a gentle temperament, Sir Waldorf might have looked handsome were his face not red with drink, and his hopeful expression might have been compelling had he been more sober. To her horror, her mother push on his back insistently, and the man began to move in her direction.

Leyna’s heart sank.

Sir Waldorf was making his way over to her.

Chapter Fourteen

The Goblet

EVEN FROM ACROSS THE hall, Leyna could see Sir Waldorf’s ruddy face and wine-stained waistcoat, and the thought of his large fortune, combined with his even larger codpiece, did nothing to increase her attraction to him. Would it be rude to pretend that she hadn’t noticed him?

“Excuse me,” she muttered to the huskarls, rising hastily from the table. Trying not to trip on her gown, she began to skirt the edges of the ballroom. A quick glance backwards showed her mother pushing on Sir Waldorf’s back insistently, and the encouraged man continued to walk unsteadily in her direction.

No, Leyna moaned internally, her heart beating faster. Rude or not, she was determined to avoid any more conversations that could expose her to ridicule—the altercation with Quinn had already provided enough fuel for the gossipmongers.

I need air.

The room felt hot and suffocating. She weaved through the crowd, smiling politely at people she recognised but not slowing. Each time she glanced back, she would see the red face and grey mop of hair pursuing her. In her haste, she accidentally cut across the dance floor, and had to apologise to more than one dancing couple as she pushed past.

The balcony doors loomed in sight, but as she hurried towards them, she nearly collided with Jester. She didn’t recognise him at first—he was facing away, and only a luxurious cape of midnight blue was visible, so dark that it was almost black. When he turned, the gold embroidery of his red doublet and matching mask twinkled in the light of the chandelier above. A slow smile grew on his face.

“All alone, sweet thing?”

“What are you doing here?” she snapped, darting a glance behind her.

“My, my. There’s no need to be so rude. You, my dear, are addressing the king’s new court jester!”

“What?”

“Your eloquence is unmatched, my dear. Alas, I’ll be travelling with the king and his court tomorrow. But do not worry, sweet lady, I’ll be back before you know it! Perhaps the weeks of summer will give you time to think of a clever retort.”

“I don’t have time for this,” she muttered as Sir Waldorf came into view, ushered by her mother.

It was all Leyna could do not to cover her face.

The jester followed her gaze and seemed to comprehend the situation, because his tone changed, becoming more masculine and less exaggerated. “Ah. Need rescuing?”

“No,” she said, even as she remained rooted to the spot, Sir Waldorf now close enough that he gave her a small smile on approach.

“Are you sure?” prompted Jester. “Perhaps you could avoid your suitor by being…otherwise engaged?” He extended his hand, and it took Leyna a moment to realise that he was asking her to dance.

She hesitated as the red face of Sir Waldorf appeared in her peripheral vision; unless his habits had changed, he’d no doubt been on the ale since breakfast. She bit her lip, considering the jester before her, who together with his resplendent costume, mask, and makeup, was as intimidating as he was strange.

What would be worse? Being subjected to Sir Waldorf’s advances, or being seen dancing with the court fool?

As if reading her mind, the jester said: “Dancing with me could be the lesser of two evils—the devil that you know, so to speak.”

“Fine,” she said, just as Sir Waldorf reached them.

She placed her hand in his.

No sooner had she done so than the jester whisked her away, twirling her onto the dance floor. As she came to a stop in his arms, breathless, she caught a glimpse of Sir Waldorf standing dumbfounded, swaying slightly as he stared at the spot where she had been a moment ago, as if confused about where she had gone.

Her heart skipped a beat as the jester pulled her deeper amongst the dancing couples. She did her best to keep up, relieved that Sir Waldorf was now a distant face in the crowd.

She was safe—for now.

“Not the suitor you were hoping for?” Jester asked, pulling her closer. She couldn’t tell if he was referring to Sir Waldorf, or himself, but her answer was the same.

“No, definitely not.”

They began to turn slowly in time to the music—but it was not at all the dance the other couples were performing.

“Then may I ask…who was it you were hoping to meet tonight?”

Leyna lifted her chin defiantly. “No one. I’m not here for that.”

“What a shame,” said Jester, suddenly twirling her, the movement making her emerald-green skirts billow out around her. The other couples, meanwhile, were still turning slowly with palms touching palms. “You look stunning, by the way.”

“Thank you,” she said, unsure of what to make of the compliment. She searched for one to say back to him, but what compliment could she possibly offer the jester? She couldn’t see his face, and couldn’t begin to imagine what he looked like without the mask and makeup. Even his lips had a hint of rouge.

He was a mystery, one that she wasn’t sure she wanted to uncover.

As the jester pulled her close again, she became conscious of his hand on her waist, the touch of his slender hands warm through the thin silk. She glanced up at him, but that was a mistake: their eyes met, the piercing contact sending a chill down her back. She quickly looked away. Why was her heart beating so fast?

They were starting to attract curious looks from the crowd, and a few people pointed. What would the court think of her dancing with a jester? Would they pass it off as a lark? Or would they make a big thing of it? Embarrassment closed in, and she dropped her chin to hide her face as they moved in time to the music, wishing that she, too, could hide behind a mask.

As far as appearances went, dancing with Jester was only a mild improvement on having to dodge a drunken marriage proposal; however unsuitable, at least Sir Waldorf was a knight, whilst Jester was many stations below her. But she could still save face. If she maintained a detached appearance, then no one could make too much of it, could they?

No sooner had these thoughts entered her mind, however, than the jester’s hand slid up to the middle of her back, bypassing her thin chiffon cape to where the dress’s diamond-shaped cut out was. She shivered at the touch of his fingertips against her skin.

Panicking, the next time the jester twirled her, she broke away, slipping her hand out of his grasp.

“I’m done with dancing,” she said by way of explanation. Her body temperature had risen, and she hoped her neck and chest hadn’t flushed red.

“Really?” asked Jester. “Don’t even want to finish the dance? Why, Leyna, are you embarrassed to be dancing with me?”

She shook her head quickly, but guilt ran through her. He had immediately identified the source of her discomfort and named it.

Would it have been so terrible if I had finished the dance with him?

The glint in his eyes told her that he knew the source of her reluctance perfectly well. She was starting to regret letting their difference in social class get in the way of her etiquette—at least, that was until she heard his next words:

“Because if you’re embarrassed to be dancing with me, then let me reassure you, there’s no need to be—after all, you’re not the only maiden with two left feet.”

It was a harmless jest.

But his words, however unintentionally, had reminded Leyna of her injury, and they cut deep.

He doesn’t know about my leg, she consoled herself, but it was too late. Tears sprung to her eyes and the seconds stretched as she stood, tight-lipped, trying to hold them back. It had been a long day, and she was tired.

“I don’t have two left feet,” she huffed, looking anywhere but at Jester as she tried to cover her reaction with annoyance.

“No, you’re right,” he mused. “I stand corrected—you don’t have two left feet. In fact, you make for an excellent partner, and I’m rather enjoying myself. Would you reconsider and finish this dance with me?”

Leyna looked up warily, unsure of what had caused the shift in Jester’s mannerisms. Had he noticed that she was upset? She wasn’t sure what possessed her to do it, but she took his hand and allowed him to draw her back amongst the dancing couples.

It was easy to match the jester’s rhythm, and their movements were smooth and harmonised. Soon, the tightness in her chest had eased, and she even forgot about the weakness of her leg as the music transported her away.

“Where did you learn to dance?” she asked. Performer or not, the jester led her through the complex dance like a natural, as if a formal waltz was not unfamiliar to him.

Jester leant close to her ear, as if about to impart a great secret.

“Jester school,” he said.

It took her a second longer than it should have to realise he was joking.

“By the way,” he continued, “I’m honoured that you’re dancing a second dance with me.”

Leyna blinked, then looked around her, wide-eyed. When had the contra dance become a waltz? She and Jester were no longer the only ones moving slowly—the other couples were holding each other close with a level of intimacy that only a daring waltz would allow.

The same closeness with which the jester held her now.

She stopped abruptly.

“Something the matter?” he asked, tilting his head so the bells hung lopsided.

She pulled away from his embrace. Before she could think of an excuse, a gentle breeze skimmed her face.

Catching sight of the large balcony doors, she gave the jester a brief curtsy and began to move towards them.

He stepped in front, blocking her path.

“What are you doing?” she asked, trying to sidestep him.

He blocked her again.

“I apologise if my earlier comment on left feet caused offence.”

“Why would it?” she asked, feigning ignorance.

“If it did,” he continued, “it was all in jest.”

“I know that,” she said, but his apology made her pause.

Although she had only met the jester today, he had spent the entire journey to Royad making fun of people—herself included. Many of his comments had been improper, some bordering on lewd and offensive. An apology had not been forthcoming then, so why was he apologising now? He seemed a completely different person.

“Leyna, you’re a marvellous dancer,” said Jester, extending his hand out to her. “Would you do me the honour of dancing the next one with me, and prove my comment on ‘left feet’ wrong?”

She stared at his offered hand blankly. The music had ended, and the nearby couples were assembling for the next dance. Their interchange had drawn the attention of several curious onlookers, and she didn’t feel like dancing anymore.

“I don’t need to prove anything,” she said. “And it’s Huskarl Leyna, if you please.”

She stepped past him, and he didn’t try to stop her as she strode across the tiled floor and out through the open doors.

The balcony was dark and deserted, and the only source of light was the soft glow of candelabras and the starry sky above. It felt good to leave the stifling ballroom behind. As she crossed the balcony, the fresh breeze was pleasant as it brushed the taffeta skirt against her skin, the tingling sensation heightened by her silk stockings. Leaning across the bannister, she welcomed the cool air as it played across her face, and she breathed in deeply before letting out a long sigh. The dark grounds below were a pastel of shadowy blues and greens, with only the nearby trees and a torch-lined footpath visible.

To her dismay, footsteps sounded behind her.

She didn’t turn immediately, wanting only to be alone for a few moments to enjoy the peaceful gardens.

The footsteps slowed but continued their approach, and the soft jingle of bells confirmed her suspicions.

The jester didn’t speak, moving instead to the wide stone bannister. He swung his legs over it, and for a moment, she thought he would leap off into the darkness below, but instead, he perched himself on the edge, his long legs dangling as he stared straight ahead.

“I just want to be alone,” said Leyna, but her voice was soft with no animosity. The gardens and the evening air provided a sense of calmness that the Great Hall had not.

“We’re always alone,” he replied, still looking straight ahead. “Moving through life, surrounded by people we love, if we’re lucky—but alone all the same, with only ourselves for true company.”

“That sounds sad,” she said, although the words resonated with her. There was nothing worse than feeling alone in a crowd.

“Sad? I think it’s liberating.”

Leyna looked him up and down. “Why so philosophical? Shouldn’t you be in there cracking jokes?”

He smiled and looked her way. “Why be in there, when I can be out here cracking jokes?”

“None of what you’ve said just now was funny,” she pointed out.

“Let me remedy that,” he chuckled, the sincere tone of his voice gone in an instant as he swung around to face her. “Why don’t you tell me more about those boots?”

“Boots?” She glanced down, and realised that the breeze had lifted her hem high up onto the cuffs of her tall, dirty boots. She hurriedly adjusted her skirt back down.

The jester watched, amused. “So, why the boots? Ready for trouble? Thought you might make a quick run for it if old Sir Waldorf got down on one knee tonight?”

His transition from earnestness to jest-making was seamless, and it was this more than the impertinence of his question that left her speechless.

Jester crouched down and grinned as he continued. “I might as well warn you that if you’re expecting to be wooed by that tippled old tosspot, you’ll need to listen closely between the hiccups—he seems to have a soft spot for cranberry vodka. Although, I hear he isn’t especially picky in his choice of liquid refreshment—or women, for that matter. And who doesn’t like a blonde?” he added, winking, before brazenly stretching himself out onto the wide stone bannister in front of her, his head propped up on one hand.

She contemplated pushing him off the balcony. “It’s a long way down,” she warned. “So, watch what you say. Do you even know who I am?”

“Why, yes—yes, please, please forgive me.” Jester leapt up to stand on the bannister, lithe and assured, and stooped in an exaggerated bow. “I forgot that you are not only an esteemed deliverer of justice for the king but a young and virtuous woman of noble blood—”

“Royal blood,” corrected Leyna.

“Of royal blood—” he repeated, “who can’t even see the forest for the stick shoved up her ass—”

“Jester!” interrupted a voice.

Leyna had raised her hand in fury, but to do what, she wasn’t sure. Was she allowed to slap the king’s jester? She lowered her hand.

“Leave the poor girl alone.” They turned simultaneously to see a plump woman in her early fifties standing in the doorway wearing a green dress that clung to her. Black hair hung in elegant twists over one shoulder, intertwined with gold ornaments, and Leyna admired the way her brown skin was complemented by her gold eyeshadow.

“Dearest Lola, have you come to join us?” asked Jester.

Lola gave him a pointed look. “If only I could. We’re beginning our show—I need my violinist.”

“You play the violin?” asked Leyna.

“He does when it suits him,” said Lola, shooting Jester a warning look before re-entering the hall.

Jester gave a sigh, his eyes flickering to Leyna. “Alas, I must go…Perhaps you will come and watch, my sweet lady?”

“Unlikely,” she muttered.

“You won’t regret it. Lola is the best singer in the kingdom.”

The bells jingled as he leapt off the bannister and landed beside her. “All in all, did you enjoy our time together?”

“I could have done without,” she replied.

“Well, perhaps you will enjoy our performance more. It will be a treat.” The jester skipped after Lola, but poked his head back to call out: “So perhaps I will spot you in the crowd? You can wave to me, if you like.”

Irritating! thought Leyna. Unbelievable. She leant back against the bannister, trying to clear her thoughts.

The only benefit of Jester’s pestering was that, like the other distractions of the evening, it had stopped her from dwelling on her quarrel with Quinn, but his words floated back to her now: The wolf’s form is all I have left.

What did that mean? And why was he so angry?

Positive, cheerful music interrupted her sullen thoughts. Reluctantly, she wandered back to the Great Hall. The dancing had ceased and everyone had gathered on one side. The screen that had hidden the castle’s musicians were pulled aside, revealing the musicians and performers of Bernie’s travelling troupe.

Jester and several other violinists played merrily, sending wild music rippling through the room, and Lola stood in prime view, beaming widely at the assembled crowd. She looked glamorous in her glittering dress, which she filled out amply, and her eyes roved from person to person, emanating confidence. She began to sing in a deep, loud voice:

I love my horse, Chiko, to a fault,

But, in reality, he’s just a naughty colt!

Locked in a bullpen, he’ll break it apart,

But a slosh of rum I’m sure will change his heart!

Leyna was hooked, as was the audience, drawn in by Lola’s good humour as she sang the absurd lines.

Suddenly, the violins sped up, becoming frantic as dancers in colourful skirts burst forth from somewhere, spinning and twirling fervently. As the tempo increased, Lola exploded into faster lyrics, pacing back and forth as she sang.

Hey, Chiko-Chiko, you drunken horse,

I’m a drunken woman with an empty purse,

We drank so much,

Was such a party,

Drank hot rum so rich and hearty,

It’s a healing medicine that I’ll endorse.

Hey Chiko-Chiko, you drunkard’s horse,

I’m an empty woman with an empty horse,

We drank so much,

We’re looking tardy,

Drank away your price of barley,

Drank away the price of a more sober horse— Hoy!

The audience whooped and clapped, but there was only a brief reprieve before the violins erupted into the next song.

A tap on Leyna’s shoulder made her turn away from the performance.

“Prince Seth!” she lit up when she saw her distant cousin. He was taller than she remembered. She gave him an earnest hug, ignoring decorum. Even though he was her cousin, it wasn’t proper to embrace him, but she’d known him since he was a baby, and in any case, it was unlikely that anyone would pay attention—the entertainers had the entire court enraptured, including the king and queen, who watched the performers from their elevation on the tall dais. “It’s so good to see you,” said Leyna. “How are you?”

The prince’s lips moved as he said something in reply, but she couldn’t hear him over the din.

He leant close to her ear. “I said, I can’t hear you! Let’s find someplace quiet.”

They moved out of the Great Hall and into the Foyer, which was deserted except for the guards stationed at the doors.

“You’ve grown so much!” exclaimed Leyna. “How old are you, sixteen? Seventeen?”

But Leyna was joking—she knew the young prince had only just had his thirteenth birthday.

“Thanks.” Seth grinned. “Did you know I’m taller than Rudy now? And he’s a year older than me!”

Leyna laughed as she looked her cousin up and down. His face was less boyish than she remembered, with new angles to it, and he had the queen’s curly brown hair, which bobbed as he bounced excitedly. There was a lankiness to his tall frame that emphasised his growth spurt, and his regal gold-braided doublet made him look more like a young man than a boy.

“I still can’t believe you’re only thirteen,” she teased. “I bet all the girls will be mad for you.”

Seth turned red but looked pleased with himself.

“Is it good to be home?” he asked her.

“Yes, but I only got back this afternoon.”

“I’m happy you’re home. I heard you’re a huskarl now!”

He sounded so proud of her that her heart melted.

“Thanks,” she murmured, the small flame inside her growing a little stronger.

“It’s amazing that you’re a wizard now. Do you think I can put in a request for you to be one of my guards? Then we can play chess. Captain Marton is such a stiff—I hope you don’t have to work with him much.”

“Seth!” she scolded. Captain Marton was her superior, and even Seth wouldn’t outrank him until he came of age at eighteen.

“What? It’s true. He never lets me do anything interesting if he can help it.” Seth lowered his voice, glancing at the guards across the hall. “Anyway, I heard Bancroft might be the next-in-line for captain.”

“Really?” She leant closer. “What makes you say that?”

Seth shrugged. “I don’t think Captain Marton’s very popular. He’s so full of it. And everyone likes Bancroft more.”

Leyna tried to imagine Bancroft as the captain of the Royal Guard. Whilst it took more than popularity to be a leader, she couldn’t deny that she would rather serve him than Captain Marton.

She was trying to find a diplomatic way to say this when the prince suddenly perked up, his wide eyes alight as if he’d just remembered to tell her something important.

“Leyna, you’ll have to show me how to summon a mount. You can teach me, now that you’re a qualified wizard. I’d love to ride a lion! Now, at first, I thought about a tiger, but all in all, I think a lion would be best. What do you think?”

Leyna repressed a smile. It was clear the prince had given the matter careful thought, but she could only imagine how haphazard it would be to ride a lion. The constant motion of the undulating back would mean the rider would be unable to sit and would have to stand in stirrups for the entire ride. The only reason she knew this was because she, too, had wondered the exact same thing at the Guild, although she’d wanted a snow leopard to stand out. Understandably, the Guild had quickly shut the idea down.

“I don’t think that would be very comfortable,” she finally said. “For you or for the lion.”

“Oh.” Seth looked crestfallen, but his pep returned almost instantly. “But I wouldn’t be hurting it, would I?”

She repressed a chuckle. “And where do you propose we find you a lion?”

Seth frowned. “What do you mean? It’s just magic, right? Don’t you just choose one out of a book? What about that Demon Book that was stolen—maybe it has animals in it?”

Leyna froze. “No. Absolutely not. The mounts that we summon are not demons. They’re real animals that are sourced here in Rosaria. They have a heart and soul just like you and me.”

“But don’t you summon your horse when you need it? Where does it come from if it’s not here?”

She tried to think of a way to answer Seth without committing herself to a long lecture on magical mount lore. “There’s another place where the horses are kept.”

“Oh. Like a stable?”

“No. The mounts are kept in a magical world that was created for that purpose—another plane of existence where they can roam free.”

She could practically see the cogs in Seth’s mind turning as he processed this information.

“What’s it like? Is it a field with grass and trees?”

“Yes.”

“And a sky?”

“Yes.”

“What if it rains? Or snows? Do they get cold?”

Leyna shrugged. She had no idea if it rained or snowed where Budsworth lived.

But Seth still had questions. “So what do the horses do when they aren’t being summoned? Do they play in the fields together?”

She repressed a snort. “Sure. I suppose.”

“What about food and water? Do they eat and drink?”

“Of course. As I said, they’re real animals.”

Seth hardly waited for her to finish answering before eagerly asking his next question.

“What kind of horse do you have?”

Leyna described Budsworth to Seth, cheered by the thought of her horse, who had been her constant friend at the Wizarding Guild. No matter how gruelling her studies had become, horse riding was a welcome escape that she’d looked forward to each day.

Seth maintained a steady stream of questions as they returned to the Great Hall. His enthusiasm for life was catching, and her heart no longer felt as heavy as it had before.

A table to their left bore the weight of Sir Waldorf. He was passed out over the table, head in his arms, with his ruddy face pressed against the wooden grain.

“I heard his latest wife ran away to Kormend,” said Seth, not bothering to whisper. “Took the jewels and boarded a ship. I don’t think he’s been sober since.”

“That’s sad,” said Leyna. She couldn’t help but feel sorry for Sir Waldorf. He’d been unlucky in love, it seemed, and she almost felt bad for avoiding him earlier. But she wouldn’t be the one to take on the task of saving him—if such a thing were possible.

Sir Waldorf gave a loud snore.

Leyna and Seth exchanged a look before moving on. Everyone in the hall had gathered around the High Table, craning their heads to see the jester, who was standing near the foot of the dais with his hands behind his back the jester mask ever-present as he surveyed the crowd.

“I wouldn’t mind a turn about the gardens with him,” giggled a woman in a blue gown nearby. She was about Leyna’s age and was standing with a group of other noblewomen.

“With a jester?” gasped one of her friends.

“Well, why not? It could be fun.”

“You don’t even know what he looks like!”

The woman in the blue dress winked. “Even better.”

Leyna tried not to roll her eyes as the women erupted into giggles.

A long valveless trumpet began to play. A gemshorn fashioned from a cow horn joined in, followed by the chime of a metal triangle. The beat of a wooden tambourine punctuated the quirky music, and it brought a smile to her lips. Jester gave an exaggerated bow to the king and queen sitting at the High Table, the mask’s bells nearly touching the tiles, before turning back to face the audience. He cleared his throat and recited:

His Majesty is so kind,

His Majesty is so fair!

His Majesty is loved everywhere!

It’s true—even by Claire!

Polite laughter. Queen Claire raised her eyebrows at her husband seated beside her, repressing a smile.

The jester took a step backwards, placing a bold foot on the first step of the dais.

His Majesty is so kind,

His Majesty is so fair!

In fact, even His Majesty’s hair is fair!

(Or so they say—I haven’t seen it anywhere!)

The audience laughed, none more loudly than the king, who lifted his crown in good humour. While golden locks still framed his ears, his hairline had receded, the remaining wisps of yellow lying thinly on his head. The jester launched into a ramble:

His Majesty is so kind,

His Majesty is so fair!

His Majesty has the strength of a bear!

And a sword that can tear,

And a heart that is rare,

And a fashion with flair,

And a glare that can scare,

And a Guard who will swear

To guard queen and heir.

He drew a melodramatic gasp of breath.

Indeed, his guards will follow him anywhere!

Jester went prostrate on the dais steps in a dramatic show of respect for the king before sitting up. He wore a mischievous grin as he slowly turned back to face the audience.

Indeed, his guards will follow him anywhere—

The privy, I hear, is a noble affair!

It takes all the king’s men uniting

To help him in the war he’s fighting

It’s all a bit hand in glove, you know?

But if the privy’s where he needs to go,

His men who to king fealty owe,

Will fight to curb the overflow.

Leyna frowned at the jester’s unbecoming portrayal of King Rutherford, and tried not to picture the king sitting on the privy, emptying his bowels while guards crowded around him. She glanced at the High Table to gauge the reaction there.

The queen had turned red from the toilet humour, and covered her face. The king, meanwhile, was roaring with laughter, and his court followed suit once they saw that it was safe to do so.

Meanwhile, Jester inched his way up to the top of the dais, his long cloak of midnight blue draping the steps as he crawled on his hands and knees. Leyna tensed, the laughter in the hall fading to an echo in her ears as she watched him near the High Table. Hands clenched, she began to push through the crowd, eyes fixed on the jester, whose voice had turned solemn:

So to those of fickle loyalty,

Beware the might of royalty,

For those who dare,

To lay their snare,

May as well send up a prayer,

As Royal Guard will rip and tear

Any man whose faith does err.

The audience waited for a punch line, but there was no humour in the words or delivery.

The jester was now standing on top of the dais next to the High Table, which was the only thing standing between him and the king. Leyna’s heart pounded as the threat moved closer to her liege. Could no one else sense the danger?

She pushed through a wall of noblemen, ignoring their protests. She couldn’t cast a spell for fear of hitting those seated at the High Table.

I have to get closer.

As she continued to shove her way through the crowd, the jester picked up the king’s goblet.

So here is to our great majesty,

For our peace, wealth, and prosperity.

Wars have merely steeled our castles,

And elevated these here vassals,

So hear ye gathered nobles, lasses,

I ask that you all raise your glasses

And to those who curse the king’s high taxes,

Just remember how he saved our asses!

The audience laughed and applauded, the sound magnifying the panic rippling through her as the jester pulled a small glass flask from his doublet. Her eyes widened as he poured a dash of liquid into the king’s cup.

“Stop!” she yelled, but the laughter drowned her out. “Stop!”

“To the king!” cried the jester over the noise, handing the cup back to King Rutherford with a small bow.

“To the king!” resounded the crowd, raising their glasses in salute. Leyna watched in horror as the king raised his goblet to his lips. Finally, she burst free of the throng of lords and ladies and darted for the dais. She leapt up in one fluid motion, but tripped as she landed on her green skirts. The edge of the table punched her in the stomach as she fell forward against it. White pain exploded in her belly, almost blinding her, but she shot her arm forward towards the surprised king and knocked the jewelled goblet from his hands.

Time slowed as the goblet spun through the air, the gold catching the light.

People screamed in alarm as the metal cup clattered loudly against the tiled floor.

Clang, clang, clang!

The hall was deadly silent as the king’s goblet scraped across the tiles before rolling to a standstill. A thin red liquid trickled out.

Chapter Fifteen

The Trophy Room

LEYNA LAY ACROSS THE table, panting, her hand stretched out towards the king. She met King Rutherford’s eyes. He was staring at her, dumbfounded, his empty hand still closed over the air where his goblet had been. His face was peppered with red drink, as was his ermine collar, the snow-white fur with black spots now marked with red flecks. A deathly silence had filled the hall, and a long moment passed before the king finally spoke.

“Explain.”

Breathing heavily, Leyna pushed herself up and pointed at the jester who stood on the dais beside her.

“He tried to poison the king!” she snarled, half addressing the audience and the officials sitting at the High Table.

The court gasped, a panicked murmur rising at the accusation.

“I saw him!” she continued, looking between the king and the audience. “He had a flask and…he added something to the king’s drink!”

The panic escalated, and the king raised his hands for silence. The tension in the room was palpable as everyone waited for the jester’s response. Seated beside the king, Queen Claire looked frightened, and the steward was glowering at Leyna. The chamberlain, meanwhile, just blinked in confusion.

King Rutherford looked imploringly at the fool. “Jester?”

To Leyna’s amazement, the jester didn’t deny it.

“It’s true.” The small flask appeared in his hands with a flourish, a delicate bottle of green glass with something darker swirling inside it. “I did add something to the king’s drink.” Swiftly, he uncorked the flask and tipped the contents into his mouth, holding the flask at a distance so that everyone could see the liquid. He finished pouring the drink down his throat, swallowed, and opened his mouth as evidence. “Ah, an excellent vintage.” He corked the flask with a satisfied sigh and looked at Leyna triumphantly. “You see, Lady Leyna? All is well. I was merely topping up His Majesty’s goblet.”

The king and queen seemed to relax. Leyna wasn’t convinced.

“That might not even be the same flask,” she said, eyes narrowed. It was the only logical explanation she could think of. Why else would he have spiked the king’s drink, but to add poison?

“Search me,” Jester said, spreading his arms wide.

Startled, she glanced at the king, who gestured for her to proceed.

Biting her lip, she approached the jester slowly, determined to avoid his sharp gaze. Standing only inches away, the vibrant colours of his outfit were intimidating. She tried to be methodical, but her heart beat loudly in her ears as she began to pat him down, searching for a hidden flask.

Feeling the rich fabric of his sleeves, she was surprised to find that his long arms were muscled. With a nervous swallow, she quickened her search, moving to his torso, feeling awkward as she patted his chest. Touching his body was strangely intimate, more so than dancing had been, and it was made all the worse by the hundreds of faces who were watching. The panels of his doublet were made of velvet, and her fingers created faint paths on the fabric as they swept across his chest. At this proximity, a smoky scent filled her nostrils, reminding her of cinnamon and campfires.

She heard Jester give a sharp intake of breath, and she snapped her head up to look at him.

He was watching her intently.

She averted her eyes, moving to search behind him, feeling for any hidden items or secret pockets.

To her dismay, there was nothing.

She hadn’t found another flask, nor anything else suspicious, on the jester’s person.

“The legs!” cried someone. “Don’t forget the legs!”

Her face grew hot as she knelt down by his pointed shoes. But as she traced his calves, she realised that he was wearing hose, the tights clinging to his legs. Flustered, she stood hastily and took a step back, avoiding the jester’s gaze. She turned to King Rutherford, empty-handed.

“I can’t find another flask.”

The crowd buzzed with interest.

“But I know he’s up to something,” she added, more loudly this time.

“Well, perhaps you should keep searching,” suggested the jester coyly before nodding towards his pelvis. “After all, you haven’t quite searched everywhere.”

Leyna flushed furiously as barks of laughter sounded.

“Go on, girl!” someone slurred. “May as well be thorough!”

“She might find more than she bargained for!” cried a woman, barely coherent through her own laughter.

Leyna’s skin prickled as she looked at the crowd—she hated being laughed at. But thankfully, besides the drunken cat-callers, the rest of the court seemed to share her concern. The majority of the nobles were murmuring in hushed tones, and several guards had appeared at the foot of the dais, including the huskarls who had hands on hilts and casting arms raised, ready to intervene.

At the High Table, Queen Claire was gripping her husband’s arm tightly, white as a sheet; Steward Marek was scowling at the jester; Chamberlain Percy wrung his hands; and the other officials looked shaken as they whispered to each other. The only person who seemed unworried was the king, who patted his wife’s hand reassuringly.

Two castle guards came forth, their metal armour clanging as they climbed the steps and seized the jester roughly by the arms.

“Are we arresting him?” asked one, and she was surprised that he addressed her and not someone of higher rank. She glanced at King Rutherford, but he gave her the hint of a shrug, which she took to mean that he was leaving the decision to her.

With a steadying breath, she faced the jester, who seemed relaxed even in the grip of the burly guards. The corner of his mouth twitched as if a smile lurked there, and his calm composure only sparked her temper.

It was tempting to order his arrest, but she had no proof that he had committed any crimes; King Rutherford had clearly not been poisoned and seemed remarkably unfazed by what had transpired, his attention already returned to his food.

As for the jester’s rhyming, while it may have been distasteful to portray the king using the privy, it did not give her the right to arrest him. Thanks to the protection of jester’s privilege, he had the right to talk and mock freely without being punished, an ability that extended to mocking the king.

And if the king could tolerate the jester…then so could she.

Even if he had gotten under her skin.

“M’lady?” prompted the guard. “Do you want him locked in the dungeons?”

She shook her head slowly. “Not today.”

The guards released the jester, who proceeded to dust his clothes off as if the near-arrest had been no more than a minor inconvenience.

The king gestured to the herald, who bent down to whisper in his ear. Leyna’s heart fell a notch as she overheard the whisper; the king didn’t know her name.

“Thank you, Huskarl Leyna,” said King Rutherford, gesturing to a servant for a new goblet. “That will be all.”

The jester wasted no time in addressing her. “Well! That was exhilarating, having you take charge like that. I had goosebumps! Was it good for you, too?”

Leyna ignored him. She gave the king a low bow and retreated down the dais, taking slow, measured steps in the hope she appeared dignified. In reality, her left leg had grown stiff and sore, and she was desperate not to draw further attention to herself by falling down the dais steps.

No sooner had she descended than the crowd swirled around her, flooding her with questions, but she rebuffed them and made her way to the far doors. A frenzy of conversation filled the Great Hall, the gossip evolving around Leyna with each step she took. By the time she had reached the exit, the surrounding people were telling exaggerated accounts about how the king had fallen to his knees, clutching his throat as he spat out poison.

Before she could slink out of the hall, someone took her hand.

“Leyna, wait!”

It was Grace.

“Hello,” said Leyna. She wasn’t in the mood to talk, but she would always make time for Grace.

“Leyna, that was amazing!” Grace pulled her into a tight hug. “Oh my gosh, I couldn’t believe it! You were so brave!”

Before Leyna could protest, Grace had pulled her into a gaggle of women who accosted her with questions:

“Huskarl Leyna, do you really think the jester tried to poison the king?”

“Weren’t you scared of the jester, Leyna?”

“Err—” Leyna tried to answer, but the ladies kept cutting her off, requiring no input from her.

“Can you imagine if the king had died?”

“Oh shush, Anne, how horrible! Don’t say that!”

“Ladies, did you see His Majesty’s ermine collar? Absolutely soiled! I bet those wine stains won’t come out.”

“My maid could get them out.”

“Leyna, I heard you tackled the jester to the ground!”

“Er, not quite,” Leyna said, but her voice went unheard. Finally, she escaped the jungle of skirts and flaring sleeves and fled the Great Hall, wishing only for her soft bed and to be out of the heavy boots and gown.

Exhaustion pushed on her as she approached the grand stairs, the flights of steps ahead suddenly daunting. It had been an emotional evening, and she was drained from travelling on the road. On top of all that, her leg had begun to ache with small, painful spasms. It was important that she rest—there was no telling what her first day tomorrow as a huskarl would be like.

Tucked in beside the stairs was a padded chaise, and with the Foyer deserted, she made no effort to hide her limp as she shuffled around to sit on the cushioned seat. The events of the day had caught up to her, and it felt good to be sitting again. She just needed a few minutes before tackling the steps.

The Foyer was quiet, the crowd’s noisy commotion now a distant murmur. Every now and then, the doors to the Great Hall would open as people spilt out, chatting animatedly as they walked up the marble steps, unaware that she was sitting in the nook just below them.

Silence fell.

The distant noise of the excited nobles seeped into the cool foyer.

Leyna wondered why more people weren’t exiting the Great Hall. She had expected the evening to end prematurely after the fiasco with the goblet, but it seemed that nearly everyone had stayed in the hall.

What was going on?

Suddenly, the tall windows of the Foyer lit up with bright, colourful lights, and a hush fell over the faraway crowd. A moment later, several bangs sounded, the force of it making Leyna jump, and the Foyer window lit up in an explosion of colour.

Fireworks, she realised, letting out a sigh of relief. It was just the magic show being performed outside on the front lawn. She could only catch glimpses of it from her vantage point, but the show would easily be visible from the Great Hall windows and balcony.

It was a comfort to know that the incident with the king’s goblet would not be the last thing on everyone’s mind tonight. Leyna considered returning to the party, but she was tired and no longer felt the temptation to join the wizards in the performance—she’d drawn enough attention to herself for one evening.

I should just return to bed.

The distant cheers of the crowd gave way to oohs and ahhs, and a moment later, Leyna understood why as several colourful illusions appeared in the Foyer windows. The forms of majestic birds, each one more breath-taking than the last, glowed brightly against the night sky as they flew past. Bringing up the rear was a large, dazzling illusion of a unicorn.

Leyna did a double take, then barked with laughter at the sight of the unicorn, which was as beautiful as depicted in fairy tales, but with one key difference: although the horse-like creature sparkled white and turquoise as it glided through the air on feathered wings, it sported—in addition to its single, spiralling horn and glittering mane—a bulging pink cow udder.

“Bancroft,” Leyna muttered, completely certain that the last illusion had been of his making. She shook with quiet laughter. It was the sort of thing he would do—to add a humorous twist to whatever task he was given.

She allowed herself a long, deep breath as she steadied herself on the chaise, preparing to stand. It was time she returned to her room for some much-needed rest. Before she had risen, however, the door to the Foyer opened again, and a single set of footsteps emerged. They were soft as they padded across the tiles, and did not take the grand stairs, but instead turned down a corridor and faded into the distance. But what caught her attention was the soft jingling that accompanied each step.

Leyna sat bolt upright, holding her breath as she listened.

Yes—it was unmistakable. They were the jester’s bells. Rising slowly, conscious of the rustle of her dress, she peered between the balusters near the foot of the stairs and caught a glimpse of the jester’s tall figure disappearing down a corridor, the dark cape rippling behind him.

Where’s he going? The corridor led to the Gallery, the Garden Room, and the Hall of Statues, as well as a host of other areas that she was sure he had no business being in at this time of night.

Feeling a fresh burst of energy, she followed him, trying to make as little noise as possible as she darted across the tiles. As she entered the corridor, she was grateful for the soft pomegranate-patterned carpets that masked her footsteps.

She couldn’t see Jester anywhere.

She wandered through the Gallery, a narrow corridor lined with paintings and tapestries. She stopped to peek into the adjacent rooms, but she’d lost him.

Gritting her teeth, Leyna contemplated searching for the jester in the Garden Room, but she would have seen him if he’d walked down the entire length of the Gallery—she hadn’t been that far behind. She began to backtrack and was about to give up when she heard the sound of voices.

She edged into a waiting room, which was lined with padded chairs on one wall, and featured an ornate piano with lion claw feet in the corner. There was no one in here, but the voices were louder, emanating from a cream-coloured door on the far side of the room. It led to the Trophy Room beyond. She crept closer.

The door was ajar.

A heated conversation was taking place inside. Much to her frustration, she couldn’t make out the words. The jester—and whoever he was speaking to—were on the far side of the Trophy Room. She would have to get closer.

With trembling hands, Leyna reached forward to touch the door, coaxing it open with her fingers, all the while praying that it wouldn’t creak as it started to swing open.

Thankfully, it didn’t.

The room was dark, the conversation louder but still indistinct.

After pausing to take a steadying breath, Leyna slipped inside, trying to be quiet as the voluminous fabrics of her dress tried to follow.

Walls of shelves and cabinets, some glassed, displayed hundreds of trophies and plaques now lost in shadow. Most of them were awarded for sport, including equestrian events, jousting, hunting and duels, but others were for card games, with the Ruffles tournament being a court favourite that was much favoured by the queen.

A single torch had been lit on the far side of the room, throwing shapes and shadows onto the walls as it flickered. The cabinets closest to her were shrouded in darkness, and she moved into their cover. As she settled beside a cabinet, peering through the glassed corner, she was able to see two figures at the end of the room.

“—what the heck were you thinking?” growled an enormous bear of a man with a rough, bushy beard. Leyna recognised him as Patrick of the castle guard. The other figure she couldn’t see very well from the way the glass distorted the shapes, but when he spoke, she knew that it was Jester from his impish tone:

“It was just a little test. To see if you guards are paying attention. Didn’t you like it, Pat? I thought it was rather entertaining.”

“Drop the fool act. You’re meant to be lying low, not blowing your cover. It’s bad enough that you came as a jester.”

When Jester spoke next, the playfulness in his voice was gone, replaced by seriousness. The change was so radical that she leant forward to try and see him better, just to make sure it was still him speaking.

“I was right, wasn’t I?” Jester continued. “Royal Guard, my arse. How is it that a performer like me, only recently arrived at the castle, can get close enough to the king to spike his drink? I shouldn’t even have gotten as far as the dais. Where were the huskarls?”

“The king doesn’t like it if we’re too close to his table,” said Patrick.

“The king doesn’t like it? Or is someone else giving the orders?”

“Is this another one of your conspiracy theories?”

“Patrick, aren’t you even the least bit concerned?”

“Of course, I am. I know something’s not right. That’s why I sent word. Only I didn’t think they’d send you, especially not wearing tights. How are they on the royal jewels, anyway?”

“Tight. But rather flattering, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

Patrick snorted. “I wasn’t looking. I prefer not to look at another man’s bagpipe.

“That’s not what I’ve heard.”

“Sod off. I’m not interested in your codpiece.”

“Ah, so you did notice,” smirked Jester. “How flattering.”

“Cut the crap. I’m still not sure what game you were playing at before, drawing attention to yourself in front of everyone.”

There was a pause, before Jester slammed a fist against a panelled wall, which caused the plaques to shake above him.

“Patrick, not one guard noticed me spiking the king’s drink. Not one—the only person who noticed was Leyna.”

Her skin prickled at the sound of her name.

“Yeah, the girl, I get it. I saw you paying her special attention. You interested in her or something?”

“What? No, not in the slightest. I was more entertaining the notion of recruiting her.”

“Ah,” said Patrick, nodding knowingly. “You want to ‘recruit’ her, eh? Is that what they’re calling it these days?”

“Cut that out,” said Jester coolly. “Not all roads lead to sex.”

“Well, they should,” said Patrick sulkily. “So, are you gonna recruit her or not?”

“Unlikely. She and Captain Marton are two birds of a feather. Too self-righteous.”

It didn’t sound like a compliment. Leyna’s fists clenched.

“Isn’t that what we want in an asset, someone moral?” asked Patrick.

“More like moralistic.”

“Wouldn’t that make her easy to control?”

“No. It will make her impossible to control. And insufferable.”

A pause.

Then Patrick grinned. “You like her!”

Jester held a hand up.

“I’ll admit, I liked the way she smacked the goblet out of the king’s hand. I didn’t think she had it in her.”

“I’m surprised she didn’t throw your ass in the dungeon.”

“Are you surprised, Pat? Or disappointed?”

“Both. I didn’t fancy hauling your ass out of the dungeon tonight.”

“Yes,” agreed Jester. “Imprisonment is…inconvenient.”

“So, what about the book?” asked Patrick. “Do you know who stole it?”

“I was about to ask you the same thing, Pat.”

“I bet Emsworth is having a fit.”

Jester gave a bitter laugh. “I’m about to have a fit. Do you know what I went through in Kormend to acquire it? Only for it to fall into the wrong hands.”

“The wrong hands? Who would that be, then? I thought you said you didn’t know who stole it?”

“I don’t. But it’s safe to say that any weapon that’s not in our hands is in the wrong hands.”

“True. So, what inspired the jester costume? Shouldn’t you be trying to blend into the shadows?”

“Not at all. That’s the beauty of being a jester. The best-kept secrets are hidden in plain sight.”

“Sounds stupid.”

“Think about it, Pat. A jester is able to move freely between all sorts of people, from the lowliest tavern to the most exclusive noble chambers. It gives me access to places, people, and, more importantly, information.”

“Like information about the Demon Book? Because—"

“Hush,” said Jester suddenly.

Both men stilled.

Leyna, whose face had been pressed against the glass, froze as well. Why had they gone quiet? She fought the urge to duck down, knowing that the movement would only attract attention. They were unlikely to spot her in the darkened room anyway—but it was hard to be logical when her heart was beating so rapidly.

The seconds passed, the silence stretching.

She stopped breathing, waiting.

“What is it?” asked Patrick.

“I smell a rat.”

“A rat?”

“Hm, actually, no, perhaps something a little larger. A sneaky fox.”

Just then, the jester looked in her direction. It took only a moment for his sharp eyes to find her, and when they did, he smiled as he looked at her directly through the glass.

“Your perfume is a delight, my dear.”

Panic seized her as their eyes met, and she felt her heart thundering loudly in her ears, her entire body screaming that she was in danger.

She fled.

Turning on her heel, Leyna gathered her skirts to prevent herself from tripping on them and sprinted for the exit. In the darkness, she heard pounding footsteps that were not her own running down the length of the Trophy Room, and she realised that she was being chased.

She threw herself against the half-open door and ran across the waiting room, pushing her legs to go harder, desperate to get away even as she heard her pursuer closing in, the footsteps growing closer.

Thud-thud-thud-thud.

As she reached the carpeted Gallery, a hand seized the back of her cape, and she felt herself jerked to a standstill, gasping as the fabric tightened around her shoulders. In the next moment, she’d been spun around to face the jester, his expression unreadable through the mask as he panted.

“Leyna,” he began, taking hold of her arms.

“Let go of me!” she cried, trying to pull out of his grasp.

“Leyna, listen to me—”

“Let go!” she yelled, her cry sharp and desperate as it echoed along the narrow corridor. The jester released her and she bolted, trying not to whimper as pain shot through her leg. She ignored it, pushing herself forward through the corridors.

In her haste to get away, she hadn’t been paying attention to where she was going, and instead of returning to the Foyer, she found herself in the Hall of Statues, a vast, eerie place interspersed with statues that matched the Great Hall in its size.

Distressed, she spun around, but there was no one there. Breathing heavily, she waited a minute, listening, but Jester had not followed her.

Should she go back to the Foyer? Or take the back stairs up to her room? The latter was a decent detour, but returning to the Foyer put her at risk of seeing the jester again.

Spinning around again, she appraised the hall. The rear of the castle had several flights of stairs that could lead her up to her quarters. It was the long way back, but at least she wouldn’t have to cross paths with the jester again—or anyone else, for that matter. Nobody would be in this part of the castle now.

She had not taken more than a handful of steps forward, however, when her leg gave out.

Unprepared, Leyna hit the ground heavily, her elbow banging against the tiled floor as she landed. With a cry of anguish, she rolled onto her back, gritting her teeth as a sharp cramp seized her leg.

Tears sprang forth as she crawled towards a nearby pedestal, sitting up to lean against it. As the tears came, she did not bother to hide the whimpers that no one would hear. Eventually, the waves of pain receded, leaving her skin clammy. She pulled her knees up to hug herself.

I just need a moment, she thought, trying to wipe the tears with her gown’s sleeves, but the taffeta and silks were too slippery and shiny to be helpful. At least there’s no one here to hear me cry.

Except someone did hear, because a figure knelt down beside her.

“Leyna? What happened? What are you doing here?”

Through the blur of tears, she was able to make out Quinn’s face.

“Here, try and sit up,” he said, and with the help of his steadying hand, she managed it.

“Thank you.”

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“I just needed some time alone. There were too many people in the hall.”

She could agree with him there.

“So…” Quinn twiddled his thumbs, still crouched beside her as if thinking of what to say. “Do you want to talk about why you’re upset?”

“No, not really.” She wondered if he’d witnessed the drama with the goblet. He didn’t bring it up, and neither did she.

She felt a little better after having cried. Some of the tension had seeped out of her, but her exhaustion had grown deeper, and had there been a pillow here, she would have gladly laid down to sleep. “I just want to go back to my room.”

“Fair enough,” said Quinn. He paused. “Do you…do you need a hand?”

“I need a leg,” she said with a small laugh. It would be a relief to be back in her bed. She wanted the drama of the evening to be over.

“Can you walk?”

“Sort of.” Leyna closed her eyes for a moment, clenching them tight as she realised what she needed to do: ask for help. But she had never been good at that. And to ask Quinn for help was even harder.

“Is it your leg?” he asked. “The one the demon attacked? Is it hurting?”

“Yes. I mean, my leg was fine, it really was. But now, it’s sore, and…” She trailed off, reluctant to admit how much it troubled her. “I’m just not looking forward to all those stairs.”

Her words hung in the air.

“Do you want my help?” asked Quinn.

She nodded reluctantly. “Yes, please.”

He hoisted her up and, still supporting her, helped her walk along the long hall, evading the statues that were arranged like obstacles.

“Quinn?” she asked.

“Hm?”

“Can we take the back stairs?”

He nodded.

“And, Quinn, can you please do me a favour and not—”

“I won’t tell anyone about your leg.”

“Not even Grace?”

He shrugged. “She’ll find out.”

“I know, but I’ll tell her.”

“Alright.”

What should have been a quick trip up the stairs took a long time. They paused on each landing to rest, and by the time they reached the third floor, she was covered in a sheen of sweat. They still had a way to go, as the Saunders’ suite was located on the opposite end of the floor in a different wing, but at least there were no more stairs to contend with. She continued to lean on Quinn as he helped her along the carpeted corridors.

Now that the going was easier, she asked the question that had been weighing on her: “What did you mean when you said that the wolf form was all you had?”

It was some time before he answered. “The Guild nearly didn’t let me graduate.”

“Because of the prank?”

“Mostly because of the Renegade. I’ve received warnings in the past.”

Leyna nodded. Quinn had caused much controversy at the Wizarding Guild in the past year for casting Renegade spells—including his most recent one in the maze, which had nearly killed her. She reached to touch her jaw. “You know, a part of me thought that you were casting the Renegades on purpose.”

He gave her an incredulous look. “Why would you think that?”

“I…I suppose I misjudged you. I’m sorry.”

Silence fell between them, during which she concentrated on placing one foot in front of the other.

“Were they going to expel you?” she finally asked.

“No. I think the headmaster wanted to hold me back to repeat the year.”

“That’s not good.” The fear of failing, and of having to repeat a year, had plagued Leyna throughout her years at the Guild. “So how is it that they allowed you to graduate?”

“I think the Guild was pressured by my father. Also, Chamberlain Percy vouched for me.”

She was torn between probing for more details and saying something to console Quinn. Settling on the latter, she summoned a cheerful voice and said, “Well, what does it matter how you passed? The important thing is that you’re a fully qualified wizard. That’s great.”

Quinn gave a bitter laugh. “Except my wings are clipped. So, it’s not so great.”

“What? I don’t understand.”

“What I mean is, yes, I am a qualified wizard, but I have conditions imposed on my registration. That was the only way the headmaster would allow me to graduate.”

“What conditions?”

“Well, I’m not allowed to perform any combat spells. But I’m allowed to transform into the wolf, which apparently, I’ve proven I can do reliably.”

Leyna was stunned. It had never occurred to her that this was even a possibility—as far as she was aware, it had never been done. Why had Headmaster Emsworth made such an extraordinary exception for Quinn? She wondered if Percy had it in him to be that convincing, or if the pressure had come from the steward himself.

“What about other spells?” she asked. “You said you can’t cast combat ones, but what about shield spells, or unlocking doors? Or using light?”

After seven years of living with magic, she couldn’t imagine living without it now, even if she did try to use it sparingly.

“I can cast some of the non-combat ones,” Quinn muttered. “But it’s complicated. There’s a whole list of what I can and cannot do. But combat spells are strictly prohibited. Emsworth even said that he won’t consider lifting the conditions on my wizarding registration unless I return to the Guild.”

She frowned. “Why would you return to the Guild?”

“Emsworth offered to do private lessons with me. He said he can help me ‘iron out the kinks.’ But I don’t know. A part of me thinks it would have been good to repeat a year. Get my confidence up.”

She had never considered that anyone would want to stay at the Guild for longer than they had to.

“So will you return to the Guild?” she asked.

“I’d like to. But I do not think I’ll have the chance for some time. I’m away for all of summer with the court.”

Leyna bit her lip, unsure of what to say. Without combat spells, Quinn was essentially a guard without a weapon—except for his wolf form. It was an unusual situation, but it was reassuring to know that he wouldn’t be casting another Renegade anytime soon.

Surprisingly, it was Quinn who filled the silence. “My father was not pleased.”

“Oh?”

“He said I am ‘disappointing and useless,’ like my brother.”

“Oh, Quinn…” If he hadn’t already been half-carrying her as they walked, she would have reached out to him. “Your father shouldn’t have said that.” She paused. “And I didn’t know you had a brother.”

Quinn shrugged. “He’s older than me and lives in Kormend. I have not seen him in years, and he’s only been to Rosaria twice before.”

Leyna felt a twinge of guilt that she had not known this about Quinn.

I guess there’s a lot I don’t know about him, she realised, stealing a glance at the surly wizard. All this time, what she’d assumed was arrogance was just a veneer. He was a different person entirely…insecure and socially inept, but kind.

Quinn released her when they reached her family’s suite. She hobbled to the door of her private chambers, but hesitated before unlocking it.

“I have another question,” she said.

“Hm?”

“When I left the Guild to come here this morning, Grace mentioned you’d already left, that you were summoned to the castle in the middle of the night. Why?”

He shrugged and looked away. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“I don’t remember.”

She gave a surprised laugh. “What do you mean, you don’t remember? It was earlier today!”

Quinn avoided her gaze, his voice growing unusually high-pitched. “It wasn’t important. My father wanted to see me, that’s all.” He cleared his throat. “He missed me.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Grace also mentioned that the summons came from the king. She said it sounded urgent.”

“Yes…but I can’t talk about it.” His eyes flickered to hers briefly before looking away. “I better go. Goodnight.”

Leyna gaped after him as he skulked away. He was a terrible liar, and for the second time that night, her opinion of his character had turned on its head.

It felt wonderful to be out of the ball dress and in her comfortable bed. The fabric of the nightgown was soft, and her entire body felt at ease as she pulled the fluffy covers closer. Grace was already asleep in the large bed, snoring and occupying the centre like a star angel. She hardly stirred as Leyna rolled her onto her side, freeing up some room for herself. The pillow felt incredible as her head sank into it.

It felt good to be home. She’d been happy to see her parents, and even happier to see Bancroft.

I hope I can train with him tomorrow.

Her sleepy thoughts swirled with the events of the day.

She was glad she’d invited Grace to stay with her, and hoped she and Sophie would become friends—they were both thoughtful and kind-hearted, although Grace was easily the more outgoing of the two.

As for Quinn, she had no idea what to make of him—he had debunked her long-standing presumption that he was ill-mannered and arrogant, only to blatantly lie to her face.

But most confusing of all were her interactions with Jester, whose voice and mannerisms seemed to change with the moment. She was certain that he wasn’t just a jester, and that he was hiding something.

Patrick had implied that he’d asked the jester to come to the castle for a reason…but how did they know each other?

The night had presented more questions than answers, and the faces of the people and the words they had spoken began to spin faster and faster in her mind, until she couldn’t focus on any of it. As she drifted to sleep, two thoughts floated back into her dreams.

Who had stolen the Demon Book, and why? And what did the jester have to do with it?

Chapter Sixteen

A Secret Meeting

A LOUD KNOCK INTERRUPTED Leyna’s sleep. It was pitch black.

Had the knock been for her? Or for a different door in the hallway? She nestled her face back into her pillow, hoping the person would go away.

The knock came again, more insistent this time. It was definitely for her door. She groaned and rolled out of bed, her body aching. Grace was deep in slumber and did not stir. She fumbled in the dark until she found the candle on her bedside table and muttered a spell to light it. The flame was small, but its warm glow was kinder on her tired eyes than her magical blue orb would have been. Unlocking her door, she peeked out. An elegantly dressed servant was standing in the hallway with a candle.

“Huskarl Leyna?”

“Yes, what is it?” she asked, trying not to sound grumpy.

“Pardon me, m’lady,” he said, averting his eyes from her nightgown. “But the king requests your presence immediately.”

“He…what? The king?” She tried for coherence. “The king wants to see me…now?”

“Yes, m’lady. You are to come with me.”

“I’ll have to get dressed.”

“Make haste—he is waiting.”

Stifling a yawn, she buttoned her Wizarding Guild cloak over her nightgown and gave her hair a quick brush. Reluctant to pull on her boots, she chose a pair of soft slippers.

Once outside, she followed the servant down the torchlit corridors, which were deserted. She guessed it must be very late, the festivities long ended. Memories of last night came back to her, including the gold blur of a goblet as it spun through the air. A wave of nausea replaced the grogginess of sleep as she tried to guess why the king had summoned her. Why did he want to see her? Had she done something wrong? Was she to be punished for striking the king?

Nervous thoughts circled her like vultures all the way to the king’s private chambers.

King Rutherford was sitting by a gigantic fireplace. Flames crackled, throwing bright light around the room and filling the air with the smell of burning wood. It felt too hot in her cloak, but with only a nightgown underneath, she could not remove it.

“His Majesty, the king,” announced the servant.

“Huskarl Leyna Saunders,” said the king, beckoning. “Come forward.”

She approached nervously, braced for a reprimand.

The king’s face was half-lit by the firelight, the cast shadows making his wrinkles more obvious. Some wrinkles were smile lines, the rest a testament to the hardships he had endured as a ruling monarch. He looked tired, and though only in his mid-forties, he appeared much older and less impressive in a plain night robe without his crown.

“Leyna. Which one are you?”

“Pardon me, Your Majesty?”

“Are you Arnold’s granddaughter?”

“Er, his daughter, my liege,” she corrected, curtsying deeply. “I’m His Majesty’s second cousin once removed, sir.”

“Very well. The reason I summoned you here is because it has come to my attention that the secret identity of one of my spies has been compromised.”

“Sir? I don’t understand.”

“One of my spies,” he repeated. “Leyna, I have marked your loyalty at the feast tonight. I have many enemies, and your vigilance in protecting the Crown has been noted.”

“Thank you, sir,” she replied uncertainly, wondering where the conversation was going.

“As I understand it, tonight you have also uncovered the identity of one of my spies. Is this so?”

It took Leyna a moment to realise who he meant.

“Do you mean the jester?”

The king inclined his head solemnly. “Indeed. Leyna, as your king, I command your silence on this matter. You are never to reveal the jester’s true identity to anyone. Is that understood?”

Leyna bobbed her head, then hesitated. “I understand, sir, but…begging your pardon…I don’t actually know the jester’s identity.”

The king fixed her with a stern look. “It has been reported that you’ve overheard a conversation where he revealed himself.”

Leyna bit her lip. “Not quite, Your Majesty. I heard a little, but I do not know who the jester is. I…I merely suspect that he is not who he says he is.”

“Good,” said the king. “I’m glad to hear it. From this day forth, you are to cease your suspecting, and you are sworn to secrecy on the matter. As far as you’re concerned, he is simply a jester. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well, you may begin.”

He clasped his hands and looked at her expectantly. Leyna shifted, feeling uncomfortable. “Sir?”

“Do you not know the Oath of Secrecy?” He sighed. “Very well. You may kneel and repeat after me.”

Dutifully, she went down on one knee, and with King Rutherford’s guidance, repeated the oath.

“I, Huskarl Leyna Saunders, do swear that I will not, without the king’s authority, disclose or make known to any person any knowledge or information regarding the jester’s identity obtained by me, whether in the course of my duties under the Royal Guard code, or otherwise.”

“That will do,” said the king. “You may stand.”

“Your Majesty,” she said, getting to her feet and retreating a step. “Since I am now sworn to secrecy, may I ask what the real identity of the jester is?”

“No, you may not,” he said briskly. “Now, to another matter. I wish to discuss my son, Prince Seth. He is my only heir…” He looked her up and down. “I understand you are one of the wizards assigned to protect him, is that so?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Fine. And you have successfully completed your training as a wizard?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well. Leyna, after your show of loyalty tonight, I trust you will look after my son while I am gone. I, therefore, charge you to oversee his education in magic in my absence.”

“Education in…magic?” Leyna’s voice faltered. If this was King Rutherford’s idea of a reward or promotion for her earlier heroism, then she didn’t want it. As much as she liked Seth, she hadn’t joined the Royal Guard so that she could be a tutor.

“Yes. Seth is eager to learn magic, and I would like to extend him that opportunity. I myself never had that chance—my father died when I was young, and though I did not bear the burden alone until I came of age, there was no time for such things.”

For the briefest moment, a pained expression passed across his face as he stared into the fire. Leyna had never met the previous king, who had died before she was born, but the man sitting before her now had ascended the throne at a young age, taking his place as ruler of Rosaria. She couldn’t imagine the pressures he would have had to face as a young child, even with a court official sworn in as a regent to guide him.

“Now,” continued the king, his expression stern again. “I am appreciative of the fact that my son will never become a wizard. He simply has too many other lessons to contend with. But in rare circumstances, we may grant a licence to allow a smaller repertoire of spells to be performed, as you are no doubt aware. And if my son has the ambition and aptitude to learn some magic, then I see no reason to deny him. He already has a grasp of the basics, as I understand it, but he wishes to learn more than the chamberlain is capable of teaching.

Leyna’s brow furrowed. Magic was a heavy topic; progress was slow, and mistakes were dangerous. She was also worried that teaching would take her away from her huskarl duties.

The king must have sensed her hesitancy, because his face grew dark. “It is a great honour to be the prince’s tutor. Do you require me to ask you again?”

“No, Your Majesty, of course not,” she answered hurriedly. “It would be a great honour to tutor Prince Seth in magic.”

“Done. You start tomorrow.” King Rutherford sighed deeply and leant forward to stare into the flames. “I grow weary of travel.”

It took Leyna several moments to realise she’d been dismissed.

She'd almost left the room, but hesitated at the doorway, a thought nagging at her. Dare she ask the king?

Curiosity won over. “Excuse me, Your Majesty…”

The king gave no signs of hearing. She wrung her hands as she turned to face the tall armchair’s back.

“Your Majesty, I was just wondering…” She faltered.

“Go on.” His deep, resonant tone only added to her nerves.

“Y-your Majesty, sir, why did you summon Quinn Volak to the castle yesterday? I understand there was an urgent matter.” She could scarcely breathe, braced for a reprimand.

But none came. There was a pause, then the king turned slowly, his face all but lost in shadow. His flame-lit eyes bore into hers as he said:

“I never summoned him.”

Chapter Seventeen

The King Leaves

LEYNA LEFT THE KING’S chambers and wandered back through the corridors, his words still burnt into her mind.

I never summoned him.

Beyond the large windows, the black sky had turned to grey as morning crept in, and servants had begun to extinguish torches. Any hope she’d had of returning to sleep vanished. Soon, she would have to get dressed—the castle folk remaining behind were expected to assemble outside to bid the king and his court goodbye.

Grace was already awake when Leyna returned to her suite.

“Where were you?” she asked.

Leyna filled Grace in on her meeting with the king—omitting the part about the jester’s identity and the Oath of Secrecy the king had asked her to swear.

Grace sat on the bed, brushing her brown hair thoughtfully.

“I haven’t met the prince yet. What’s he like?”

“He’s sweet. You’ll like him.”

“Is he really only thirteen? He looked so tall! Will you be guarding him from now on?”

Leyna leant against the wardrobe. “I have no idea, but I suppose I’ll find out when we get our orders from Captain Marton. At any rate, I hope I’m not expected to teach Seth all day.”

“You don’t seem too pleased,” Grace noted. “I thought you liked Seth. Aren’t you related?”

“I do like Seth. We’ve always been close. But tutoring is not why I became a wizard—or a huskarl.”

“Hmm. Well, perhaps you’ll enjoy teaching?”

“Perhaps…” But she wasn’t convinced.

Grace began to make the bed.

“Don’t do that,” said Leyna. “Sophie will be in soon.”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” Grace said, pulling the sheets tight, but she clearly didn’t know how to tuck the corners. Leyna resisted telling her that Sophie would have to redo them properly anyway, and instead knelt down to help Grace with the task. When they were done, the corners were still shoddy, but Grace seemed satisfied.

“There,” she said proudly. “Now, did you say Seth already knows some magic?”

“Apparently.” Leyna was sceptical of whether Seth had truly been able to learn ‘the basics’ from Percy.

“What do you think you’ll teach him first?”

“I don’t know. He wants to summon a mount.” She rolled her eyes.

“Hm.” Grace chewed her lip as she fluffed a pillow. “That’s a difficult one to start with.”

“No kidding.” Leyna had gained Budsworth in her third year at the Guild—that was the easy part. On the other hand, training Budsworth and learning the spells required for the summonings had been a time-consuming process.

“Why not start Seth off with something simple?” Grace suggested.

“What would you call simple?” asked Leyna, sitting down on the bed.

Grace plopped down beside her. “I don’t know. Lighting a fire? Levitating an object? Pushing a door closed? Ask him what he wants to learn—give him some options.”

It was good advice.

“Now,” said Grace, in a businesslike tone. “What on earth do we wear on our first day?”

They hadn’t had time to be fitted for their uniforms yet, but with Sophie’s help, they obtained a clean set of clothes to wear under their Guild cloaks—slim trousers, belted tunics, elegant waistcoats, and fresh socks.

Leyna was about to enter the bathroom with the bundle of clothes when Grace chided her.

“Where are you going, silly?”

Leyna hesitated. “To change.”

“Just change out here. There’s no need to be shy! How did you ever get dressed at the Guild in front of your roommates?”

Leyna fiddled with the tunic’s sleeves in her arms, twisting the fabric in her fingers.

“That was different,” she said flatly. “That was before my injury…I just…”

Grace gave her a sympathetic look. “I understand. How is your leg?”

She shrugged. “It’s fine.”

“You know, Leyna …I haven’t seen your leg since it was healed, but I’m sure no one will mind how it looks—and if they do, they’re not worth bothering with.”

Leyna considered this.

The moth-eaten appearance of the skin still bothered her, mostly because it served as a physical reminder of the attack. But a part of her worried what others would think of its appearance.

I need to focus on strengthening my leg, she reminded herself. That’s all that matters right now.

Whether her leg would heal or deteriorate over time remained to be seen.

“Leyna,” said Grace softly. “It’s not something you need to hide.”

An ache was building in Leyna’s throat, but she managed a smile as she pushed on the bathroom door. She wanted to do the strengthening exercises that Cornelius had set her in the privacy of the bathroom. “Thanks, Grace. But…if it’s all the same to you, I’ll get dressed in here…I need the washbasin anyway.”

The king’s gilded carriage started forward, drawn by two elegant horses. The assembled court followed suit, some on horseback, and others in fine carriages whose splendour mimicked that of the royal carriage. King Rutherford never travelled alone and was accompanied by the queen and the royal court, as well as a string of servants and guards. The huskarls stood out in their uniforms, the blue-and-gold banderoles fluttering behind them as they rode past. The wizards bore little-to-no weapons, whilst the blades carried an impressive arsenal between them, including swords, daggers, battle axes, archery bows and maces.

A part of Leyna longed to join them, and she glanced down at her left shoulder to ensure that her own banderole was secure.

The finer carriages led the procession, whilst the pack animals and luggage carts brought up the rear. The castle folk had assembled to bid the court farewell, and a distant thrum suggested that the streets of Royad below were lined with people as well.

Leyna spotted the jester nearby, talking to a guard. She was in no mood for his jests, nor to confront him about the conversation she’d overheard last night. She moved out of sight, counting her lucky stars that he was leaving with the court and she wouldn’t have to see him again for a while.

Quinn was sitting tall on his horse nearby, a jet-black stallion as dark as his hair. Apparently, summoning his mount was one of his permitted spells. She lifted a hand in greeting, a little uncertain. He glanced over his shoulder as if to verify that the wave had been for him before turning back and lifting his fingers in response. After last night, they still weren’t friends, but at least they weren’t rivals anymore.

“Quinn!” cried Grace, appearing beside Leyna and waving energetically, her arm stretched high.

He urged his horse closer, and they moved to meet him at the fence line. Like them, he had not yet received his huskarl uniform, but the brilliant banderole contrasted his dark clothes and easily identified him as a huskarl.

“When will you be back?” asked Grace.

“Not until the end of summer, it seems.”

“Please be careful.”

“I will. You as well.” He glanced at Leyna. “Look after each other.”

Just then, the horse-drawn carriage he had been standing beside shuffled into motion. “I have to go. Bye, Leyna. Bye, Grace.”

Standing on the fence, Grace waved until he had disappeared from sight.

“I’ll miss him. I wish I were going with the court.”

Seeing the huskarls ride proudly on their steeds made a part of Leyna long to go as well. But after an exhausting day of horse riding, ceremonies, ballrooms, secret meetings, political intrigue, and too little sleep, she was glad to be staying. Her leg needed more time to rest, and a painful twinge signalled the start of a headache. It would be enough of a challenge to get through whatever today had in store for her.

A booming laugh reached her ears, and she spotted Bancroft talking with Patrick on the opposite side of the courtyard. The large man’s bushy bear contrasted Bancroft’s neat, slicked-back hair, which gleamed in the pale dawn light.

“Bancroft!” she called out before she could stop herself. She did not feel like talking to Patrick any more than she had with Jester.

Thankfully, he did not follow Bancroft, who gave her a wave and began to weave between the carriages, his horse lifting its feet proudly as it trotted over. “Hey kiddo.”

“I thought you were staying,” she said, disappointed to see him kitted out for travel.

“I’m as surprised as you,” said Bancroft. “I only received my orders from Captain Marton last night. They want to increase security for the travelling party. The captain’s staying behind, of course—nice and cushy for him, but not so cushy for me. Are you not joining us, Leyna? We could use your sharp eye.”

His thin black moustache twitched upwards in a smile.

“No, but I wish I could,” she said, and meant it. Part of the reason staying behind had appealed to her was so she could train with Bancroft. But if he was leaving, who would mentor her in magic? The scales were tipping in favour of her wanting to go.

“Bah, it’s just as well you’re staying. Most of the Royal Guard are going, and I believe that you and Grace are the only wizards to stay behind at the castle—except the chamberlain and Healer James, and they’re lousy in a fight. Don’t tell them I said that, though.”

“Just us?” asked Grace, pausing in the middle of patting Bancroft’s horse. “But we’re new. We’ve never performed magic outside the Guild.”

Leyna shared her concern. The castle was a large place, and she hadn’t realised that she and Grace would be the castle’s only magical protection.

Bancroft shrugged. “You’ve been preparing for this for years. As Damian would say, it’s ‘time to shit or get off the pot.’” He caught Grace’s wide-eyed look. “Or, err, ‘time to shape up,’ to put it more eloquently.” He gave them an encouraging smile. “You’ll be alright. You know more than you realise. Just don’t get too big for your britches. The blades hate that.”

Leyna repressed a laugh. From what she’d seen in the past, Bancroft made provoking the blades something of a sport, but it hadn’t made him any less popular; his tendency to call out the tension that existed between the wizards and blades and diffuse it with humour had gained him respect with all the huskarls.

“Why don’t you put in a request to stay back?” Grace asked Bancroft.

“Already tried that,” he muttered. “I asked the steward if I could stay, but my orders are final, apparently.”

“What about the chamberlain?”

He scoffed. “What about him? He’ll just defer to the steward, especially now that Marek is acting ruler.”

The lord steward, Marek Volak, had been assigned to be the king’s chief representative and to rule in his absence while the king was away for the summer. Considering the daunting figure of Steward Marek when compared to Chamberlain Percy, it was easy to see why the king had chosen the steward to govern in his place. Whilst Leyna was apprehensive of the steward’s bad temper, she found it preferable to the chamberlain’s awkward, nervous demeanour; at least the former inspired confidence.

She spotted Percy standing near the rear of the procession, trying to write on an unfurled scroll that kept trying to curl up again. He appeared to be marking off the names of those leaving, and despite being awkwardly wedged between a wagon and a braying mule that was defecating, his quill continued to scratch away at the parchment.

The steward cut a more impressive figure, surveying the scene from a raised platform with an equally grumpy Captain Marton by his side. The yards were packed with over a thousand people, with several hundred departing with the king. It would take several minutes before the entire procession had exited into Royad via the gatehouse.

“Ho there, Betty!” cried Bancroft suddenly, grabbing Beatrice’s reins as she rode past. “Off to fight the big fight with me?”

“Piss off, Bancroft,” said the female huskarl, snatching the reins back from him. “Call me Betty one more time, and I’ll knock you flat on your arse.”

Bancroft responded with a lazy grin, oozing charisma that was as oily as his dark, carefully groomed hair. “Fair enough. But unless I’m mistaken, dear Beatrice, you haven’t got an ounce of magic in those big balls of yours.”

To Leyna’s surprise, Beatrice barked with laughter. “I don’t need magic to remove your big balls, Bancroft.” Her fingers tapped on the hilt of her dirk, which hung at her belt. It was one of many weapons strapped to her person she could have pointed to.

Bancroft chuckled. “I don’t doubt it.”

The last pack animal had ambled past them, leaving only a few hundred people behind, including court officials, nobles, servants and guards. Percy was evidently staying, because he was making his way back towards the castle, placing his feet carefully as he navigated the manure-covered ground.

“We should catch up with the royal carriage,” Bancroft said, turning to Beatrice.

“You just worry about yourself,” Beatrice replied curtly, spurring her horse forward.

Bancroft offered Leyna and Grace a formal salute. “Time to go. Farewell, kiddos.”

“Wait,” said Leyna. Her chance to speak to Bancroft was slipping away. “Any advice for me before you go? Anything I should focus on? Any spells I should practise…?”

Bancroft halted his mount midstride as he deliberated.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t, and don’t forget to wash behind the ears.”

“Bancroft! I’m serious.”

He grinned. “I know. Try to be less serious.”

Leyna crossed her arms. It was easy for Bancroft to be nonchalant—he was an experienced wizard and a force to be reckoned with. She still had to prove herself, especially to the captain.

Bancroft chuckled. “Look, just remember your oath and look after the prince. Easy as pie. We’ll be back before you know it.”

He clicked his tongue and rode away. She and Grace watched him disappear through the gatehouse.

With the travelling party gone, the yard was less stifling, but still contained hundreds of well-wishers who dispersed as they went about their day.

Leyna and Grace reported to Captain Marton’s office, who winced at the incoming light when they entered the darkened room.

“Close the door,” he grumbled, nursing his head in his palm.

Leyna and Grace exchanged a look, no doubt thinking the same thing—the captain had had more than his fair share of drink last night.

Without rising from his desk, he gave them a long-winded introduction to serving the Royal Guard that was clearly rehearsed, before finally giving them their orders.

Leyna was relieved to learn that her lessons with the prince would only take place in the mornings and that the majority of her days would be devoted to guard duties and training.

Grace, meanwhile, would guard the prince during the day once he had finished his morning lessons with Leyna.

“What about the evenings, sir?” Leyna asked. “Who will guard the prince then if we’re the only wizards?”

It was the wrong thing to say.

“The other huskarls,” said the captain, his voice growing stern. “Who are just as capable, even without magic. Unless you want night duty, Saunders?”

“No, sir.” She definitely did not want night duty, but it still didn’t sit right with her that the prince wouldn’t have any magical protection during the evenings. “I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t mean it like that.”

The captain seemed intent on driving his point home. “All the huskarls, regardless of whether they are a blade or a wizard, have earned their place in my guard. So, let me make one thing absolutely clear to both of you: in my Guard, huskarls are ranked by experience, not by whether they are wizards. And experienced you are not. It’s not like the security of the castle is riding on the backs of you two greenhorns.”

He emphasised the last word.

“So, until you can perform your duties without wetting your underpants, you’ll be deferring to me and every single other Royal Guard member—regardless of whether they know magic. I won’t have any magicians feeling superior. Is that understood?”

They nodded quickly. The ‘magician’ insult had stung more than ‘greenhorn’ had.

“Good. Get to it then.”

They scurried out of the office. Leyna wasn’t sure she’d made a good first impression.

“The captain’s strict, isn’t he?” asked Grace as they left the office.

Before Leyna could reply, she collided with someone in the narrow antechamber, crying out as she stumbled backwards.

Swift hands steadied her, and she snatched at the arms in reflex, unseeing.

“You!” she exclaimed, startled to see the jester. She waved his hands away and tried to side-step him, but the antechamber was too cramped, and he easily blocked her way. She took a step back in trepidation and bumped into Grace, who was standing behind her.

Now that she knew he was the king’s spy, how should she react?

Jester was quick to set the tone, his voice an impish drawl: “Lady Leyna! How positively delightful! And Grace, always a pleasure.” Jester bowed as much as the tight space allowed. He was wearing blue and silver today, with a glittering mask that hid the top half of his face. His makeup was blue and silver as well, and the smoky scent was back, tinged faintly with cinnamon.

“It’s Huskarls Leyna and Grace now,” she corrected.

Jester clucked his tongue. “So fastidious!”

“Titles should be respected,” she said, thinking of the dance they had shared last night. It was an occurrence she didn’t want repeated—at least, not with him. “They create boundaries.”

“So they do,” he mused. “And yet, what I find rather peculiar is this: when we first met at the showgrounds yesterday, you introduced yourself to me as a huskarl.”

“Yes, well—"

“And yesterday, didn’t you only get sworn in after your arrival at the castle?”

“Yes, but—”

“So yesterday, when you introduced yourself as a huskarl, were you misrepresenting yourself?”

She stilled. He had uncovered her lie, and he knew it.

“Tut, tut, Huskarl Leyna—if that is indeed your title. It’s quite naughty of you to lie!”

“I didn’t lie,” she protested, but her ears were burning. She was only digging herself deeper.

The jester grinned at her denial. “Well, perhaps what you meant was that you were a huskarl in spirit? I must admit, I’m rather impressed that you would lie by telling the truth. It’s rather devious of you. Perhaps you’d be better suited to a career in politics? A seat on the Royal Council, perhaps?”

Leyna did not want to be involved in politics—networking and social influence were not her forte.

“It’s hypocritical of you to accuse me of misrepresentation,” she said.

“Oh? Is it?”

Leyna bit her lip, aware of Grace standing behind her. She could not point out that he was pretending to be a jester without breaking the oath she’d sworn to King Rutherford last night—and the jester knew it.

“No comeback?” he taunted.

Leyna tried to step past him, but he blocked her path, placing his arm on the wall.

“Why in such a hurry? Aren’t you happy to see me?”

“Not particularly,” she snapped. “What are you doing here, anyway? You said you were going with the court.”

Jester stroked his chin in amusement. “I suppose I simply couldn’t bear the thought of being away from you for so long. I know we only met yesterday, but I simply couldn’t sleep last night for the thought of those long months without seeing that imperious face…”

“I need to go to the Great Hall,” murmured Grace, ducking under Jester’s arm and edging past them awkwardly. “Sorry,” she mouthed silently before hurrying off.

Leyna and the jester were alone now.

“Look,” she said, holding her hands up as if in surrender. “The king made it clear that I’m not to reveal your identity—whoever it is you are. And frankly, I’m too busy to be standing around chattering with you. So, unless you have something useful to say, I suggest you stay out of my way from now on, and I’ll stay out of yours.”

“Oh dear, I’m afraid that’s going to be rather difficult,” said Jester, giving her a look of mock-sadness.

“Why?”

“Because we’ll be spending a great deal of time together in the weeks to come.”

“No, we won’t,” she said, feeling her anger spiking.

“Oh yes, we will!” he quipped back gleefully. “In fact, I think you’ll find that a day will hardly go by that we don’t see each other. Isn’t that nice?”

“What are you on about?” she demanded.

“Not to worry, it’s all arranged.”

She scoffed. “If you’re not going to talk any sense, then get out of my way.”

“Why, of course,” he said sweetly, withdrawing his arm. “Why didn’t you just say so?”

She marched past him, but just before she’d rounded the corner, his singsong voice trailed after her.

“Oh yoo-hoo! Huskarl Leyna, aren’t you going to ask me what I’m doing visiting Captain Marton’s office?”

Leyna stopped in her tracks, curious despite herself. She glanced back at the captain’s door, which was still closed, then back at him. What was the jester doing here?

“Fine, I’ll bite—why have you come to see the captain?”

“Nope, not telling!” He chortled, and slipped into the captain’s office in the blink of an eye, snapping the door shut with a click.

“Ugh,” she growled once she’d caught up with Grace at breakfast. “He is infuriating!”

“Did Jester tell you why he didn’t go with the court?” asked Grace.

“No, he did not.”

“Mm.” A sly expression edged onto Grace’s face. “Do you think he stayed back to spend more time with you?”

“Of course not, that’s ridiculous.”

“I saw you two dancing last night, that’s all.”

“That was a matter of necessity.” Leyna contemplated telling Grace about her near run-in with Sir Waldorf, but didn’t want to get into it right now. Her stomach growled as she eyed the breakfast buffet before them. She’d had little to eat at the feast last night, or even throughout the day.

Grace smiled innocently. “I also saw you and Jester out on the balcony.”

“He followed me,” she said by way of explanation, busying herself by piling food onto her trencher—eggs, bacon, bread, cheeses, and sweet pastries.

“Yes, but you were both on the balcony. Alone.”

“Yes, well—”

“And I also saw you two on the dais—”

“Everyone saw us on the dais,” Leyna muttered, seizing a jug of orange juice in one hand, a pot of coffee in the other, and balancing the porcelain trencher in between.

They settled at a nearby table.

“Sorry, I’m only teasing,” said Grace as Leyna speared bacon with her fork. “I think you’re letting him get to you too much—it’s his job to make fun of people.”

“I know. You’re right.”

But she was still fuming as she scooped eggs into her mouth, eating faster than she should have.

Seth arrived, and though his place was at the High Table, he approached theirs instead. A group of guards followed him at a respectful distance, most of them castle guards, the others blades.

“May I join you?” asked Seth. “All my friends have gone with the court—even Rudy! I wish I’d gone now. Although I’m looking forward to learning magic with you, Leyna.”

“Prince Seth!” exclaimed Grace, her chair scraping backwards as she hurried to stand.

Leyna smiled in greeting but remained seated, tugging Grace back down by the elbow.

Seth laughed, plopping down in a chair beside Grace. “Just call me Seth.”

Leyna smiled. She and Seth had always disregarded titles, and she was pleased that he would extend this courtesy to Grace. It turned out she and Seth had met at the feast and were already on good terms.

Soon, the table was alive with conversation as Grace and Seth chatted animatedly over breakfast. Grace had a lot of questions about castle life, and Seth wanted to know everything there was to know about magic.

Leyna listened in as she drank the coffee in quick gulps, more interested in its reviving effect than the hot, bitter taste. Coffee was relatively new in Rosaria and was considered an exotic luxury, with coffee beans having only been imported a little over a decade ago. Only the finer households could regularly afford to drink it, and with polarising opinions on its bold taste, Leyna knew that some nobles only kept it as a symbol of wealth and did not much care for it themselves.

The general public’s opinion was more favourable to the drink, and despite the high cost, its rising popularity had ensured the presence of at least a dozen coffeehouses in the city, with half of them having replaced established taverns. Ground coffee was a beloved favourite of Kormendians, and its introduction at court had largely been advocated by the steward, who was a Kormendian by birth himself.

“Finished?” asked Grace, taking the empty cup from Leyna and overturning it onto a napkin.

“What are you doing?”

“I learnt this from Quinn,” she said proudly. “We’re meant to wait five minutes for the cup to drain, and then we look inside it at the patterns the coffee grain has made!”

“Why?” asked Seth, leaning closer in curiosity.

“So we can tell Leyna’s future!” Grace squeezed her hands together, eyes alight with excitement.

“What if I don’t want my future read?” asked Leyna, refocusing her energy on the chocolate croissant before her. “I’m not superstitious.”

“Oh, pish-posh,” said Grace dismissively. “It’s too late for that now, you’ve already drank the coffee. Your future is in that cup, regardless of whether or not you want a reading.”

“I see…” she said, swallowing a mouthful of the flaky pastry. “And if I do not consent to a reading?”

“I’ll overrule it,” said Seth with a grin. “Grace, as your prince, I hereby command you to perform a coffee reading for Leyna.”

“Oh, I don’t think the dregs would be dry yet,” Grace said, lifting the cup slightly as she peeked under it.

“And you don’t have the authority to give orders like that,” Leyna said to Seth, who shrugged.

“It was worth a try.”

When Grace did turn Leyna’s cup over, she sat staring at it with a pinched expression.

“What do you see?” asked Seth, peering over her shoulder.

Grace just shook her head, looking up at Leyna with a concerned expression, finally saying: “Leyna, I think you drank it wrong.”

Leyna raised an eyebrow. “I what?”

“I think you drank your coffee too fast. And did you swirl it? I think you’re meant to swirl the cup before you drink the last of it, to loosen the sediments. That’s what Quinn always says, anyway.”

“This is sounding complicated,” she remarked. “It’s just coffee.”

“Oh, but wait,” said Grace, pointing. “Look, here—near the handle, that looks like a dog.”

“Or a wolf,” said Seth.

“Yes, maybe!”

“What does a wolf mean?”

“Well, as it’s on this side of the cup, it hints at Leyna’s love life…” Grace turned the cup in her hands, frowning. “Or is it closer to the left? It could mean your past…”

“Maybe there was a wolf in my past that tried to attack me,” said Leyna in amusement, thinking of Quinn. But Grace didn’t register the humour, who was all seriousness as she said:

“I can’t remember, is it the front rim that’s supposed to show your love life?”

“Don’t ask me,” said Leyna. As Seth and Grace deliberated, she rested her head on her hands.

“Oh!” Grace gasped. “I just remembered—the dregs near the upper rim show us the present!

“That’s useful,” said Leyna, not bothering to hide her sarcasm. “And what does it say about my current situation?”

“Hmm…it just looks like a lump of coffee,” said Seth. “Were you planning on having another cup?”

“Not anymore,” said Leyna, pushing her trencher back and stretching. “It seems far too labour intensive.”

The powerful scent of perfume announced her mother’s arrival, and she straightened quickly as Lady Saunders appeared next to her shoulder. Her many-layered dress was decorated with white lace and tiny pink flowers, and was reminiscent of an extravagant wedding cake.

“Leyna, there you are! Where did you disappear to last night?” She planted a kiss on top of her head. “Oh, Prince Seth, good morning to you. And, Grace, nice to see you, dear. Aren’t you a beauty?”

Grace’s cheeks grew even rosier at the compliment.

“Leyna, dear, you’ll be pleased to know that I have a surprise for you—”

Dreading what that surprise could be, Leyna was anything but pleased.

“—I have a gentleman I’d like you to meet. He’ll be here momentarily.”

“Mamma—” Leyna protested, but her mother shushed her, barely able to contain her excitement.

“Give him a chance, dear. I think you will like this one.”

It was not the first time Leyna had heard her say that.

“Is that him?” asked Seth, looking over Leyna’s shoulder.

“Oh, it’s him!” whispered Grace, leaning close to Seth.

“The one from the Wizarding Guild?” asked Seth in awe.

“Yes! Isn’t he just handsome?”

Seth wrinkled his nose and shrugged.

Stomach knotting in apprehension, Leyna twisted in her chair to see a finely dressed nobleman approach them. He was tall and dressed finely, with a quilted doublet of peacock blue that was covered in a beige floral pattern. It had leather fastenings down the front and was complemented by navy trousers. As he rounded the table, she could see him without twisting, and surmised from his tall black riding boots and feathered hat that he had just been outdoors. The gentleman offered a pleasant smile, which, together with the turquoise plumage of his hat, was so disarming that it took a moment for recognition to hit her.

“Here he is,” beamed Lady Saunders. “Lord Brighton, allow me to introduce my daughter, Lady Leyna. Leyna, this is Lord Brighton. He’s only recently arrived back—”

“Cornelius!” she gasped.

He smiled and bowed low. “Pleased to see you again, Lady Leyna. Although, I hear it’s Huskarl Leyna now. Congratulations.”

Lady Saunders was looking between them, confused. “Are you two already acquainted?”

“Lord Brighton and I met at the Wizarding Guild,” she said happily. While she was pleased to see the wizard again, she remained in her chair. Her mother’s intentions in performing the introduction were plain to see, and Leyna did not want to give the wizard the impression that she was eager to be courted—which she wasn’t. But she had to admit that after poor Sir Waldorf, Cornelius was a much more appealing prospect.

Not that I’m interested, she reminded herself. I’m simply pleased to see him again so I can thank him for all he’s done for me.

Her mother was still the picture of confusion. “I’m afraid I don’t understand. How was it you met, exactly?”

“We met at the Guild,” she said. “Lord Brighton healed me after both of my injuries.”

“And hopefully there won’t be the need for a third,” Cornelius said cheerfully. “I was hoping I might see you again, outside of a hospital setting.”

Grace nudged Leyna under the table and gave her a wide-eyed look, her pursed lips emitting a squeal so high-pitched that it was barely detectable.

But Leyna was growing dubious. For all his politeness, Cornelius was hardly making eye contact with her, and it gave her the distinct impression that he was here against his will. The flicker of interest that had briefly sparked in her faltered.

“Leyna, you haven’t told me any of this!” cried Lady Saunders. “I demand more details at once!”

Thankfully, Grace took it upon herself to fill her mother in, and the two were soon chatting animatedly, with Seth caught in the middle.

Cornelius took a step closer to Leyna.

“How have you found the leg exercises?” he murmured as an aside. “Do you find they are helping?”

Leyna had to assume he was directing the questions at her, for there was no way to be sure—not when he seemed more interested in addressing the platter of asparagus in the table’s centre. Why wouldn’t he look at her?

In truth, except for that morning, she had forgotten to do the exercises, but thankfully, she was saved from answering by her mother.

“Leyna, dear, you didn’t tell me that Lord Brighton was the one who healed you!”

“It slipped my mind,” she muttered, but her mother took no notice as she batted her fan.

“Well, I see we owe Lord Brighton a great debt. Sir, you simply must dine with us one evening.”

Uncertainty flashed across Cornelius’ face.

“Mamma,” Leyna objected, trying to keep her voice civil, “I’m sure Lord Brighton has a great many things more important to contend with.”

“Nonsense,” said Lady Saunders, waving at her dismissively as she turned to face the lord, her fan fluttering more rapidly now. “I insist! You must give us the opportunity to thank you, sir.”

Lord Brighton gave her mother a deep bow. “There are no thanks needed, and I thank you, madam, for your generous invitation. However, I regret I am indisposed every night this week—”

“Well, come for afternoon tea, then! Surely, you can make time given the splendid weather we’ve been having? Our suite overlooks the castle gardens, you know, and at this time of year, the gardens are in their prime, wouldn’t you say so?”

“Indeed, it would be a shame to miss it, Lady Saunders,” said Cornelius. Although his tone was warm, his body language continued to suggest that he would rather be anywhere else; his torso and face were angled away, as if he were shielding himself, or as if he were eager to leave their company as quickly as possible. “But unfortunately—”

“And I’m sure my Leyna would appreciate your continued duty of care of her injuries,” her mother persisted, talking over the top of Cornelius.

“Mamma, please!” It was all Leyna could do not to crawl under the table. Her ears were burning from the less-than-subtle matchmaking efforts, and a part of her was glad Cornelius wasn’t looking at her so he wouldn’t see her embarrassment. Unfortunately, her mother continued to be oblivious of the lord’s obvious disinterest:

“I worry for her leg, you see, sir, and I would be greatly reassured if I knew that a man of your magical healing expertise was taking care of my daughter. I’m no expert in these matters myself, of course, but wouldn’t you say a postoperative review of her injuries is in order? Perhaps, sir, you could re-examine her leg, and—”

“Mamma!” Leyna was on her feet so quickly that her chair fell back with a clatter. Hands clenched and eyes shut, she mustered every ounce of civility she possessed before turning to face the aristocrat. He was finally looking at her, his blue-eyed gaze so unnerving that she focused on his sharp collar instead. “Lord Brighton, I’m pleased to see you again so that I may finally thank you for all you have done for me at the Wizarding Guild. However, I regret that I, too, am indisposed at present…so, please accept my apologies.”

She gave a brief bow before striding away.

“Leyna Saunders, where do you think you’re going?” shouted her mother after her.

Leyna swung round, pivoting on her heel, but continued walking backwards. “I have to go—the prince has lessons with me. Seth?” she added, giving him a meaningful look.

“Coming!” he called, hurrying to join her as she left the Great Hall. “So,” he said in a teasing voice, “are you going to marry Lord Brighton ?”

“No. And you can wipe that silly smirk off your face, too.”

Chapter Eighteen

Prince Seth

LEYNA WAS TAKEN ABACK by Seth’s understanding of the principles of magic. The king was right—the prince did have a good grasp on the basics.

“Yes, the theory is all fine,” said Seth when she remarked on this. “But the chamberlain didn’t let me do any actual spells. He said it was too dangerous.”

This didn’t surprise her. It was likely that the chamberlain could hardly perform any spells himself. And Seth was correct—magic was dangerous, no matter how trivial the spell, which meant that Percy probably wasn’t the best person to be teaching it.

All magic came from the Other Side, so even a seemingly harmless spell drew on demonic powers, and many wizards considered these to be evil. Despite this, many wizards fell into the trap of using spells for the convenience of completing daily tasks, or to entertain non-magical folk—and Leyna was no exception. She’d even used a charm to wipe the blackboard clean of old chalk when they’d first entered the classroom, even though the duster had been sitting on the ledge.

“Magic is dangerous,” she agreed, dusting her hands of chalk powder before perching herself on the edge of the teacher’s desk. She and Seth were alone in the room, and the blackboard was covered in her chalky handwriting. “That being said, you can get away with performing simple spells—even for menial tasks—when you’re first learning magic. It’s the easiest way to grasp the basics. But once qualified, wizards are strongly discouraged from using magic for non-essential purposes.”

“What would count as a nonessential purpose?” asked Seth.

Leyna shrugged. “Everyday tasks, such as cooking, cleaning…that sort of thing.”

“I don’t do either of those, anyway.”

Of course, he doesn’t. He’s the prince. He has people to do that for him.

It occurred to her she’d never had to cook or clean either, not unless tidying her dorm room at the Guild counted.

Leyna racked her brain for a better example.

“Well, think of other everyday tasks, like opening doors and getting dressed.”

Seth wrinkled his nose. “I don’t really do those things myself, either.”

“Right, well, just think of the things that you do every day. Simple things, like eating.” Her eyes narrowed at Seth. “You do feed yourself, don’t you?”

“Of course,” said Seth. “For the most part. What about locks?”

“Locks?”

“Yes. If I want to open a door that is locked, I could use magic to unlock it, right? That’s an essential reason?”

“Sort of. But most locks can be picked without magic, as long as there isn’t a magical protection on it—but you shouldn’t be picking locks,” she added quickly. “Unless you’re breaking and entering, a key is often faster and more practical than a charm.”

“Oh,” said Seth, looking disappointed. “But what if I don’t have a key?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Then you probably shouldn’t be opening that door, should you?”

Seth crossed his arms. “You’re no fun.” He gave her a sidelong look. “Can you teach me how to pick locks?”

“No, absolutely not.” She gestured behind her at the blackboard. “We’ve digressed. As I was saying, it won’t be long before you can start performing basic spells. You seem to have mastered the general principles, and that’s a good base we can build upon. The safety measures alone are important, so it’s good you understand them. And your enunciation of the demonic alphabet is close to perfect.”

“Thanks,” beamed Seth. “So, how long will it be until I can cast a spell?”

“Not long at all,” she said. “In fact…I think we can try one right now.”

No sooner was Seth about to cast his first spell, however, than a playful knock sounded at the door.

“Who is it?” she called.

Before the door swung open, Seth surprised her by saying, “It’s probably just Jester.”

“What? Jester?” She snapped her head up in time to see the jester stroll into the classroom. He had changed since that morning, and was now wearing a rainbow-coloured outfit, bright-red shoes, and a wide smile that was even flashier than his clothes.

“Why, good morning, teacher and student. Sorry I’m late. Did I miss much?”

Even with the silver mask and makeup obscuring his face, Leyna could tell that he was enjoying her state of shock.

“How did you get in here?” she asked, not bothering to wait for an answer as she ran to the door and peered out. Several guards, along with Huskarl Damian, stood guard outside. “What’s the jester doing here?” she demanded. “Who approved him?”

“Captain’s orders,” shrugged Damian. “King’s granted him full access.”

“Full access?” she exclaimed. Full access granted the jester a similar level of privileges as the Royal Guard had to seek out the prince.

“Yep. King’s orders.”

“Right.” Leyna took a moment to compose herself, exhaling through her nose before ducking back into the room. She shut the door with a snap.

“What is he doing here?” she asked Seth, stalking back to the front of the classroom without looking at the jester.

“He will sit in on your magic lessons,” said Jester, seating himself at a neighbouring school desk. It had clearly been intended for someone smaller, and his long arms draped over the edge.

“Why?” she asked, directing her question to Seth again.

The prince shrugged. “Just because.”

Leyna narrowed her eyes at them. Seth was attempting to hide a smile, whilst the jester was grinning freely. A nagging thought tugged at her, and she suspected that she was the only one in the room who didn’t know the jester’s real identity. But what was a jester—or even a spy—doing sitting in on their lesson? What function did it serve?

When neither would provide an explanation, she brushed off her indignation, intent on continuing the lesson.

“Right. As I was saying, Seth. Now that your shortcut is in place, you need to maintain—”

“Constant focus,” said Seth, nodding. “I’m ready.”

“Alright.” Leyna’s eyes flickered to the jester nervously. His chin was resting on interlaced hands, and he was peering at her with great interest.

“Elbows off the desk,” she snapped, and to her surprise, he obeyed. “Jester, couldn’t you just wait outside?”

“Oh, don’t mind me,” he said. “I’m just interested to see you magicians perform your little magic tricks.”

“We’re not magicians,” she said through clenched teeth. “And we’re not performing. This is serious. Magic should be respected.”

“Absolutely, I could not agree more,” said Jester.

His concurrence threw her off. “Right. Yes, so…” She turned back to Seth. “As I was saying, we should only use magic in essential circumstances—”

“Like curling your hair for the ball?” interrupted Jester.

Leyna’s eyes widened. Grace had indeed used magic to help curl her hair for the feast last night. “Yes, but how did you know that?”

“Lucky guess,” he said , settling back in his chair with a triumphant grin.

Leyna gave an exasperated sigh before gesturing at Seth. “Begin when you’re ready.”

The prince rose and walked over to a wall of rugged grey stone. This was one of the few rooms that hadn’t been fully rendered with creamy mortar, and served as evidence that despite its friendly outward appearance, the castle was, and always had been, a fortress designed to withstand a siege.

Leyna expected Seth to need a few minutes to compose himself, but to her surprise, he approached the stone wall without hesitating and waved his hand in a lengthy, complicated swirl, his incantation ringing clearly. Immediately, a bright golden light appeared, flashing in brilliant swirls as he continued to gesture through the air. When he was finished, the stone was embedded with large golden letters that glowed brightly and spelt: Prince Seth Matthias Rutherford.

Seth punched the air happily.

“Look, Leyna, I did it!”

“Well done,” she smiled, watching Jester from the corner of her eye, who was clapping enthusiastically.

Seth returned to his desk, but before she could continue the lesson, the jester raised his hand into the air.

She continued speaking, intent on finishing her train of thought, but the jester only lifted his arm higher. She tried to ignore him, but he was soon lifting off his seat as he tried to get her attention, and the waving of his arm caused Seth to lose focus entirely.

“Excuse me, Teacher Huskarl, ma’am” said Jester, waving his hand more energetically now while Seth tried to contain his laughter.

She sighed. There was no point in continuing when no one was listening.

“Yes, what is it?”

“I had a question about the first spell.”

“Which is…?”

“Well, you see, I was wondering why, out of all the spells the prince could have learnt first, that you chose to teach him this one? It doesn’t seem particularly useful, and I do fear that the boy will use it to deface the castle…”

“It’s my castle to deface.” Seth smirked.

“You see?” said Jester. “My point exactly. Before you know it, there’ll be nothing but smut and reminders of our future ruler on every bathroom door. I do fear this is the writing on the wall, pardon the pun.”

Leyna sunk down to sit in a chair, burying her face in her hands. It was all she could do not to tear at her hair.

“Is she alright?” she heard Seth whisper.

“I daresay she’s reflecting on the joys of teaching,” Jester replied loudly.

Leyna spoke through her hands, which made her voice muffled: “And what is it that you would have me teach the prince instead?”

“Oh, I don’t know…I’m easily pleased—I never complain, you know. And I like all magic tricks.” He unfolded his legs and stood to stretch. “But why not start him off on something useful?”

She looked up. “Such as?”

“Cleaning.”

“Cleaning?” asked Leyna and Seth in unison.

“Yes, why not teach His Highness a spell that scrubs the walls clean? After all the smut I’ve seen in this castle, let me tell you, the boys’ privy could do with some attention.” He walked towards her, his steps slow like that of a predator. “And I think it would be humbling for our future ruler to learn the value of a hard day’s work.”

“I don’t want to clean,” complained Seth.

Leyna stood, glaring at the jester as he drew closer. “He’s the crown prince of Rosaria. He won’t be cleaning.”

The jester stopped a foot from her and peered down at her from behind the mask, which was a vibrant red that contrasted with his blue and silver makeup.

“Your time is up,” he said in a singsong voice that made her hair stand on edge.

She held her breath, trying to decide if he was threatening her. What does he mean, ‘time’s up’? Does he mean that my time is up? Magic or not, at this proximity, the jester had the physical advantage over her. The fingers of her casting hand twitched as she waited, half expecting an attack.

The door creaked behind her, and she flinched.

“Leyna?” asked Seth. He was standing in the doorway. “Time’s up. Are you coming?”

She exhaled as jester’s meaning sunk in. “Yes. But…just give us a minute, Seth.”

The door clicked shut as Seth left.

“Offering private lessons now, are we?” asked Jester in a sultry voice. “Lucky me.”

“No. You need to explain what you’re doing sitting in on these lessons.”

“Perhaps I’m guarding the prince?” he offered.

Leyna scoffed. “With what? You’ve got no weapons.”

“None that you can see.” He winked, then spread his arms. “Perhaps you’d like to search me again? I won’t object. I rather enjoyed being frisked by you last night—although I’d prefer to not have the entire court watching this time…I’m a little shy, you see.”

Leyna had already turned her back on him and was taking her frustration out on the blackboard, slapping it more so than wiping it clean with the duster.

“Can’t you just give me a straight answer, like a normal person?” she grumbled.

“I did give you a straight answer.”

She dropped the duster and turned, only to find him standing a mere foot from her. He was so close that as she lifted her chin, she could make out the finer details of his makeup—the silver lips painted with blue swirls.

“By the way,” he murmured, “you should know that I thought your hair at the ball to be rather pretty.” His eyes roved her blonde hair, which now hung relatively straight after being brushed out that morning. “Although, I like it like this, too.”

Jester exited the room, and she let out a shaky sigh. He took far too much pleasure in unsettling her.

She took pains to tie her hair back before following Seth and Jester out into the corridor.

As they walked back to Seth’s room, she considered the Oath of Secrecy she had sworn. Theoretically, she was forbidden from telling anyone about the jester’s identity…

But the king had said nothing about uncovering who he was for herself. After overhearing his conversation with Patrick in the Trophy Room, she was certain he was hiding far more than just his identity.

And she was going to find out what that was.

Chapter Nineteen

The Demon Book

LEYNA FOLLOWED THE PRINCE, the jester, and the guards upstairs without falling behind, but she was perspiring by the time they reached the antechamber outside Seth’s quarters. The door to his chamber had a castle guard standing at attention on either side, and Grace was waiting with several others to take over for guard duty.

“See you at dinner,” said Grace, giving Leyna a wave before shutting the door to Seth’s room.

Grace was rostered to guard the prince for the larger part of each day and wouldn’t be relieved of guard duty until dinnertime. Leyna’s roster was more varied and included morning lessons with Seth, training in the yards, patrols of the grounds, and general guard duties.

To her surprise, the jester didn’t follow the others into Seth’s room, but stayed in the antechamber with her. Apart from the two guards posted at Seth’s door, it was just the two of them.

“That was rather fun, wasn’t it?” asked Jester, as they walked back down the corridor. “You’re an excellent teacher.”

“Thanks,” she said lightly. She was too busy contemplating the best way to get information from him. “It was fun.”

That earned her a raised eyebrow from Jester.

“What, no retort? No reaction? Why, Leyna, I’m heartbroken! Where’s the scowl I’ve grown to love?”

Despite the backhanded compliment, her heart skipped a beat at his use of the word love.

She had to focus. How could she get him talking? Threats were unlikely to work—he didn’t seem like a man who was easily intimidated. She cycled through the other options in her head.

Flattery? Persuasion? Deception?

Pandering to his ego could work, but she had neither the stomach to flatter him, nor the skillset to manipulate him. For better or for worse, she was a forthright person.

They turned the corner, out of sight of the guards.

“So? What’s on your mind?” he asked, dropping the jester voice. “I can see your mind at work.”

“Tell me about the Demon Book,” she said. “I heard you and Patrick discussing it last night.”

They stopped in the middle of the corridor. It was deserted.

“Ah yes, I was rather wondering when you were going to bring that up.” His tone grew serious. “What is it you would like to know?”

She frowned, not prepared for his openness. Was he really prepared to answer her questions? And even if he did, would his answers be truthful?

“Why does the king trust you?” she asked.

Jester clucked his tongue. “Good question. But how to answer? That is a question for the king, surely. Ask another one.”

She sighed and shuffled her weight onto her right leg.

The jester noticed. “How’s your leg? I understand it was injured.”

“How did you know about my leg?”

He shrugged. “Everyone knows. And after last night’s series of events, I took it upon myself to find out a little more about you.”

“And what did you find out? That I’m ‘insufferable?’”

The word hung in the air. It had hit its mark—Jester swallowed as if caught off guard.

“You heard that, did you?”

“Yes.”

“Well…” he cleared his throat. “It was a slip of the tongue…what I meant to say was that you are perfectly sufferable.”

“Gee, thanks,” she said, laughing in disbelief.

“You’re welcome.” He inclined his head as if he’d delivered her a great compliment. “So? How is your leg?”

“We’re not discussing my leg. I’m the one asking the questions.”

“Oh, is that so? Well, I think it would be mutually beneficial if we both asked questions, don’t you think?”

“It’s fine. My leg is fine.”

“Good. Now your turn.”

He tilted his head, waiting for her response.

“Tell me about the book.”

“The book?” he asked innocently. “Which book? Can you be more specific?”

Leyna sighed. He knew exactly which ‘book’ she meant. “You said to Patrick that you ‘acquired’ the Demon Book in Kormend. What does that mean? And don’t lie,” she added.

He smirked. “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it. Anyway, there’s no need for me to lie. I was very heroic. You should have seen me—hidden aboard a stolen Kormendian vessel, battling pirates, stealing treasure, threatening to sever diplomatic ties and plunge two nations back into war…why, I became rather a swashbuckler by the end. I made a rather dandy pirate, if I do say so myself. Although I did get a little seasick.”

Leyna’s eyes narrowed. “Seasick? But Kormend is a land-locked kingdom. There’s no sea, only lakes and rivers.”

Jester smiled. “What can I say? It was windy.”

“I don’t think you were a pirate,” she said.

“Do you really think I would lie about being a pirate?”

“You’re lying about being a jester.”

He snorted. “But I am a jester, at least in this moment. But tomorrow, who knows? It’s hardly a fixed thing—I might have been born a jester, but a man can dream, can’t he?”

He was teetering somewhere on the edge of earnestness and humour, and it was exhausting trying to guess when he would revert back to being the jester. She was beginning to understand that his mannerisms were contrived to avoid responding to questions he didn’t want to answer.

“You said you’d tell the truth,” she reminded him.

“Actually, I merely implied that I wouldn’t lie. And I didn’t.”

Unless he was lying now.

“Alright, Leyna, my turn. I’m intrigued by your ambition. Tell me, why are you so intent on becoming a huskarl?”

She blinked. “I am a huskarl.”

“A baby huskarl, perhaps.”

The comment made her blood boil.

“How dare you?” She was only moments away from pushing him in the chest.

“Oh dear, forgive me. I meant no slight on your character! But you must admit that, compared to your wizard colleagues who left with the court, you are still relatively inexperienced. After all, you were sworn in less than twenty-four hours ago.”

She said nothing. He was right, and she didn’t like it. She’d only officially received her orders a few hours ago from Captain Marton, and so far, her day had comprised of trying to teach Seth while the court jester teased her.

“Well?” he prompted. “Why is being a huskarl so important to you? Is it the fame and glory?”

He sounded genuinely curious to know the answer.

As was she—even if he had diverted the conversation from the Demon Book again.

Why do I want to be a huskarl? The fame and glory?

No, it was deeper than that. She longed for respect, to be accepted and liked by others, to be noticed and valued.

To not be forgotten.

But those were just the veins. The arteries were the real lifeblood, and they ran deeper, and they all led back to the source: Tash.

She needed to do this for Tash, to make sense of the sister she had lost…to ensure she had not died in vain.

Would it ever be okay that Tash was gone?

None of it was any business of Jester’s.

Leyna offered him a small piece of the truth: “Being a huskarl is something I’ve always wanted, ever since I was a little girl. I wanted to help others.”

“How noble.”

“It’s true!” she insisted. “I want Rosaria to be a safe place where innocent people don’t get hurt.”

Pity flashed in Jester’s eyes.

“Why? Who did you lose, Leyna?”

She shook her head, avoiding the topic. “All I’m saying is: as a huskarl, I can help change things.”

“If you wanted to change things, you should have stayed a noblewoman.” Jester plucked at his puffy sleeve as if removing a speck of dust. “You’d have more influence playing court politics as one of the idle rich than as a guard following orders.”

“What do you know about it?” she snapped, her temper getting the better of her. How dare he say that? As if her years of commitment to wizardry had been pointless? As if her oath didn’t elevate her to position of influence? He was wrong. She marched down the corridor, but halted again when he asked:

“And are you happy?”

She turned slowly. The question had struck a chord.

“Am I happy?” she chewed on the words, considering them. Both her graduation at the Guild and inauguration at the castle had failed to provide her with the sense of achievement she’d been craving. What was the feeling she was chasing? Was it happiness? Whatever it was, it was elusive, but close enough that she could almost taste it.

“I think it’s too soon to tell,” she said carefully.

“Hm. And now that you’ve achieved your dreams?” asked Jester, taking steady steps towards her. “What comes next?”

It was another question she didn’t know the answer to. After the ball last night, she was eager to prove herself and to overcome the limitations of her injury—but she could hardly say that to him. “I suppose my goal will be to become a great one.”

The jester nodded. “I suppose that’s enough to be getting on with. You should be proud—a huskarlship is far more than others achieve in a lifetime, and I have a feeling this is just the beginning of your illustrious career.”

“Thank you,” she said, unsure if she trusted the compliment.

“Now, did you have any questions for me?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said immediately. “Back to the Demon Book…do you know who took it?”

“No, I do not.”

She couldn’t tell if he was lying or not—his disguise made it difficult to read his facial expressions, and he looked perpetually shrewd in the cat-eyed mask.

“But you suspect someone?”

The jester seemed to consider this before giving a slight nod.

“I do.”

“And will you tell me?”

He smiled and shook his head. “Not at this time.”

They were getting nowhere, and she was conscious of having stood in the corridor with the jester for several long minutes now.

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t trust you yet.”

His answer was quick and sharp, like a slap across the face.

She laughed incredulously.

“You’re kidding? You don’t trust me? Who made you the judge?”

“Leyna—” he began, but she cut him off, pressing a finger to his chest.

“The king may trust you, but that is the only reason you’re not sitting in a dungeon cell right now, especially after your shenanigans with the goblet last night.”

“Leyna, listen— “

“No, Jester, it’s your turn to listen. As far as I’m concerned, you’ve done nothing to earn my trust. Absolutely nothing.” The words came flooding out of her, and it felt good to speak her mind.

The jester was becoming visibly agitated, holding up his hands as if urging her to calm down.

“Leyna—”

“And another thing,” she continued.

“Leyna!” warned the jester, throwing a look over his shoulder. “Be quiet for a—”

“Be quiet? How dare you tell me to be quiet. I’m tired of your prattling, and your disrespectful—”

“Leyna, hush!”

Before she could say another word, his hand had clamped over her mouth. The other wrapped around her waist as he half carried, half pushed her sideways.

Her eyes widened, terrified, as they were plunged into darkness. She felt the brush of coarse fabric against her face before he slammed her against a wall. She wanted to scream, but Jester’s hand was covering her mouth, and his body pinned her so she couldn’t move.

“Shh, it’s alright,” he murmured, his face close to hers. “Someone’s coming. Stay quiet, please? Please. Don’t make a sound. I’m letting go now.”

A moment later, he removed his hand, and she drew a breath, preparing to scream, because panic, and because danger, and because why else did he still have her pushed against the wall?

And why was it dark?

Where were they?

Suddenly, she heard voices approach.

“Stay quiet,” came jester’s whispered voice, and he shifted away slightly, doing something that created a sliver of light to appear in the dark space.

Leyna’s heart was still hammering, but the urge to scream had passed. She scanned her surroundings. It wasn’t truly dark, as it had initially appeared. Instead, there was a wall of dark red in front of her, with a strange pattern embroidered across the surface—it was the reverse side of a large tapestry. A faint glow illuminated the red of the fabric, and she realised they were crammed into a nook behind the corridor’s tapestry. There was hardly enough space for one person, let alone two.

“What is this?” she whispered, but she knew the answer before he said it.

“Secret spy hole,” he replied, his voice so soft that she hardly heard it. A chink of light was coming from a slit in the tapestry, and jester had his face pressed close to see out, his body tense as he listened. Pressed against him in the tight space, Leyna could feel the warmth of his body and the way his heart raced in his chest. She breathed in. The smoky scent was strong.

The sound of two men talking came within earshot, and she recognised their voices.

“…about that damn book. Master Emsworth is demanding a search of the castle.” That was Marek Volak, the steward, his gruff voice clearly distinguishable.

“Demands?” replied Chamberlain Percy. “My Lord Steward, that’s preposterous. Who is he to make demands? He doesn’t have the authority.”

The steward made a sound of agreement.

“And, to be fair,” continued the chamberlain, “the headmaster shouldn’t have had it in the first place, not without the Crown’s approval. I did warn him he had three days to hand it over. If he’d listened…”

“Emsworth thinks the book is here.”

“Why would he think it’s here?”

The voices and footsteps faded.

Leyna swallowed. “What was all that about?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” said Jester. “But it sounded interesting. Come.”

His weight shifted off her, and light filtered back into the space as he walked backwards, the tapestry lifted away by his head and back, revealing the bright windows of the corridor.

“Fancy a bit more eavesdropping?” he asked, his hand extended.

She hesitated.

“You wanted answers about the book, didn’t you?” he asked. “Well, so do I.”

Feeling disorientated, she took his hand and did her best to keep up as he hurried them in the opposite direction of the fading voices.

“Where are we going?” she asked. “This is the wrong way.”

“It’s the right way,” he insisted. “We just have to turn around, that’s all.”

The jester-like inflection was gone, but the reply was as cryptic as the jester’s had ever been.

Before they reached the end of the corridor, he took a sharp turn, pulling her into a narrow corridor that ended with a single wooden door.

“The privy?” she asked sceptically. There was no smell out here, but she wrinkled her nose in advance.

“I thought it might impress you,” he said self-assuredly.

She scoffed in reply.

“No? Well, perhaps you are used to better things.”

It turned out that there was no need to enter the privy, because outside the toilet was a series of decorative wall panels, not unlike the ones that Grace had admired upon their first arrival at the castle, only these were of the old dark wood that had once been commonplace in the castle. Jester released her hand, which suddenly felt empty.

He leant in and shifted the panel aside, revealing a tall, narrow opening behind it.

“A false door,” she remarked, surprised.

“Indeed. Ladies first. You may want to light our way with magic—just make sure you keep the orb low. It’s only fifty feet ahead. And hurry—I don’t want to miss what they’re saying.”

Wondering what on earth could be up ahead, Leyna did as he said and summoned her orb. She kept the floating blue light low near her feet as she hurried forward into the darkness, apprehensive of the tight space.

A cobweb brushed her face, and she nearly screamed as it clung to her skin. She batted at her face and hair, trying to ensure that there were no spiders on her.

“Keep moving,” urged the jester, giving her a gentle push.

“Spiders,” she whined. “I don’t want one in my hair.”

“Don’t worry, they’ll still be there later.” He chuckled. “But the chamberlain and steward won’t be.”

“Great,” she said, still swatting at her head as they continued forward.

Finally, they reached the end, and Jester pulled her down to kneel beside him.

“What are we—”

“Here,” he said, pointing to several tiny holes in the wall. “Peepholes.”

Pressing her eye against it, she could see the chamberlain and the steward—that is, she could see their feet.

They had stopped near the prince’s door, and were continuing their conversation in hushed tones.

Glancing at Jester, she realised it was more fruitful to press her ear against the peephole.

Percy’s voice immediately rang loud in her ear. “I worry for the repercussions. If you allow the headmaster to turn the castle upside down…to search rooms and interrogate guests…it could pose problems for the Council’s public relations. And it could reflect badly on you as the acting ruler.”

“While this is true,” began Marek. “I am neither concerned of the repercussions, nor am I easily intimidated.”

A pause.

“What about the king?” asked Percy. “Will you consult with him?”

A pause. “No,” said Marek. “There is no need. I’m in charge now.”

“Yes…Your Grace. What shall I tell Master Emsworth?”

“Grant him a meeting. Then I will decide if I approve his request to search the castle.”

“Excellent, sir. I’ll write to him presently.”

A knock sounded, and a moment later, Seth’s door opened and closed, cutting off the sound of the talking court officials.

Silence.

She opened her mouth to speak, but was startled by the jester’s finger on her lips. “Sh. There’s still two guards.”

Leyna let him take her hand again and he led her back through the secret passageway. They exited via the false door near the privy and finally emerged in the main corridor.

“Well, that was enlightening,” Jester said, strolling casually down the corridor. Sunlight poured through the windows, the contrast almost blinding after the darkness of the passage. It took her longer than it should have to realise he was still holding her hand.

“What did you make of it?” she asked, pulling her hand back. “Of their conversation? They mentioned Master Emsworth.”

“It seems the headmaster of the Wizarding Guild has reason to suspect that the Demon Book is here.”

“Here? At Castle Rutherford? But why would it be here?”

“That’s a good question.”

They stopped in a sunny alcove at the end of the corridor, and Leyna leant her elbows on the windowsill, looking out at the grounds as the sun’s warmth pressed through her sleeves. A servant passed, and she waited until he’d disappeared before speaking again.

“I’ll ask again. Did you take the book?”

He gasped, clutching his heart. “Why, Leyna! How your words pain me—I thought we were just starting to trust each other!”

“The Demon Book went missing around the same time that you were camped near the Guild with Bernie’s travelling troupe. So, for all I know, you could have stolen it.”

Jester cocked his head. “True. But it could also have been you.”

The accusation caught her off guard. “Well, it wasn’t me.”

“Is that so? I have more reason to suspect you than you do me. I have intelligence that the book was heavily guarded with wards, which means whoever stole the book was competent in magic. And not only are you a wizard, Huskarl Leyna, but you’re familiar with the office’s layout, having recently broken in yourself—”

“Hang on a minute,” she began, but he cut her off.

“—and you have a recent history of entering the headmaster’s office and summoning a high-level demon. Was that your first attempt to steal the book? Tut-tut, Huskarl Leyna! It’s not a far stretch to think you might have broken into the headmaster’s office a second time. And as for your motive…could it be ambition? A lust for power? Or are you simply fascinated with the creatures of the Other Side?”

Leyna tensed, unable to tell if he was joking. “Do you really think I stole the book?”

He shook his head. “No. I don’t think you stole it. But it’s easy to point fingers, as you can see.”

“You’ve made your point,” she said stiffly. Jester’s opinion shouldn’t have mattered to her, but she felt a touch of relief all the same. “So what are you going to do about the book?”

The jester glanced at her. “What am I going to do?”

“The king said you’re a spy.”

“Did he, now?” Jester crossed his arms and smiled in amusement. “Well, then, I suppose I’m doing spy things, aren’t I?”

“Be serious.”

“I am. Leyna, you need to understand that my role is to gather intelligence and secrets. I’m a spy…an observer. It’s rare that I do anything.”

“Well, you have to do something,” she said, mirroring him as she crossed her arms. “Will you try to find out who stole it, at least?”

“Oh, quite probably. But it’s rare that I would intervene myself. I only get my hands dirty on…special occasions.”

His last words sent a chill down her spine. What did he mean, getting his hands dirty?

“Any other questions for me?” he asked.

Her mind felt scattered.

“What about your dreams?” she asked. It was the first thing to pop into her head. “Is it your life’s ambition to be the king’s spy?”

He stilled, then shot her a wary look as he sank down onto the stone bench. His posture was unlike that of the jester, at least until he crossed his long legs. “You know, I’ve never been asked that before.”

He licked his lips, thoughtful.

“Once upon a time, I was full of dreams and ambition, as you are now. But dreams can come at a cost…and when they fade, you wonder if it was worth the sacrifice. After a while, I stopped dreaming altogether.”

Leyna listened, engrossed. It was the first real glimpse she’d had of the man behind the costume.

“You gave up on your dreams? Why?”

“That’s a good question.” He stroked his chin. “I think that, sometimes, the anticipation of reaching a goal is more rewarding than actually achieving it.”

Leyna pinched her lips. “I think I can relate.”

Their eyes met for the briefest of moments.

Out-of-the-blue, she asked: “Why don’t you take your mask off?”

Jester chuckled. “It wouldn’t make a difference.”

She frowned. “Why not?”

“Because…whoever you’re looking for doesn’t exist anymore. I’ve been living the lives of others for far too long—my real self died a long time ago.”

“That can’t be true,” she said. “Don’t you have any new dreams? Any goals outside of being a spy?”

“Actually…as a matter of fact, I do.” He tilted his head at her. “I have my sights set on one right now.”

Leyna froze as his eyes locked onto hers, barely breathing as her heart thundered in her chest. Before she could dissect his meaning, however, he asked, “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

Oh shit.

She was meant to be at training.

Chapter Twenty

A Secret Admirer

THE TRAINING YARDS WERE alive with the sound of swords ringing against each other. Within the castle walls, the yards were bordered by the barracks, the dungeon, and the gatehouse that led to Royad. There was an archery range with targets and several training rings for sparring, with the largest ring designed to accommodate wizards. It was walled on all sides with enchanted stone and shimmering clear walls to protect the onlookers and surrounding structures from the more destructive spells.

The smell of straw and sawdust triggered memories of Leyna’s childhood. She had come here often to watch the wizards and soldiers train, and it was where she had first met Bancroft. He had noticed the seven-year-old Leyna watching the soldiers sparring with swords. As a friend of her father, Bancroft had quickly taken her under his wing and taught her swordplay.

Early on, Leyna had felt small and out of place as she tried to lift the heavy steel, which, in reality, was just a blunt training sword. She could not swing it high enough to hit the straw-stuffed dummy, and the blade had bounced off the post below, sending vibrations through her arms.

Bancroft had applauded all the same, his booming voice ringing across the yards.

“Good! Atta ‘girl, Leyna—go for the knees.”

“It’s too heavy,” she’d complained.

“So’s mine,” he said. “At least you’ve got the kids one—mine’s even heavier! Don’t be discouraged, it takes lots of practice, and you get stronger the more you train…or so they say, anyway.”

Like most wizards, Bancroft’s sword-wielding abilities were little to none, but Leyna hadn’t known that at the time, and had watched, enthralled, as the wizard repeatedly hit the dummy with his sword, slashing and piercing until straw was flying into the air.

She’d giggled as a piece of straw floated onto her face and tickled her nose.

“You’re not much of a foot soldier,” a passer-by had commented, leaning over the wooden rails to watch Bancroft.

Panting, Bancroft had stopped to lean on his sword and glared at the newcomer.

“And you’re not much of a cook, are you Cormack? But I don’t come into your kitchen and piss in your stew, do I?”

She’d been alarmed by the exchanged insults, and even more so when both men had burst out laughing, slapping each other across the back.

Leyna smiled at the memory, her eyes coming back into focus. Before her was a hessian dummy that had seen better days, the straw stuffing spilt on the ground beneath it.

She was disappointed that Bancroft had left with the court; he was her favourite person at the castle, and she’d been eager to learn from him and expand her magical skills.

Today, the yards were busy with soldiers, but there weren’t any wizards for her to spar with. She stayed for the better part of an hour, watching the soldiers train with swords and various other weapons, before leaving early for lunch.

Her afternoon was filled with a mix of duties. She quickly decided she liked the patrols of the grounds the best, as she could ride Budsworth around the castle’s perimeter as she accompanied the other guards.

Guard duty, meanwhile, was boring beyond words, and involved standing in various locations for hours on end. It was impossible to remain alert when nothing ever happened, and her legs grew restless and sore from standing in one place for so long.

Leyna had known that being a huskarl wasn’t all glamour, that it would have its dull moments, but it was another thing to experience it for herself. She was not afraid of hard work, and any task would have been preferable to the mind-numbing tedium of standing outside the steward’s office—he did not welcome visitors, and his door rarely opened.

She felt useless and uninspired, itching to use her skills and position to make a difference—to help others.

Her days fell into a routine; the Royal Guard would meet in the Captain’s office; after breakfast, she would teach Seth magic while deflecting jester’s interruptions; Grace, whose roster was amended, would train with her in the yards; she would join a unit to patrol the grounds; and then a boring door awaited her protection, the hours dragging on until dinner.

On the third day, Jester joined her while she was posted outside the steward’s office.

“Well, isn’t this exciting?” he asked. “May I join you?”

She straightened abruptly—he’d caught her leaning against the wall. “Er, sure.”

He leant on the wall beside her, the billowing sleeve of his white silk shirt touching hers. He leant even closer and held up a glass of golden liquid. “Drink?”

“I’m on duty,” she said, but couldn’t help wetting her lips. It was hot and her throat was parched. “What is it?”

“Apple juice.” Giving her a pointed look, he took a sip before offering it to her. “And I haven’t spiked it, in case you’re wondering.”

Glancing around the hall, she accepted the glass.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, sipping at the cool liquid, wondering whether her lips touched the rim where his had.

“I came to see you—thought you could use the company.”

She laughed. “Sure. But what are you really doing here?”

“I’m serious. I came here for you.”

She nearly choked on the juice.

“For me?”

“You can drink that all, by the way. I brought it for you. And yes, I thought we could continue our conversation from the other day.”

“About the Demon Book?” She drank another mouthful.

“Sure. Or…another topic, if you like. It needn’t always be doom and gloom, you know.”

“Bernie’s,” she said suddenly, remembering the travelling troupe of entertainers.

“Ah, yes, well.” Jester scratched behind his ear. “That’s a more pleasurable topic than a Demon Book, I’ll admit, but not exactly what I had in mind…”

“Why did the troupe need to be escorted to the castle? And how did the headmaster get the permissions? Singers, performers, acrobats…it seems like a security risk to let so many strangers into the castle.”

Jester grinned. “Perhaps you should ask the headmaster.”

“Yes, but I know you know. So you may as well tell me.”

He laughed softly. “Leyna, Leyna, Leyna…wouldn’t you rather discuss something more…stimulating? All work, and no play…”

“I’ll play,” she retorted, then blushed as Jester’s grin widened. She hurried to recover. “I’m on duty. That’s where my focus needs to be.”

“Indeed?”

She nodded and drained the glass.

“What a shame. Although, I do admire your dedication. ” He sighed, pushing himself off the wall, and for a moment, she felt a sharp yearning, not wanting him to leave just yet. When he reached out to touch her hand, a thrill ran through her—but he was only taking the empty glass back.

“To answer your question, not everyone in Bernie’s troupe are who they seem to be, including Bernie himself, but you can rest assured that they are all very much trusted by the king himself. Some of them even left with the court.”

“Why did the troupe need us to escort them, then?”

Jester’s eyes twinkled. “Perhaps someone put in a special request for a pair of pretty huskarls to make the journey more entertaining?”

Leyna scoffed. “That doesn’t sound like a good enough reason.”

“Well,” he said, leaning with an arm close to his head, the generous fabric of his sleeve brushing her cheek. “I certainly enjoyed our journey here.”

Her breath caught in her throat, and she blinked at him, speechless.

“And I do hope to see what your idea of ‘play’ is, sometime…”

Leyna remained rooted to the spot long after he’d left, straight-backed with her skin prickling all over, and feeling more alert than any other time she’d been on guard duty.

While she appreciated the nods of respect she received in the hallway when people saw her banderole, the pride she felt did not quite compensate for the mundanity of the long hours.

To her surprise, the most enjoyable part of her days were her lessons with Seth. He was an outstanding student with a sharp mind, and by the third lesson, he could already levitate small objects, propelling them across the room at the jester.

Jester was as bad as Seth, returning the boy’s onslaught by shooting spit wads of paper with a straw. He tried this with Leyna only once; she had quickly put a stop to it by shooting a small fireball his way, which set the bell-laden fabric triangles atop his mask on fire. Much to her and Seth’s amusement, Jester had refused to remove his mask, opting to pat out the flames with his cloak instead, and he had not shot any spit wads since.

One day before lunch, she spotted something out of place on her bed. The item was small and looked like a wooden jewellery box, with a lid secured with a simple latch. The exterior was pale yellow like ash wood and the surfaces were engraved with pink-stained roses. It was lovely.

Where had it come from? She had never seen the box before, and she was almost certain that it wasn’t Grace’s.

There was a brief note from Sophie to say a messenger had delivered it.

But who sent it?

Frowning, Leyna picked it up, but as she did so, the box squealed loudly.

She dropped it and yelled out in fright as she leapt backwards.

Holding her breath, she eyed the sinister object where it had tumbled back onto the bed. When it remained still, she approached again. Closer examination revealed that there were tiny notches in the side, like air holes, and her suspicion grew.

There was something alive inside.

Swallowing, she paced in front of the bed, never taking her eyes off the box as she debated what to do. What if there was a demon inside the box? Was there such a thing as Demon Boxes? The last thing she needed was another encounter with a being from the Other Side.

The urge to open it grew stronger, and for a moment, she feared she would hear a voice in her head compelling her like the Demon Book had done.

But nothing of that nature happened, and as she sat in her armchair staring at it, waiting, nothing continued to happen.

The clock on the wall chimed. She had less than an hour to be at the stables for a patrol of the grounds, and she still needed to have lunch. If she didn’t open the box now, she wouldn’t have another chance until that evening.

She chewed the inside of her cheek.

I could just take a peek.

Her fingers drummed the arms of the armchair.

Finally, unable to resist temptation, she leapt up and crouched by the bed, reaching forward to undo the latch. She used a finger and thumb to lift the lid, her body tense as she readied herself to leap aside should a demon spring forth at her.

The lid was fully open.

But nothing happened.

Then, suddenly, something shuffled inside the box. A ball of fuzz tottered out, teetering on the edges of the box before tumbling onto the sheets.

Leyna stared in astonishment as a brown furry creature, small enough to fit in her palm, sat looking at her, cooing softly. It had a round, fluffy body with two feet and a pair of large brown eyes. It didn’t appear to have a neck, or legs, or a tail—it was just a fur ball with eyes, feet, and a mouth.

Leyna felt lost in its wide, shining eyes.

It didn’t look like a demon.

Taking a deep breath, she placed a wavering hand near the creature, which rubbed its furry face against her fingers and purred happily before proceeding to climb into her hand.

The fur was so soft, so thick, that she couldn’t help but stroke its back with her other hand. The creature gave an excited yip and licked her palms with a small, pink tongue.

The door opened.

“Leyna, what are you doing?” asked Grace, entering the suite. “Oh my, what is that?” She hurried over and dropped to her knees, drawing a sharp intake of breath as she gazed at the creature cupped in Leyna’s hands.

“Um, I think it’s a gift.”

“It’s so cute!” Grace swooned, reaching to pet the creature. “Oh my gosh, you are so fluffy! Do you know who sent it?”

“No idea. Anyway, I think it was meant for you.” Leyna doubted anyone would send her gifts. Grace may have been new to Castle Rutherford, but each day that passed made it clear that she was as popular and well-liked here as she had been at the Guild.

“For me?” she asked. “Is that what the card said?”

“What card?”

“This card,” said Grace, reaching into the box and withdrawing a small, white card. “Haven’t you read it yet?

Leyna gave her head a small shake.

As Grace read the card, her brown eyes widened, and she covered her mouth to stifle a giggle.

“What is it?” asked Leyna. “What does it say?”

Grace smiled knowingly and read out loud:

To Leyna,

May this bring you joy.

From Your Secret Admirer

Before Leyna could react, Grace squealed excitedly and embraced her. “Ooh, Leyna, you have a secret admirer! Do you know who it is?”

“No idea,” she gasped, pulling free of the hug. “It’s probably a mistake.”

“But what about the feast? You looked so beautiful in your emerald dress! I knew you were bound to catch someone’s eye!”

“You’re starting to sound like my mother,” said Leyna, but she was smiling despite herself. “Anyway, there was no one there that I liked.”

Her stomach twisted as a thought occurred to her. Oh no. What if Sir Waldorf sent the gift?

“Come on, you must have some idea.” Grace’s face was alight with mischief. “Come on, who is it? Tell me, tell me, tell me!”

“I don’t know!” Leyna laughed as Grace tried to tickle her.

“What about the jester?”

Leyna shook her head. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Not in a million years.”

“He’s handsome, isn’t he?”

“How can you tell?” asked Leyna, crossing her arms. “You can’t even see his face.”

“I can tell by his eyes,” Grace sighed wistfully, then added: “Well, and the rest of him doesn’t look too bad either.”

“Grace!” Leyna chided. She could feel her face growing hot.

“Or what about that man your mother was trying to introduce you to?”

“I hope you don’t mean Sir Waldorf,” said Leyna.

“No, no, not him!” Grace wrinkled her nose. “He’s too mopey for you. And a little old, isn’t he? No, I’m thinking of the other one…that Lord-something with the nice hair…”

Leyna tensed. “You mean Lord Brighton?”

Grace gave her a sly smile. “That’s the one.”

Her heart sped up, but she gave a dismissive shrug. “I suppose he does have nice hair. But no, trust me, he wasn’t interested.”

“Hmm.” Grace scratched her head in thought. “Well, who else could have sent it?”

An odd thought struck her. “What about Quinn?”

Grace stilled. “Quinn? What about him?”

Leyna rubbed the back of her neck. Her suggestion wasn’t serious; although Quinn was handsome—at least, in a surly, brooding way—she didn’t have any romantic feelings for him. Most of her interactions with him over the years had left her annoyed rather than charmed. Still, it was possible that Quinn had a soft spot for her. “I know it’s unlikely,” she continued, leaning in towards Grace. ”But what if Quinn is my secret admirer?”

Grace stared at her for a moment before she gave a strained laugh. “No, that’s ridiculous. Of course, it’s not Quinn! Leyna, why would you say that?”

Grace’s reaction was so unexpected that it was almost affronting.

“Well, why not?” asked Leyna indignantly. “Why couldn’t it be Quinn?”

Was it so unreasonable to imagine that he might like her in that way?

Grace covered her mouth with her hands for a moment. “Leyna, I’m unsure how to say this, but…the reason it’s ridiculous is because Quinn is courting me. So, he couldn’t possibly be your secret admirer.”

Leyna’s jaw dropped. “He’s…he’s courting you?”

“Yes, Quinn and I have been together for months now, ever since Winterfest. We celebrated our six-month anniversary last week before we left the Guild…” She gave Leyna a pitying look. “Did you really not know?”

Leyna shook her head. “Um, no, I suppose I didn’t.”

“Oh.” Grace bit her lip. “Well, we are.”

An uncomfortable silence filled the room. Leyna wrung her hands, unsure of where to look to escape Grace’s doe-like eyes.

“Grace,” she began, “I’m sorry I didn’t know.”

“Oh, don’t be. It’s my fault for not mentioning it. I just assumed everyone at the Guild knew.”

“They probably did,” said Leyna, scratching her head. “I’m sorry, Grace. I try to be observant, but sometimes I feel like I’m the last person to know these things.”

Grace clucked her tongue with a smile, then leant forward and squeezed Leyna’s hands. “There’s absolutely no need to be sorry. And you are observant. You just notice different things.”

Leyna smiled weakly. She wanted to be a good friend to Grace. Rolling her shoulders, she said: “Well, I’m happy for both you and Quinn. And congratulations on your six-month anniversary.” She searched for something else to say. “So…did you do anything to celebrate your six months?”

Grace perked up. “Well, believe it or not, Quinn and I had a picnic! Can you imagine?”

“Quinn on a picnic?” Leyna shook her head with a laugh. “Not really. I can imagine you dragging him along to one, perhaps.”

Grace batted at her playfully. “Well, you’re going to laugh, because the picnic was his idea.”

Leyna’s eyes widened. “No. You’re kidding.”

“I’m not! It was a surprise. We went for a walk in the woods near the Guild, and he had it all arranged. It was so nice. Oh, and he gave me this,” she added, pointing to the silver necklace she was wearing around her neck. Leyna had noticed it before, but never thought to ask where Grace had gotten it from.

“It’s beautiful,” Leyna said, smiling at the necklace. Both her friends—if she could call Quinn that—had surprised her. She had not taken Quinn for a romantic, and was grateful for Grace’s easy acceptance of her social blunder.

I should have known about their relationship. At least, I should’ve caught on to it sooner.

They had never been openly affectionate, but the signs had been there. She recalled how Grace and Quinn had danced together, and the way one always seemed to mention the other in conversation.

Leyna still felt the need to clear the air. “Um, Grace, just so you know, I don’t fancy Quinn or anything—”

Grace snorted. “Oh, trust me, I know. I can’t imagine two people less suited. In fact, I think you’d both kill each other.”

“Probably.” Leyna grinned, happy that the tension had dissipated.

Grace petted the furry creature, which was still sitting contentedly in Leyna’s hands. “Why, hello, beautiful! Hello!”

It purred in response, and rolled onto its back, exposing its tummy for Grace to stroke.

“What will you name him?” asked Grace.

“Err, I’m not sure that we should name him…”

“But, of course, we should name him! And I have the perfect name. Are you ready?”

Grace pursed her lips together in a barely contained squeal, and when Leyna nodded, she announced: “Floofy!”

Leyna regarded her with scepticism.

“Floofy?”

“Yes! Floofy! It’s perfect—because he’s so fluffy, and—”

“No,” said Leyna.

“But—”

“Just no. I’m not even sure I’ll keep it.”

“Of course, you’ll keep him!” Grace smiled. “Just try to think of a name. And in the meantime, I’m calling him Floofy!”

Leyna caught sight of the clock.

“Shit,” she said. “I’m late for patrol.”

“I need to go as well,” said Grace, dashing for the door. “Oh, and before I forget—the tailor wants to see us after dinner. To measure us for our uniforms.”

“Great,” said Leyna distractedly.

“I’ll see you later!”

Leyna tucked the card inside the ash wood box and snapped it shut. Finding an old saucer, she filled it with a sliver of water and set it on the floor by her bedside table where Floofy was exploring. Almost instantly, the furball hopped into the saucer and splashed around in the liquid, turning in circles and squealing in delight. Shaking its fur out, it looked up at Leyna.

“That was for drinking,” she said.

Floofy licked his own face, then faced down to lap the water with a small pink tongue.

“I’ll be back,” she promised, snatching up her cloak and rushing for the door.

Out in the hallway, she hadn’t gone more than a few steps before she heard a noise.

“Yip!”

She halted.

“Yip!”

Gritting her teeth, she walked back to her door, listening. The barking was becoming more frantic…

“Yip! Yip! Yip!”

…and louder.

“YIP! YIP! YIP!”

Exhaling through her nose, Leyna unlocked the door and pushed it open. Floofy scurried out immediately, his tongue lolling as he panted wheezily. His large eyes were looking up at her in earnest.

“No, you’re not coming with me.”

“Yip!” it protested.

“No, Floof—” She scrunched her eyes shut. She had nearly called him ‘Floofy’, but she was reluctant to commit to a name yet—especially not that one. “No. Stay here. I’ll be back.”

“Yah?”

“Just…just stay, alright?”

But Floofy was already clambering onto her boots, tickling her legs and waist as he scaled up her body. Leyna tried to snatch him, but he was surprisingly fast for a creature with only two feet and had soon settled on her shoulder.

“Yah, yah!” he cried happily.

Leyna sighed defeatedly as Floofy surveyed the corridor. He seemed delighted by his vantage point, and if he’d had a tail, it probably would have been wagging.

An elderly noblewoman did a double take as she passed them, her eyes drawn to Floofy. “It’s adorable!” she smiled. “Is it a he or a she?”

“Neither,” said Leyna drily. “It’s an ‘it.’” She tucked Floofy under her upturned collar and adjusted her cloak over him.

“Yah?” asked Floofy, peeking out.

“Yes, you can sit up here. But stay out of sight. And be quiet.”

“Yah!” cried Floofy triumphantly.

“Quieter,” warned Leyna.

“Yah,” whispered Floofy. He nestled on her collarbone and his fur tickled as he turned around several times before finally finding a comfortable spot.

As Leyna hurried down the stairs, ignoring her leg’s protest as she took the steps two at a time, she couldn’t help but feel butterflies in her stomach at the thought that she had a secret admirer.

She was on patrol that evening when Master Emsworth arrived on horseback.

“Headmaster!” she called, breaking away from her unit and riding to meet the wizard. He looked impressive in deep-purple robes, and his short grey beard was cinched with silver beads.

He lifted a hand in greeting. “Huskarl Leyna, a pleasure to see you. And I’m not your headmaster anymore.”

She smiled sheepishly. “That will be a hard habit to break, sir.”

“Indeed.” The corners of his eyes crinkled in humour. “You were one of my favourite pupils. How is your leg?”

“Very well, thank you, sir.” She bowed her head. “I’ve been wanting to say…that I can’t express how grateful I am that you allowed me to take the viva, especially after…everything that happened.”

Master Emsworth inclined his head. “We make mistakes, Leyna, and we learn from them. I must take at least some responsibility for what happened—clearly, I had not protected the book well enough if a student could discover it. In any case, it’s Lord Brighton you have to thank—he’s the one who convinced me to let you take the viva voce.”

Leyna’s heart skipped a beat.

“Lord Brighton, sir?”

“Why yes.” he said, his blue eyes searching hers. “You may recall that he was the wizard who healed you.”

“Yes, of course, sir. But do you know why he did that for me?”

He smiled. “I’m sure he had his reasons. It’s best not to look a gift horse in the mouth, don’t you think?”

“Yes, sir,” she said, even as a flurry of questions filled her mind. Why would Cornelius have vouched for her? Why should he care if she failed her seventh year? What was it to him? Had he taken pity on her? Or…

Or was it something more…?

“Now, Leyna,” said the headmaster, stroking his silver goatee. “I’ve come to see the lord steward. Perhaps you could show me to his office?”

They dismissed their mounts, and Leyna led him inside the castle, tucking away the information she had learnt about Cornelius for later.

She felt a burst of pride to be walking alongside her former headmaster. His cheerful, easy conversation made her feel like an equal, and as she matched his stride, she felt confident enough to ask him about the Demon Book.

“Do you have any idea who may have stolen it?”

“I have my suspicions, Leyna, but nothing definitive. But I will say this: it would have taken a powerful wizard to break through my wards—I placed multiple, and they were expertly bypassed.”

It was the same thing that Jester had said.

“So, it wasn’t a student?” she asked.

Master Emsworth smiled. “Not even you, Leyna—as talented as you are—could have disabled those wards without drawing attention to yourself and waking up the entire Guild. No, whoever did this managed it quietly and expertly.”

She wanted to ask who the powerful wizard could be, but she sensed that Master Emsworth was not prepared to say. The information on the wards narrowed the list of suspects significantly—there weren’t many wizards powerful enough to rival the headmaster’s wards.

Was it a teacher at the Guild? Or a wizard in the Royal Guard?

An uneasy thought crept in. What if whoever had stolen the Demon Book was with the king and his court right now?

Is the king in danger?

She gave her head a quick shake.

It could be someone else entirely. They might not even be Rosarian…

She didn’t know enough to leap to conclusions.

“Master Emsworth, do you think the person who stole the book might have brought it to the castle?”

“I cannot rule that out,” he said carefully. “But the steward has been generous in supplying me with officers to investigate the theft, and I hope that, together, we can shed more light on the matter.”

“But why would someone want the book, sir? I thought demons could be summoned without the need for a book?”

“Yes, and no. Some of the more common demons, perhaps, such as the spectators, and the hounds. But the dark creatures inside this Demon Book are unique, with terrible powers. I don’t believe they’ve been catalogued anywhere else.”

“How are they different, sir?”

The headmaster slowed his steps, as if deliberating. When he next spoke, his words were laced with sadness. “I think you experienced that first-hand, Leyna. It pains me you were nearly killed by one. I must admit that I feel responsible for what happened. The book should have been better protected. Please accept my most sincere apology.”

Her eyes widened.

“It’s alright, sir,” she said, unprepared for his apology. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have been in your office.”

They continued down the corridor in silence.

“Sir,” she began, “I still don’t understand why someone would steal the book. What would they do with it?”

“Leyna, I’m afraid to think about that. It is not simply a book—it is a weapon, one that I had no intention of ever using. It was taken from our enemies and entrusted to me to safeguard it. Alas, the timing was not ideal; it was delivered during the Maze Exam, and I found myself caught up in other matters. But that is my fault—I should have made its protection a priority, or you and your classmates would never have stumbled upon it so easily.”

She had half a mind to console the headmaster—the book had hardly been lying around where students could find it. Not only had the door to his office been locked but the secret room’s door had held a difficult enchantment that she had prided herself on thwarting at the time.

“Is that why the book was in Kormend, sir?” She lowered her voice. “Were they planning on using the book to start a war?”

The headmaster flinched. “What makes you think the book came from Kormend?”

Leyna gaped.

Shit. I wasn’t meant to know that, was I?

Did the headmaster know about Jester, the king’s spy? She couldn’t ask, not without breaking her solemn vow to King Rutherford, and not without knowing more about the headmaster’s plans for the book.

“Um, I just assumed,” she said quickly. “Because you said ‘enemies’.”

“I see,” said the headmaster. “In any case, I would be careful not to make any accusations. The Kormendians are not our enemies.”

It was a polite correction—and a warning.

“Of course not,” she agreed quickly.

“The peace treaty between Rosaria and Kormend is solid and has been in place for decades. False rumours can sway public opinion and cause more damage than genuine threats.”

“So, the book was not from Kormend, sir?” she asked, wondering if the jester had lied.

The headmaster twisted the silver bead in his beard. “I didn’t say that.”

“Oh.”

She was still confused.

“Leyna, I think we should hope for the best, and prepare for the worst, don’t you think?”

Leyna had no choice but to bid the headmaster goodbye as the steward’s clerk greeted him.

She headed to dinner feeling puzzled. Why had the headmaster been so eager to downplay the book’s importance? Someone had clearly gone to a lot of trouble to lay their hands on it, and the thought of the dangers that lurked within its pages made her feel clammy. It was impossible to forget the horrifying creature that had emerged from the Demon Book or how it had spoken to her inside her head.

Then there was Cornelius’ unusual behaviour towards her. Why had he helped her at the Guild, healing her leg and convincing the faculty to let her take the viva—not to mention helping her beat Fry at her own game—only to avoid her at court as if she didn’t exist? Had she offended him somehow? Or was he hiding something?

As Leyna set her trencher down at her usual table, she felt a stir beneath her collar. Floofy had remained settled right up until now, but the smell of food drew him out. Before she could stop him, he had launched himself into the air, landed clumsily on the table, and rolled several times before uprighting himself with a happy squeal. Without pausing, he made a beeline for Grace’s trencher and waddled up her leg of duck before settling on a heap of mashed potatoes.

Grace cooed with delight.

“Don’t encourage him,” Leyna said, but couldn’t help smiling as Grace fed Floofy morsels of food.

As they ate, Leyna glanced around the Great Hall, hoping to spot a certain gentleman with wavy, caramel hair, but she could not see Cornelius amongst the other nobles.

Leyna was arguing with Jester. She knew she shouldn’t be picking a fight, especially here in the corridor where sound travelled and anyone could hear them, but she couldn’t help it. He bothered her more than she cared to admit, and it felt good to finally give him a piece of her mind.

Footsteps approached, but she wasn’t aware of them, and so she kept arguing despite the jester’s attempts to shush her.

Suddenly, he clamped a hand over her mouth, and before she knew it, he had pushed her into a hidden crevice behind a tapestry, which was cramped and tight, forcing their bodies together as they hid from the steward outside.

The jester’s hands ran down her back and waist, stroking and insistent, and that’s when she realised that he hadn’t covered her mouth with his hand at all. No, that was his lips on hers—he had kissed her.

And she was kissing him back, shivering as their lips touched, squirming as she vied to get closer. His tongue flicked against hers, the ripple of sensation causing a soft moan to escape her as her insides came to life, burning with fire.

She feared he would stop, but he didn’t. He shared her hunger and drew her closer in the tight space that was their secret place behind the tapestry. He had one hand on her waist whilst the other combed her hair as he sandwiched her against the wall. There was hardly any room to undress as they frantically undid the laced fastenings of each other’s clothes.

“Take your mask off,” she said, reaching to untie the ribbon behind his head, but he seized her wrist.

“No. There’s no time.”

They were alone, and the dark space was larger now and lavishly furnished with a large bed appearing mere feet from them. It was covered in black satin sheets that glistened in the candlelight, and roses were woven through the mahogany headboard. They were completely alone. Nobody would disturb them here.

“Hurry,” she urged, and Jester didn’t bother undressing her as he laid her on the cool sheets, lifting up her skirts and undoing his trousers.

He climbed above so they were face-to-face, his body warm and hard as he pressed against her, setting her body alight with a wild surge of sensations. She wanted more. She needed more. Why was he hesitating?

“Please,” she whispered, unable to gauge the jester’s reaction as he peered at her through the mask. Wrapping her legs around his waist, she tried to draw him closer as she repeated the word. “Please.”

“Very well,” he announced, and without warning, his shaft plunged inside her, pushing into the damp entrance between her legs. She cried out, euphoric from the invasion she’d invited. Her fingers dug into the rich fabric of his clothes, craving more. Did he know how incredible it felt?

The jester withdrew before thrusting again, claiming her as his own. Whimpering, she leant up to kiss him, but the mask collided with her face, the embroidery scratchy against her cheek.

Again, she tried to remove the mask, wanting to see his face, and wanting no obstacle between them.

But the jester only chuckled as he took her hands in his, their fingers interlacing as he pushed her deeper into the bed, the movement making the bells of his mask jingle.

“No,” he said. “Leave it. You’ll like it like this.”

And she did. She was fully naked now, but he remained masked as he took her. She could not see his face, but he could see all of her, lying exposed before him.

As the roaring need inside her mounted, threatening to burst, the jester gripped her tightly, eyes locked on hers as he delivered each thrust with intention, each one more forceful than the last. He thrust into her again, and again, and again, the movement growing faster and faster as they enjoyed each other. She urged him on, fingers now clutching his shoulders as he threw his head back. Their groans grew louder, and the jingling of the jester bells were triumphant as their combined worlds spiralled out of control.

As they moved together across the dark satin sheets, both completely naked now as they neared a glorious climax, she could hear the sound of bells—they were ringing, and ringing, over and over again.

Leyna could hear bells.

Urgent, and insistent, like the beat of her heart and the force inside her.

But they weren’t jester bells.

They didn’t jingle or rattle.

They tolled.

And she knew what they meant, the knowledge shattering her bliss as she sat bolt upright in her bed, lighting a candle with a spell and shaking Grace awake.

“What is it?” Grace yawned. “And what’s that sound?”

The hot feeling that had washed over Leyna a moment ago had vanished, and a horrible chill gripped her as she waited, listening. Each toll of the distant bells hit her like a knife.

It was the death knell.

The bells tolled for the king.

Chapter Twenty-One

Death Knell

LEYNA AND GRACE WERE already dressed when the knocks came on the door.

Bang-bang-bang.

“Wake up!” came a muffled voice through the door. “Assembly in the Great Hall!”

The knocking stopped, then sounded again more faintly. Someone was knocking on all the doors out in the corridor.

Grace drew the curtains. It was pitch black outside.

Sophie arrived in a nightcap and gown, trembling so much that the flame of her candle threatened to flicker out.

“Leyna, Grace, is there anything you need? Anything I can get you?”

“No, we’re fine, thank you, Sophie,” said Leyna, offering a reassuring smile even as her heart hammered. “Perhaps see to my mother?”

Sophie paused at the family suite’s door. “Leyna, it’s not the death knell, is it?”

“I’m not sure. I hope not.”

But why else would the bells be ringing non-stop?

The door handle rattled, and the maid jumped out of the way just in time as the door flew open.

“Leyna, wake up!” wailed her mother, appearing in the doorway in her nightclothes. She brandished a swinging candle lantern and squinted around the room as if expecting to catch intruders. “Oh good, you’re already dressed.”

“Dear, it’s still dark out,” said Lord Saunders, appearing in the doorway, looking half asleep. “What’s going on?”

“He must be half deaf and then some,” complained Lady Saunders, giving Leyna a pained look as she gestured at her husband, “to not hear the bells, nor the first three times that I said we’re needed in the Great Hall.”

“Alright, alright,” said Lord Saunders, raising his hands in surrender. “I’ll just get my night-robe.” He reappeared a moment later. “And, dear, have you seen my slippers—”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake—they’re next to the ottoman! Like I told you already—” She broke off with a cluck of her tongue. “I better go help him—dearies. We’ll meet you downstairs.”

The castle corridors had never been so busy with people at night. Nobles, servants and soldiers filtered into the Great Hall, wearing nightclothes and fearful expressions. The phrase ‘death knell’ echoed around them, but Leyna tried to block the chatter from her mind. She wouldn’t think about what the bells meant. It couldn’t happen, not when the king had sat on the throne only a few days ago, healthy and magnificent as the hall beamed with celebration.

The bells clanged, and her heart outstripped the knell’s rhythm as it pounded against her chest.

Inside the dim hall, service staff hurried to lower and light the chandeliers. Through the chaos of people, Leyna spotted Damian near the foot of the dais.

“They’ve been attacked!” a noblewoman wailed, brushing past them.

“Who’s been attacked?” asked Grace, but the woman was gone.

“Look, there’s Damian,” Leyna said, pulling Grace by the arm. The long-haired huskarl was in uniform and rubbed at his stubbled chin.

“Damian, what’s going on?” Leyna asked.

He beckoned them closer. “News arrived an hour ago—there’s been an attack on the king and queen at the Baxton estate.”

Grace gasped. “Is anyone hurt?”

“Yeah…” said Damian vaguely. “A lot of people are hurt.”

“What do you mean, a lot of people?”

“The attack targeted the entire court—not just the king.”

“What about Quinn?”

Damian shook his head. “I don’t know the specifics, but I reckon we’ll find out soon enough…the steward’s about to make an announcement.”

Leyna glanced at the empty dais. “Who brought the news?”

“A couple of castle guards who went with the court—Maurice and Firmin. They managed to make it back alive.”

“Alive?” Grace’s voice rose in volume. “Why would you say that? Why wouldn’t they come back alive?”

Leyna rested a hand on Grace’s shoulder. “I’m sure he’s fine.” She locked eyes with Damian. “What happened to the king?”

“I can’t say, not until it’s confirmed.”

“But what about the bells…does that mean…?”

“Yes, I think so.”

They exchanged a long look.

“Leyna, I don’t understand,” said Grace. “What do the bells mean?”

“They mark death,” she whispered. “It means King Rutherford is dead.”

Grace paled.

The Great Hall echoed from the din as people speculated about what had happened, and Leyna and Grace split up to help the guards on duty who were struggling to contain the panic. Fear amplified what little information there was to be had, and stories ranged from the absurd to the ludicrous, with those who knew the least about the attack having the most to say on the subject.

“I heard everyone who went died,” proclaimed a maid. “Not a single soul survived. Can you imagine? The whole court—gone. Horses and all. Even the Baxtons.”

“Well, I heard it was the Kormendians,” boasted a young man wearing a kitchen apron. “Killed them all, they did.”

“And you heard that while scrubbing pans, did you?” said the butler, startling the kitchen hand. “I’ll remind you not to spread rumours, Thomas.”

“Sorry, sir.”

Other stories hinted at what might have been true:

“Apparently, the queen is still alive. Managed to hide under a carriage.”

“I pray you are right.” She rubbed her arms self-soothingly to stop the panic infecting her, but it was too late. Damian’s cryptic words had rattled her.

Was the king really dead? Who else was hurt? Hundreds of people had gone with the king and queen, including a large force of soldiers and half the Royal Guard…surely, that was enough to fend off an attack?

A man caught her attention, standing calm and still amongst the crowd with his eyes closed, his hands in the pockets of a navy nightgown with gold piping. It took her a moment to place him because his wavy hair was a tousled mess, and his diamond-shaped face was tipped to one side as if he were listening to the surrounding noise. She hastened towards him and tapped on his shoulder.

“Excuse me, Lord Brighton?”

He startled.

“Huskarl Leyna! Are you alright?”

Despite looking like he’d just rolled out of bed, his bright-blue eyes were sharp as they searched her face.

“I’m fine, and you?” Despite the seriousness of the situation, hope flickered alight. There was a connection between them…

But Cornelius turned away.

“Yes, I’m well, thank you.” His voice and posture were stiff, and he seemed determined not to look at her.

The glimmer of hope died. They stood silently, side by side, as people moved about them. Would it be rude to walk away? Unable to stand the awkwardness, she cleared her throat. “I heard the court was attacked. Do you know anything about it?”

Cornelius scratched his nose. “No, I’m afraid I know nothing of the attack.”

She shuffled her weight onto her good leg. Why was he ignoring her? She opened her mouth to ask, but he pressed a finger to his lips, nodding towards the High Table.

Leyna followed his gaze. Seth stood beside the throne, his face pale as he gripped the ornate armrest, his knuckles white. The chamberlain sat in his usual chair, almost comical in a nightcap bearing a pom-pom. Several other officials looked equally flustered as they wiped sleep from their eyes.

The steward climbed the dais steps, his long cloak as dark as his face as he turned to address the audience. A herald called for silence, and the room quietened as people craned their necks to see him speak.

“I have received grave news concerning the king, borne by two brave guards who accompanied him on his travels. They have returned this night, injured and bearing terrible news that pains me now to share—”

Steward Marek’s voice cut off as if he needed a moment to collect himself. When he spoke again, anger laced his words. “My faithful subjects, I learn this night that after three days of travel, our king and his entourage reached the Baxton estate. No sooner did they arrive than a band of traitors viciously attacked them. It is with a heavy heart that I must inform you that because of this violence, our noble King Rutherford and his beloved wife, Her Majesty The Queen, are dead.”

A collective gasp swept through the hall, punctuated by screams. The steward raised his hands.

“Quiet down,” he ordered. “There is more.”

“There’s more?” moaned Grace, appearing beside her and clutching her sleeve.

“I’m sure it’s fine,” she replied, not believing her own words. She glanced at Cornelius, but he’d vanished.

The steward looked around the room emotionlessly. “It causes me great sadness to disclose that the killers were merciless in their attack. Besides the guards bearing the news, there were no survivors.”

“No survivors?” asked Grace, her grip tightening on Leyna’s arm. “What does he mean, no survivors? What about Quinn?”

Leyna turned to Grace, at a loss for words as her friend’s face crumpled.

“Grace—”

“What about Quinn?” she choked, eyes shining with tears as she clutched onto Leyna for support.

“We don’t know anything for certain.”

Grace’s disbelief gave way and she burst into tears. Leyna pulled her close, and as her friend cried against her shoulder, she blinked away a tear of her own. Staring up at the ceiling, she wondered if it, too, would come crashing down, just as the rest of her world had done.

This can’t be real. It’s not possible. A sharp pain flashed in her chest. What about Bancroft? He was one of the people who’d made life bearable after Tash died, who made her feel like she belonged at the castle. Could he really be gone, just like that? She wanted to find her parents, but was reluctant to let go of Grace.

The commotion settled enough that the steward continued.

“This treachery was not the result of mere bandits, but orchestrated by evil men seeking to topple the monarchy and destroy the peace of our kingdom. But we will not let them.” He held up a rolled up scroll for all to see.

“Our two brave soldiers gave testimony, from which we’ve compiled a list of traitors who are indisputably connected with the murders. Our forces will act swiftly to capture and punish them. They will be trialled, and those found guilty will face public execution. We will not stop until we have avenged those who have perished. Today, we have all lost someone we hold dear in this terrible massacre. May their souls rest in peace.”

A terrible weeping rose from the crowd as families contemplated the loss of their loved ones. The prince swayed as if he were about to collapse, unnoticed by the Royal Council members flocking around the stony-faced steward, who wordlessly handed the list of traitors to Captain Marton.

The captain took the parchment from him and scanned it with unmasked distaste before folding it away.

Grace also noticed Seth’s unsteadiness, and together, they hurried up the dais steps to him.

“Not the chair?” asked Grace, as they lowered Seth to the ground.

Leyna shook her head. “The ground’s the safest place for him in case he faints.” She knelt by the prince and brushed his curly hair back from his face. His skin was grey, his breathing shallow, and she hoped he wouldn’t lose consciousness. “Seth, can you hear me?” she coaxed.

Seth stared blankly into the distance and would not respond to any of their questions.

Marek’s harsh voice cracked through the hall like a whip, making them jump.

“My people, even as we mourn our beloved king and queen who lie slain with our kin, let your thoughts now turn to the future. As of this day, I am your lord regent, and as such, I will assume full powers effective immediately and rule until the heir apparent, Prince Seth Rutherford, comes of age. And as your lord regent, I promise to do all that is in my power to keep you safe and to vanquish evil from the land—no matter the cost.”

Crouched beside Seth, Leyna stared at the back of Marek’s dark cloak. He was not their king.

“How can he stand there and claim to be ruler when he’s just lost his son?” said Grace did dolefully.

Leyna’s thoughts echoed Grace’s. Did Marek grieve for his son? If he did, he did not show it. Was he being strong for their sake?

Steward Marek stalked to the throne and, without hesitation, sat down.

Uncomfortable silence filled the hall.

“The king is dead!” called the herald. “Long live the lord regent!”

The court echoed the words back, the effect diminished by the undercurrent of sobs.

Leyna’s voice was strained as she repeated the cry, and she wondered if things would ever be the same.

Chapter Twenty-Two

The Fallout

THE CHURCH BELLS IN Royad rang for hours on end until the sun came up, the muffled chimes mingling together to wake every citizen. When they finally ceased, the residual noise continued to echo in her ears. A blanket of mourning smothered the kingdom, bringing everything to a standstill. The tragedy was now being referred to as the Court Massacre, and the term was soon on everyone’s lips, like a bitter aftertaste that could not be washed away.

Leyna felt numb as she pulled on her uniform, unable to concentrate on her duties when the worst had happened—Bancroft was dead.

How had he died? Had he suffered? Not knowing the answers tormented her, and she spent her brief lunch break with her parents, speculating about his death. She soon regretted not having lunch in the Great Hall; amid their anguish and armed with too little information, she and her mother had descended into a fruitless argument on the circumstances of his death. In the same breath that she mourned him, Lady Saunders insisted Bancroft was alive, that he’d run away to save himself. While Leyna yearned for this to be true, white anger flashed at the suggestion that Bancroft would run away like a coward, and as her mother’s theories escalated, she’d snapped at her.

“You know better than to argue with your mother,” her father had said quietly, after her mother fled the room in tears. “She’s quite sensitive.”

“I know, I’m sorry.” Leyna left the suite with a bowed head, feeling worse than when she’d entered and regretting denying her mother the small comfort that one of her dearest friends might still be alive.

A long-time friend of her father, Bancroft was like family, and was the glue that kept them together after Tash’s death. When they first arrived at the castle many years ago, they were a broken family; Lord Saunders was withdrawn, Lady Saunders frantic, and Leyna inconsolable and forlorn. Bancroft had changed all that; his support and good humour steered them into safer waters and helped them reconnect across a void they could not bridge themselves.

Leyna loved her parents, but Bancroft was the only one who had truly understood her—along with Sophie, who, while less adventurous than Tash, had become like an older sister. As a young girl, Leyna was shy around the castle folk, but Sophie’s warmth and Bancroft’s kindness had helped coax her out of her shell. The first time they’d met in the yards, Bancroft had conjured an illusion of a rabbit who hopped about around their feet. Seeing magic kindled a fire in her, and she soon set her sights on becoming a wizard and huskarl like Bancroft.

Years in the making, her dream had finally come true. But something was missing.

In light of the tragedy, the castle felt too big, the weight of her huskarlship suffocating. The Royal Guard was a beacon of hope for the court, simultaneously representing the last vestige of King Rutherford’s rule, and shepherding in a new era where a lord regent reigned. The banderole meant more than it ever had before—she could see it in the faces of those she passed. Everyone was looking to the huskarls to lead them through the crisis.

She longed for Bancroft’s guidance. The rules and protocols were one thing—Captain Marton left them in no doubt of their responsibilities—but Bancroft had been more approachable, his advice more practical and encouraging. Even Damian, Bancroft’s long-time friend and colleague, could not fill his shoes. The scruffy huskarl was blasé and performed his duties in a disinterested, lax manner, and while he was friendly, he showed little interest in mentoring Leyna and Grace more than was necessary.

No, Bancroft couldn’t be dead. She needed him too much. The two castle guards couldn’t be the only survivors. There had to be others. She just had to wait. Bancroft would return.

She clung to this belief until the second day, when the bodies began to arrive, recovered from the Baxton estate by Rosarian soldiers.

Leyna stood on the side of Royad’s main road as the soldiers passed, helping process the long line of wagons piled high with cloth-wrapped bodies. The deceased had been covered as much as circumstances allowed, but the discoloured blood stains on the large bundles were obvious. As wagon after wagon passed, nausea pushed her into a crouch. She gulped air, trying to settle her churning stomach as her life threatened to capsize.

She was not the only one to feel ill. Distressed wailing filled the air when a wagon bearing children arrived, and even Damian turned green at the sight of the small bodies.

Grace was anxious to hear news of Quinn, and they both waited impatiently for a list of the deceased to be released. The high death toll was distressing, with an early estimate of over five hundred people. She felt sorry for the chamberlain, who had been delegated the role of organising the logistics of the funerals by the steward.

“I don’t see why Marek doesn’t organise the funerals himself,” huffed Grace as they rode towards the once grassy park that had been converted to a burial site. Black bunting flags hung overhead, flittering like dark spectres in the breeze.

“That’s not really his role,” said Leyna. “He has a lot on his plate as lord regent.”

Grace crossed her arms. “I don’t see why you’re defending him.”

Leyna wasn’t sure either, except that Marek was their ruler, and they had to support him. The steward was not in Grace’s good books these days; he seemed unaffected by Quinn’s death, and this grated against Grace’s sensibility.

“How can he be so cold?” she complained. “He could at least pretend to be sad!”

With so many victims, a mass burial was organised. It was said that the state of the bodies, which were defiled by the traitors, demanded an urgency to the affair, and the funerals were held a day later—one for the king and queen, and one for everyone else, regardless of social status.

The funerals went for six hours. The mourning period lasted twelve days.

Leyna expected to view the bodies of King Rutherford and Queen Claire, but they arrived in closed coffins of solid mahogany, with the lids already sealed. Whispered murmurs travelled through the church, revealing that the bodies of the king and queen—like so many others—were mutilated. She was relieved that Seth did not have to see his parents that way.

They were several hours' ride from the sea, but the seagulls had found them, the white-bodied scavengers suspended above as they glided against the wind, seeking opportunities to descend on the corpses. Some bodies were difficult to identify, the faces open and bloodied, and some had not been possible to recover at all. Bancroft’s body was one of them.

The days following the funeral went by in a blur, and without the closure of seeing Bancroft’s body, Leyna half expected him to show up at any moment. The compiled list claimed he was there—but it was impossible for anyone to say which of the unrecognisable corpses was his. As she walked the rows of bodies, helping identify the victims, she tried not to breathe in the pungent smell. The pressure in her chest grew. There were several faces that fed her anguish, but none of them were Bancroft’s.

Grace’s eyes raked the scene, too, lips pressed tight and arms folded as she searched for Quinn. As with Bancroft, they could not say for certain which body was Quinn’s, or whether he was there at all, but his name appeared on the death records all the same.

The funeral provided one small consolation; it brought her closer to her parents, Grace, and Sophie, and they spent the evening in the Saunders’ suite, reminiscing over a bottle of her father’s sweet sherry about Bancroft, Quinn, and the others they had lost.

Ten days later, the tragedy was still fresh in Leyna’s mind, and she felt just as confused as she had on the day of the funerals.

Even with the use of demons, how had the enemy overwhelmed the king’s finest to the point that there had been no survivors?

Except for the two guards.

The subsequent announcements from the steward were vague, and Leyna and Grace were convinced he was holding back information.

“Let’s find Maurice and Firmin,” Leyna suggested. “If they’re the only survivors, we should see what else they know. Maybe they saw what happened to Quinn?”

They found Maurice on the battlement. He was a balding guard with broad shoulders and was friendly enough at first, but his smile disappeared when they asked him about the Massacre. “Can’t talk about any of that, sorry,” he said, his facial muscles growing taut. “It’s confidential. I’ve made my report to the Royal Council. That’s all I’m allowed to say on the matter.”

Grace pressed him for information, revealing a ferocity that Leyna was glad not to be on the receiving end of, but Maurice waved them away, eager to be left alone.

Firmin was even less helpful—short and hulking, he ignored their questions, scowling at them with dark, beady eyes as he polished the helmets in the armoury without uttering so much as a word in greeting.

“The Royal Council must have its reasons for barring them from discussing what happened,” she said as they left the armoury.

“Like what?” asked Grace.

“Like if releasing the information could endanger someone.”

Grace sighed in frustration. “I’d rather just know the truth.”

They gleaned more from the soldiers who had seen the aftermath of the Baxton Estate.

“It’s awful,” said a young soldier called Lily. “There were bodies all over the lawn and inside the Baxton House. Blood and mud everywhere, and bits of people…”

“Could there be more survivors?” Leyna asked quickly, as Grace’s hands flew to her mouth in horror.

“Dunno,” Lily said, but then she spotted Grace’s trembling lip. “Err, we couldn’t identify everyone…so…maybe?”

Leyna and Grace both lived for that ‘maybe,’ however dubious.

Lily and the other guards investigating the Baxton Estate reported finding unusual animal tracks, and by the time the steward addressed this publicly, Leyna had already formed her own suspicions about these ‘animals’.

“The Royal Council did not wish to cause alarm while we awaited confirmation,” the steward began, “but new information has come to light about the attack. Amongst the traitors were wizards—”

“Leyna, you were right,” said Grace in an undertone, pulling on Leyna’s sleeve. “The traitors had to have used magic!”

“And,” continued the steward, “these wizards commanded an army of demons.”

“And you were right about the demons,” she added.

There was no joy in being right. A stunned silence followed, and the steward had to repeat himself several times before his meaning registered with the crowd, many of whom had only heard of demons in stories told to frighten children. When words finally sunk in, the hall erupted into panic.

“Talk later,” Leyna muttered to Grace, and they found themselves too busy trying to calm the unruly crowd to process the information themselves.

It was only later that night, on the eve of the last day of mourning, that Leyna had time to consider all that the steward had said.

According to the investigation, the king and queen had been the obvious targets of the attack. But then why had the entire court been killed? The men, women and children who tried to flee did not get far. Not even the Baxton household had been spared; Lord and Lady Baxton, along with their many children and grandchildren, had been killed, obliterating the Baxton bloodline in a single night.

At least Seth stayed back at the castle. At least he’s safe.

But it was no longer clear whether the castle was safe. The news of the enemy wizards and their demon army had shattered any semblance of safety Leyna had felt, and she’d never seen the castle folk so frightened, some refusing to leave their rooms. Even Sophie, who Leyna considered one of her closest friends, lived in fear of seeing a demon.

“It’s your day off,” Leyna said. “Don’t you want to see Tom?”

“I’m fine here, thank you,” she said, folding and unfolding a set of towels.

But Leyna knew how much Sophie lived for her days off when she saw her beau, and was able to persuade her.

“I’ll take you on Budsworth,” she offered, “and I’ll return for you before sunset.”

Sophie lit up and dropped the towels in her hurry to hug her, making Leyna feel bashful.

“It’s fine, I’m on my lunch break anyway,” she mumbled as the maid planted a kiss on her cheek.

Soon, Sophie was standing outside Thomas the painter’s studio in Lower Royad wearing her best blue dress, waving goodbye as Leyna rode away.

The city had shed its sorrow faster than the castle had, and the streets were humming happily with people too busy making ends meet to stop for long. The journey back to the castle was uneventful, but she couldn’t relax, dreading another attack, this time closer to home.

This fear wormed its way into her dreams that night. Demons, big and small, slashed at her tranquillity, running loose across the landscape of her mind and hunting down the people she loved. Against a fiery horizon was a silhouetted figure dressed in black, surveying the destruction. It was the wizard who had summoned the demons, but he—or she—was faceless in the nightmare.

She woke, groggy and cold with sweat.

My legs, she thought wildly, wrenching the covers aside to make sure they were both still there. The pale sliver of moonlight lit up them up; the skin was smooth on one, whilst the other’s was rippled like a windswept sea. Alone with no one to see it, she could almost find beauty in the scarred surface. Would anyone else think it beautiful? Nasty comments fluttered close like insects, threatening to bring her down, but she batted them away and massaged her injured leg; it was always stiff in the mornings, but it warmed up once she got moving, and the cramps and spasms were less frequent.

“Yah?” asked Floofy sleepily from his place on her pillow. Grace snored, but did not wake.

“Go back to sleep,” she whispered, but he waddled over to settle in her lap and licked her hand, his pink tongue ticklish against her palm. The sky lightened outside, and she left her room dressed in black for the last day of mourning, with Floofy perched on her shoulder.

She found herself in the training yards without remembering how she’d gotten there. It was eerily quiet, and despite the humidity, she hugged herself as she sat on the wooden bench. Floofy didn’t understand her melancholy, and she took comfort in his blissful happiness as he tottered along the bench, sniffing the air.

She was so lost in her thoughts that she didn’t notice Chamberlain Percy until he sat down beside her.

“Careful,” he said, picking Floofy up just as he was about to launch himself off the bench into a horse trough. “I’m not sure they can swim.”

He set the creature down between them. Floofy made a sound of protest, but Percy ran a hand through his fur in a way that made him purr.

“I used to have gombotch as a boy,” he said, as Floofy rolled over expectantly, requesting a belly rub. Percy obliged him.

“I didn’t know they were called that.” She had never even seen one before.

“They were bred by Kormendian wizards a long time ago. Gombotchs fell out of favour during the war, and were even banned at one stage.” He frowned. “Anyone who had one in Rosaria had to hide it, or dispose of it.”

Leyna drew a sharp breath and resisted the urge to seize Floofy and hide him in her cloak’s pocket.

“I had the ban lifted a few years ago when I became the lord chamberlain,” continued Percy, rubbing Floofy’s tummy. His silver hair had flopped forward and his spectacles slipped to the tip of his nose. “All part of improving our relations with Kormend—and, as you can see, I have a soft spot for them. It’s nice to see them slowly return to Rosaria. They’re such gentle creatures. Where did you find him?”

“He was a gift,” she said. “But I’m not sure from who.”

Percy’s demeanour shifted, his tone becoming sombre. “Actually, I have something for you.” He handed her a neatly folded banderole.

“What’s this?” she asked, smoothing the shining fabric.

With a sad smile, the chamberlain turned the top fold over, revealing fine golden embroidery that read Bancroft. Just like hers had Saunders on it. Her fingertips brushed the golden threads.

“Recovered from the scene,” said Percy. “I understand you two were close—that he was something of a father figure?”

She nodded slowly, still thumbing the silky fabric. “Something like that.”

“In that case, I think he’d want you to have this. Please, accept my condolences.”

“Thank you.” Leyna had heard the expression uttered countless times in recent weeks—too many people had lost someone they loved.

After the chamberlain left, she remained sitting on the bench, staring down at the banderole folded in her lap. Grace had received one just like it, except it was stained with blood and embroidered with Quinn’s surname, Volak.

Closing her eyes, she breathed in the smell of fresh hay and sawdust, and for a moment, she could almost believe that Bancroft was with her.

Footsteps approached, and she jumped, eyes flying open as she searched, hoping…

Hoping it was him.

But it wasn’t Bancroft. It was Damian, dressed in uniform.

“That his, then?” he asked, taking a seat beside her. He lifted the cleft end of the banderole, where a black mark suggested a burn.

“I suppose so.” She wasn’t ready to accept it was Bancroft’s banderole—that he was dead.

“Nah, it’s definitely his.”

“How can you tell?”

He pointed to the burn mark as he exhaled a puff of smoke. “That there was me from a couple of years back. Bancroft always liked ter tell people he burnt it in battle.” He gave a bark of laughter, the sound ringing bizarrely in the deserted yard. “His favourite story was that a fireball singed it.”

“But you’re a blade,” Leyna said. “You can’t cast fireballs.”

“Nope. Can’t even light me farts on fire.”

“So what really happened?”

Damian smirked and leant forward. “Well, Bancroft was drunk, and runnin’ his mouth off like he does, so I might’ve pushed him—and we had a bit of a tussle. But then he went and stepped into the bloody fireplace.” He inhaled from his pipe. “Poor fool tried to put the flames out with his bare hands. I don’t reckon I would’ve risked burning my hands for my piece of cloth.”

“I would have,” said Leyna at once, but as she hugged Bancroft’s banderole to her chest, she wondered if that was still the case.

With the mourning period over, the court was ordered to shed their black clothes and return to usual attire in honour of the new ruler, Marek Volak. This expectation divided the court; some felt the mourning period should have been longer.

It made little difference to Leyna; the tragedy had turned her world grey, and clothes and appearances didn’t matter half as much as they once had. She cringed at the memory of how she had preened upon her arrival in Royad, and how Jester had openly teased her about it.

He was right.

She’d been too self-absorbed to see it. While the jests had stung, he’d been right to call her out, and she now cared about his opinion in a way she hadn’t expected to.

Everything was different now. She had finally achieved everything she ever wanted, only for her world to be upended, and she felt adrift, without anchor or safe harbour, forced to reevaluate everything—including herself.

She was glad to have Grace and Sophie—despite the similarities between the two, Sophie was ten years older than them, and was more constant in her calmness than Grace, who beneath her happy, outgoing nature, had a hidden fieriness made prominent by the tragedy.

Despite studying alongside Grace at the Guild, Leyna’s friendship with her was new. Grace had always been popular with everyone, and Leyna was beginning to understand why: her ready acceptance of others, no matter their differences, was a gift. She had the same ability to light up the room that Bancroft had possessed. She wanted to be more like Grace, to unite and inspire others—that’s what a true leader did. It had nothing to do with the banderole or being hard-hearted.

I’ve been going about it the wrong way. Grace is a better leader than I am. She lifts people up.

Whether it was Quinn’s bluntness, Sophie’s placidness, or even her own reservedness, she could only marvel at the way Grace could bring them together.

Except that Quinn was gone now. His death caused a dramatic shift in Grace, who alternated between mourning and denial, and had taken to chewing her fingernails without realising it, clawing at her arms with what remained.

“They never found his body, so we can’t give up on him,” Grace said, before bursting into tears.

Seeing Grace so distressed ate away at Leyna and compounded her own grief, but she did her best to console her friend. They would stay awake late into the night talking, often joined by Sophie. These conversations revealed Grace had her own secrets—she was unwilling to discuss her family whenever Leyna or Sophie asked, and they suspected she carried an old trauma she was not yet ready to share.

Prince Seth, meanwhile, had lost his boyish enthusiasm, and it was heart-wrenching to see him so sad. Her attempts to cheer him up failed, and even Jester’s antics failed to lift the boy’s spirits.

Like Grace, whose bubbliness barely concealed her grief, Jester had become quiet and withdrawn. Dressed in black garb, he said little, and as the days went by, she wondered if his jests and teasing were a thing of the past. She couldn’t decide how she felt about this new, serious jester. While she missed the banter, his lack of flirting made it easier to forget the dream she’d had of him, a fantasy that had caught her off guard.

“Are you alright?” she asked Jester, after he ended an evening performance in the Great Hall that left many of the audience members tearful. Unaccompanied, he had played his violin for the court, sending mournful music resonating throughout the room. His eyes were shut, his head nodding onto one shoulder, and he looked a million miles away. The sombre music gripped her heart, drawing grief from her with each long note, and as the music shuddered through her body, silent tears rolled down her cheeks.

She was still wiping her eyes when she approached him afterwards. He was crouched and packing away his violin, but glanced up with a hint of his mischievous smile when she greeted him.

“Ah, Huskarl Leyna! How nice to see you.”

“Just ‘Leyna’ is fine,” she said.

“Oh?” Jester seemed startled, but recovered quickly. “A new title? Well, then…Just Leyna, may I say, how nice it is to see you. Is the ‘just’ short for justice? Defender of the people?”

She shook her head, not taking the bait. His music had been too enchanting, the horrible sadness of it a cathartic release, and right now, she couldn’t feel anything but grateful.

“You played beautifully,” she said. “Thank you.”

Just like that, she had side-stepped the Jester’s mockery, disarming him of his weapon without even realising she’d done it. He blinked, then rose, his arms loose by his side as if shedding the jester’s mannerisms. As if it was just him and her.

“You’ve changed,” he said, and it wasn’t a question.

“Have I?” she asked, because what else was there to say? Hadn’t they all changed? The attacks had touched them all, and the death and destruction would inevitably shape them into different people. At least, that’s what her father had said.

“Yes, you have. I see you’ve been crying.” He produced a handkerchief, and she gave an embarrassed laugh as she accepted it. He waited patiently as she dabbed at her face.

“There were children who died,” she said suddenly. “Over forty of them, if we count the Baxton’s grandchildren.”

Jester pressed his lips together. “There are no words.”

“No words, even from the jester?” Her question was sincere.

“None that could do such sorrow justice.”

She took a step closer—to do what, she wasn’t sure.

“Err, here,” she said, thrusting the handkerchief at him.

He reached for it gracefully, but rather than take it from her, he rested his fingertips upon the fabric, his hand on hers. She felt his light touch through the thin cotton, and swallowed nervously as he tipped his head and peered at her with twinkling eyes.

“It must be my lucky day,” he murmured, “to receive a handkerchief from a young lady.”

She blushed but kept her hand extended, waiting for him to take the handkerchief.

“No comeback?” he asked.

“No.”

“Not going to drop it on the ground for me, like you would to get a knight’s attention?”

“Err…do you want me to drop it?”

“Of course. But aren’t you going to point out that I’m not a knight?”

Leyna shook her head and gave a weak laugh. The room was full of people, and she was sure that more than a few had noticed their extended interaction, or the way their arms hung suspended, hands touching and separated only by a sliver of fabric. She didn’t care if they did. She’d been living in a state of constant numbness, but Jester’s music had found her—had found them all—and without words, he had acknowledged their suffering. At least in this moment, speaking to him felt more important than any pretence of what others would think. hu

“I don’t care that you’re not a knight,” she said softly. To prove her point, she turned her hand over and let the handkerchief fall.

Jester was fast and snatched it out of the air before she’d realised he’d moved, but not before embarrassment surged through her for what she’d done.

“My lady!” he exclaimed, bowing his head as he tucked the material away, humming a triumphant tune.

If she hadn’t been blushing before, she certainly was now; her ears were burning, and she crossed her arms and slanted her body away from the onlookers.

“Now,” he said, a cocky smile in place, “Leyna, are you sure you aren’t ill? You haven’t made a single prideful comment yet.”

She winced. “No, I’m not ill. I’m just trying to adjust to everything that’s happened. It’s a lot to take in.”

His expression smoothed back to a serious one. “I understand. There’s a lot of pressure on you, and no doubt you’ve placed much of it on yourself. Am I right?”

“Yes, possibly,” she said.

“You’re trying to be many things, all at once. But you should be kind to yourself. This is a trying time.”

Be kind to yourself. The words were like velvet. Could she do that?

“How about yourself?” she asked. “Did you know anyone who died?”

Jester gave a small, sad smile. “I did. Many people, in fact.”

This surprised her, for hadn’t he only recently arrived at the castle? But before she could ask him, he scooped up the violin case.

“I know you’re having a little ‘crisis’ of identity right now, but try not to change yourself too much on this journey of self-discovery, won’t you? I like the old Leyna’s spirit just the way it is.”

He walked away with a bounce in his step, and she realised that this was the first time he’d ever ended a conversation between them. She watched him leave, trying to make sense of the pleasant, jittery sensation playing across her skin.

Despite her wish for more wizards to aid in protecting the castle, she could not have been less pleased when a handful of reinforcements arrived from the Wizarding Guild: three were alumni who were training to be professors, and she greeted them enthusiastically. One was Professor Carlton, the friendly charms teacher, and she was happy enough to see him. But the small female wizard bringing up the rear made her blood run cold. The woman’s tight blonde bun, sharp, malicious eyes, and the way she snapped at the servant offering to take her cloak and riding gloves made Leyna wonder how she could ever have found Professor Fry beautiful.

Leyna made a mental note to stay out of her way.

The Royal Guard met each morning when the huskarls on the night shift came off duty, but Leyna and Grace would rise even earlier. They were the only two wizards left in the Royal Guard, and it fell to them to check the ancient magical ward that shielded the castle. It had stood both the test of time and the Kormendian Wars, and was nearly invisible except for its shimmering surface, which was more obvious with the bright streaks of sunrise glancing off it.

Thankfully, it remained intact; they could repair it, if that ever became necessary, but no one knew how to recreate it, not even master mages like Headmaster Emsworth. Even the wards protecting the newer parts of the city were not nearly as robust. The ancient knowledge had been lost to time, and was as mysterious as the origins of how wizards had discovered demons, magic, and the Other Sidec. Whilst it was a relief that the castle structure remained safe from enemy spells, the ward did nothing to stop intruders from entering the castle.

“It’s just as well,” said Grace, as they turned their back on the sunrise and headed for their morning meeting. “I wouldn’t want to be trapped in a bubble that doesn’t let people in or out!”

With so few wizards left in the Royal Guard, Leyna was concerned by how vulnerable they were to infiltration by enemy wizards. Her own magic was considerable, but she couldn’t watch her back all the time, not from an enemy who didn’t need to conceal a physical weapon.

It turned out Grace was a much more competent guard than Leyna had given her credit for, and her proficiency in charms lent itself well to combat. This was evidenced at a practice session one afternoon, where she levitated a javelin from a weapons rack, flipped it so the pointed blade faced Leyna, and sent it shooting towards her.

Leyna’s shield shot up as the fletched spear hurtled towards her—but Grace had aimed high and overshot on purpose, and the javelin embedded itself into the stonework above her head with a thwack, high enough that she couldn’t reach it.

As Leyna used a charm to retrieve it, an idea occurred to her—a potential solution to the dilemma of defending the castle. Holding the spear, she turned to Grace.

“How are you with enchantments?”

The magical spears were not an original idea—the castle guards had wielded them many years ago before the peacetime. Leyna had never seen one in person, and unfortunately, the armoury no longer stocked them.

“The enchantments probably would have worn off by now anyway,” Grace said to her.

“We’ll have to make our own, then.”

They presented their idea to Captain Marton, who, without magic of his own, found the prospect of arming the guards with magical spears appealing.

“Security has been lax for far too long,” he agreed. “In light of the attacks, we can no longer afford to be complacent by relying on you wizards for magical defence. But first, I’ll need to get permission from Lord Regent Marek.”

But Leyna and Grace could not wait.

With Professor Carlton’s help, they began developing a new weapon: the guards’ heavy spears were modified with gems secured at the base of each sharp blade. These could absorb the brunt of minor combat spells, glowing red as the energy was stored. They didn’t stop there—with the professor’s help, the spears were enhanced to not only absorb enemy spells, but to convert the energy and shoot it back as an angry, red flash of light.

The first guards to test them were pleased, and while not overwhelmingly powerful, the magical spears were effective in greater numbers; when faced with four or more guards bearing the spears, it caused Leyna to take pause. Even Captain Marton could not hide his approval, eyeing the glowing red gems longingly even as he sternly reminded them they were for provisional use only—pending approval from the lord regent.

Disappointingly, Steward Marek rejected the new weapon.

“He what?” Grace cried, looking up from the workbench where she’d been fusing a gem to a spear. “Why wouldn’t he approve them?”

“It is not for us to question the lord regent,” said Captain Marton imperiously, but it was a testament to his own disappointment that he added: “He has a different strategy in mind to bolster our magical defences.”

The captain wouldn’t say what that strategy might be, and Grace watched unhappily as the forty-seven-and-a-half enchanted spears they had produced so far were locked away in the back of the armoury.

“Real shame,” said Damian. “Would’ve levelled the playing field a little, letting the rest of us use a bit of magic.”

Leyna readily agreed, even if a part of her felt like the magical spears were akin to cheating—at the Guild, it had taken months of learning theory before their professors let the first years cast a spell. In contrast, the spears were fool-proof, requiring very little training before a guard was able to use it.

The creation of the spears raised their spirits and brought a sense of excitement to the guards. It was a positive step to increase the castle’s magical security and had the potential to involve every guard, a feat that only the guards in their fifties and older could recall. But with the project knocked back, a sense of helplessness descended upon them. Leyna felt more exposed than ever as she walked the corridors.

Would an enemy pick her off as an easy target? Or would they simply give her a wide berth, slipping past unnoticed? The castle was a large place, and she couldn’t be everywhere at once.

They waited eagerly to hear news of the steward’s plan to address their lack of magical protection…but no such announcements were made. Instead, under the steward’s orders, the Arrest Unit was formed—a group of loyal soldiers tasked with hunting down the traitors involved in the Court Massacre.

Leyna and Grace joined the guards assembled in the yards, and Captain Marton emerged from his office to call for volunteers.

“Rosaria deserves our best and finest to avenge the late King Rutherford and his beloved queen. Who amongst you will claim that honour?”

Thinking of Seth and the parents he’d lost—the king and queen they’d all lost—Leyna didn’t hesitate before her hand shot up, determined to enlist. To her surprise, Grace’s hand was amongst those that stayed down.

“I was considering it, but Seth needs me more,” she explained afterwards. “But it was good to see so many people step up to join!”

Many of the guards had lost someone close to them, and there was no shortage of volunteers.

Grace embraced her in a tight hug. “I’m so proud of you for volunteering, Leyna. I know you’ll find the traitors who did this.”

Leyna hugged her back, pleased to have her friend’s support.

Their Royal Guard uniforms finally arrived, but the prospect of donning the magnificent clothes no longer excited her. The tailor’s apprentice looked grim as he delivered the packages to their room, and her words weren’t enough to comfort the boy, who had lost his mother, a lady’s maid, in the massacre.

He delivered three packages, and Leyna felt strangely detached as she opened hers. The elegant, folded uniform looked foreign to her, and the fine golden details of the doublet, which she had long coveted, now felt superfluous. The fitted shoulders, flaring waistcoat and sharp collar made the huskarls look powerful and regal—but what good did that do when people still wept in the halls and half the castle’s rooms sat empty?

“Tailor Simmons wasn’t sure what to do with this,” mumbled the boy, handing Grace not one, but two packages. “I tried to deliver it to the steward, but he sent it back. Tailor Simmons thought you might want it?”

“What is it?” asked Grace, but as she unwrapped the package, Leyna had a sinking feeling she knew what it was: Quinn’s uniform.

A heartbroken Grace sank to the floor, crying as she hugged the package that had been intended for Quinn.

“So, this is it,” she sobbed, clutching at the package as if it were a life raft. “His uniform…a bloodstained banderole…and a room full of things that mean nothing without him!” Grace flung the package across the room, but the clothes and paper wrapping didn’t travel far. A split second later, she seemed to think better of it, because she scrambled forward on her knees to retrieve them, and tried to refold the clothes with trembling hands.

Alarmed to see Grace fall apart, Leyna knelt down beside her and took the clothes.

“Here, let me,” she said, folding them neatly.

“This is all I have left of him, Leyna. And it’s not enough. I need him. And this—” Her pale, shaky fingers caressed the silver necklace Quinn had given her. “I can’t believe he’s gone.”

“There’s still a chance he’s alive,” Leyna murmured, repeating Grace’s words from the past week.

“We both know there isn’t,” said Grace. “The banderole was proof of that.” She sat back and sighed. “I feel like I’ve failed him. I should have stopped him from going with the king. He was nervous and didn’t want to go with the king, but I insisted that it’s a great honour.”

“Shh, this isn’t your fault,” said Leyna, but Grace didn’t seem to hear.

“First, I failed Alice…and now I’ve failed Quinn.”

Leyna shot her a look of puzzlement. “Who’s Alice?”

“She was my little sister.” Grace buried her face in her hands. “She was the dearest thing to me in the whole world. So sweet, so innocent. She died seven years ago. I should have been there for her, but I wasn’t.”

“What happened?”

But Grace’s face had screwed up again, her lips parting in silent pain as heartache seized her. She finally wheezed before breaking into shuddering sobs, hunching forward. “Oh Quinn…”

One evening, feeling drained, Leyna retreated to sit alone in the gardens. The hollowness in her chest was almost worse than her grief had been.

As she leant against the stone basin, however, a calm peacefulness settled over her. It was dark, but she could make out the moonlit ripples on the black pool, and hear the pattering of water across its surface. As they often did these days, her thoughts drifted to her sister.

Tasha Cook had been born to a different father, Mister Cook. He had died in the wars, and Leyna was born later after her mother remarried Lord Saunders.

Growing up, Leyna admired her older sister, always clinging to her whenever she came home from work. Tash was a city guard and always made time for her, and at home, the two of them were inseparable.

A year after Tash’s death, Leyna’s parents had sold their grand house in Royad and moved to the relatively small suite in Rutherford Castle, leaving behind the rooms that Tash had once inhabited. Losing the house had been like losing Tash all over again.

One evening in their new castle suite, Leyna had come to understand why her parents had sold their beloved home. Her parents did not notice Leyna eavesdropping as they spoke on the balcony.

“There, there, my dear,” Lord Saunders had said to his agitated wife: “We did the right thing.”

“But Lord Saunders, Leyna is more miserable now than she was before! And she was such a happy child before we lost Tash.”

“Don’t worry, she’ll come round.”

“We should never have moved!”

“Dear, you know perfectly well that we couldn’t stay. The house was too full of ghosts and memories. Leyna simply needs a fresh start—as do we. Give her some time, she’ll find her way.”

The transition was tough, and Leyna had spent her first few nights at the castle tossing and turning in her new bed, resenting that it was comfortable, and hatching a plan to run back to the old white-stone house. She felt with painful certainty that Tash would be there in one of the green-carpeted rooms, waiting for her with the wooden toy horses they had once played with. But for all her scheming, she never once tried to return to her old house. She’d been afraid of what she’d find—an empty house, devoid of Tash’s laughter.

Although Leyna had resisted, her father’s decision to relocate them had worked; the castle was an irresistible distraction. With more than a thousand inhabitants, there had been plenty of children to play with at the castle, and though the upheaval was stressful, it had also been the change that Leyna needed. She hadn’t acknowledged this until many years later, however, and for much of her childhood, she’d been cross with her parents for uprooting their lives.

Leyna wondered if the burn in the thick green carpet was still there, the one that she’d accidentally made after resting the flat iron on it. She’d seen Tash use the heavy iron to remove the creases from her uniform, heating it over the open fire and she’d tried to emulate her sister but made the mistake of resting the iron on the floor, where it singed the carpet and left an obvious, triangular-shaped burn.

When Tash arrived home, she’d quickly pulled a cabinet over the large burn to hide it from their mother, but it had taken less than a day for Lady Saunders to uncover the evidence of the ruined carpet. To Leyna’s relief, Tash had accepted the blame and stood calmly while their mother chastised her for nearly setting the house on fire. Afterwards, Tash had played with Leyna on the bedroom floor, where their toy horses had explored the vast, grassy fields that were the green carpet.

A voice broke through her thoughts.

Where was she?

On the ground, dreaming.

The voice sounded again, closer, speaking her name.

Disorientated, Leyna sat up.

It was morning. Somehow, she had fallen asleep in the gardens, the grass pressing against her face.

“Are you alright?” asked a concerned voice, crouching down beside her.

It was Jester.

She groaned and rubbed her face where the grass had left an imprint.

“Fine, I think.”

The jester helped her stand, and she didn’t resist. Her muscles were aching, but at least she’d gotten through the night without having a nightmare.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” He sounded worried.

“Yes, I must have fallen asleep. I’m alright, though, really.” She sat on the edge of the fountain’s stone basin and splashed her face with water. “I haven’t been sleeping well, I guess.”

“So you opted to sleep on the hard ground, beneath the moon and stars? I didn’t take you for someone who would willingly rough it.”

Though not intentional, she was surprised herself. She had not often been without the comforts and conveniences of the castle or the Guild.

“Pleasant dreams?” asked Jester, sitting beside her.

Perhaps it was the grogginess, but she told him about Tash. It felt good to tell someone about her. She didn’t want to keep her pain bottled up any more like Grace. Her words slurred together from tiredness, but Jester never once interrupted.

“It’s hard, losing a family member,” he finally said when she finished describing the toy horses—it must have sounded pointless, but it was one of her most cherished memories of Tash.

“Did you ever lose someone?” she asked, attempting to comb her hair with her fingers.

“Yes. Both my parents.”

“How did they die?”

Jester dangled an elegant hand into the bubbling water. “The wars. They died just before the fighting ended.”

“I’m so sorry.” Leyna waited for him to say more, but he didn’t. “Do you remember what they were like?”

“Sadly, no. I was just a babe.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“There’s no need to be sorry, it was a long time ago. But thank you.”

She bit her lip. “It makes my own troubles seem feeble, doesn’t it?”

“No, I don’t think so. Grief is a personal thing. Whatever your loss may be, it’s personal to you.” He caught sight of her smile. “What’s so amusing?”

“I’m just waiting for a punchline. You’ve been so serious lately. What happened to our jester?”

“Our jester?” A glimmer of mischief returned. “Possessive pronoun jester?”

“The jester,” she corrected hastily, standing.

“Oh no, I know what I heard.”

“What time is it?” she asked, changing the subject.

But Jester was persistent. “Does this mean I can call you our Huskarl Leyna?”

“It’s ‘Leyna’, remember? Anyway, I’m going to freshen up and find some breakfast.” She was unsure why she was explaining herself—why she felt closer to him. “And I need to find Grace. She’ll be worried about me. I’ll see you at the prince’s lesson?”

“Leyna, before you go…”

She turned back. “Yes?”

He hesitated, rubbing his wrists.

“What is it?”

He gave his head a small shake. “Nothing. Go on ahead. I’ll see you soon.”

“If you’re sure…” She frowned and left.

Strange.

There wasn’t much to do in the way of teaching Seth of late—he was too distraught to focus on anything. The steward had ordered for the magic lessons to recommence after the funeral, insisting that routine and structure were important for ‘the boy.’

Leyna had tried to compromise by conducting the lessons in Seth’s chambers, but it was no use. Seth, whose thoughts were far away, could not concentrate on anything she said.

Today will be different, she decided, knocking on Seth’s door. She’d briefly greeted Grace at breakfast, who had been relieved to see her and let an unresponsive Seth know she might run late.

Jester let her in. Entering the spacious chambers, she spotted Seth outside on the balcony. He was leaning against the railing and looking down at the grounds below, a gentle breeze ruffling his curly brown hair. The balcony doors sat open, and the morning light lit up the sitting room, reflecting off the mirrors and glass-topped sideboard.

Seth ignored her cheerful greeting. Keeping an eye on him in a mirror’s reflection, she moved to the sideboard and reached for the wine bottle.

“A little early for that, isn’t it?”

“How is he?” she asked, ignoring his question and pouring him a glass as well.

Jester made a noncommittal sound. “He’s getting sun.”

She slid the glass across the sideboard and he caught it.

“Clink glasses?” he asked.

“That’s gone out of fashion, you know,” she said, but humoured him by clinking her glass against his.

“Ah, but it’s a good way to check if the drink’s been spiked. The sediment can conceal the poison quite well.”

Leyna’s eyes widened as she stared down at the burgundy liquid. “I did not know that.”

She gave her glass a small shake.

“Don’t worry, it’s not poisoned,” he chuckled, but he clinked his glass against hers again.

“I think you just like the sound,” she said, craning her neck to see Seth. He hadn’t moved from his spot on the balcony. Aside from the breeze that lifted his hair and clothes, Seth was as motionless as the lion statues beside him.

“I worry about him,” she whispered. “He’s hardly spoken a word since the funeral, and it’s been weeks.”

“Poor boy.” Jester kept his voice low. “Not only has he lost his parents, but most of the people he knew are dead. And in five years, he’ll be the king. It’s a lot to process. But he’s a strong lad. He’ll be alright.”

“He is strong. That’s why I’m worried. I know my cousin, and I’ve never seen him like this. I…”

She couldn’t bring herself to say it: that Seth looked like an empty shell whose soul had already departed.

Jester sighed and leant one arm on the wall above his head, staring down at his empty glass.

“Refill?” she asked, gesturing at the wine bottle.

“One was enough.”

Leyna was still sipping hers. She didn’t care for wine, and a shot of brandy would have been a better comfort to warm her belly.

Jester continued to stare down at his glass, lips pressed together in thought, and it gave her the chance to observe him more closely, safe from his jests and sharp eyes. The flamboyant poses of the jester were gone, replaced by a stiff composure that could have matched any aristocrat’s. He looks lost.

“You’ve dropped the jester’s pep,” she said. “Not as many jokes.”

“So sorry to disappoint. But I’m not just a jester, you know.”

“I know. Are you ever going to tell me who you really are?”

“I might,” he said, his voice pensive. “But I’m many people. And my secrets protect more than just me alone. There are many whose safety depends on my discretion.”

Leyna pursed her lips, considering. It was more information than he’d ever let on, but she was no closer to understanding him.

“So what does a king’s spy do without a king?” she asked.

“I myself am wondering the same thing. The game has changed—and so have the rules.”

“What are the new rules?”

“Who knows?” He set his glass down. “There’s a lot of political manoeuvring—courtiers vying for power whilst the steward tightens the reins, for instance.”

“Well, I don’t play games,” she said.

He snorted. “You’re wrong. Everyone is playing the game. But not everyone is following the rules.” He gave her a meaningful look. “Unless you want to be a pawn, you better learn to play.”

“I’m no one’s pawn.” She didn’t fully grasp Jester’s meaning—if there even was a meaning beyond the clever words—but she was sure about that.

His lips twitched in humour. “Good. Court politics are tedious at best, and dangerous at worst. I have half a mind to give it up.”

Her eyes widened. “You’d give up being the king’s spy? Why?”

“I’ve done it for long enough, I think. I might try my hand at something else.”

“Like what?”

He shrugged casually. “I haven’t a clue.”

Leyna shook her head, unable to fathom why someone would give up a lifelong career, especially without a plan.

They stood silently, watching Seth on the balcony. He was standing on his tiptoes, apparently fascinated by something in the gardens below. Maybe she would try to convince him to take a stroll with her, to see the fountains or rose gardens. Her subsequent attempts to lure him outside had failed—but perhaps today would be the day.

“Would you miss me if I left?” Jester asked suddenly.

“What kind of question is that?” she asked, her voice sterner than she’d meant it as her heart leapt.

“It’s just a question,” he said softly, but his eyes were intense as they locked onto hers, cast in shadow from the mask.

A shiver ran through her, and the memory of the dream she’d had with him flashed in her mind. She was glad he couldn’t read her thoughts.

“Well?” he asked. “Would you miss me if I left?”

She rubbed her arm, unsure of how to answer.

Forbidden scenes flashed in her mind from the dream—scenes she had banished and vowed never to think on again. Black satin sheets illuminated by candlelight…two bodies joined in a swirl of fabric…moving together in a seductive dance until…

“Leyna…?”

“No, I wouldn’t miss you,” she gasped, breaking eye contact and wiping her damp palms on her cloak. “Why would I?”

She dared glanced back—Jester was hiding a smile. “You tell me.”

He was playing mind games with her

“Here, let me go first.” He took a step closer. “I would miss our little talks—this battle-of-wits. And I would miss your enticing…” his eyes roved up and down her body, “uniform.”

Her jaw dropped, and she crossed her arms, even though her huskarl clothes were anything but revealing.

“Are you done?” she asked, her ears burning.

“Nearly.” He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “You’re driven, and brave, and I respect that. Beautiful, as well, but you know that. And you’re a little stubborn. But I like that.”

Leyna groaned inwardly and turned away, covering her face. What was she supposed to do with that information?

“Are you alright?” Jester asked, his amused tone fading.

“I’m fine,” she said, but was so overwhelmed that she nearly spilt her drink.

“Are you sure?”

He took another step closer, but she held up her hand in a stop signal, unable to face him or what it would mean if he kept advancing.

Jester halted, peering at her through the mask, eyes glazed, lips parted. Taking a shaky breath, she turned away to pour more wine, mostly to give herself something to do, but she could feel him watching her, and her hands trembled, causing the bottle to clink against the glass repeatedly.

“I’m going to join Seth,” she said to the wine bottle, keeping her back to him as she took another steadying breath. “Get some fresh air.”

She only got a few steps before Jester spoke.

“Before you go, Leyna…”

She waited, but the silence stretched, and the tension between them was thick and unbearable, her heart beating so fast it was almost painful.

“What is it?” she asked, sparing a glance at the balcony to check on Seth—he hadn’t moved, still leaning over the railing. Her eyes flickered back to Jester, trying to vanquish the hotness that flushed through her. She wished he would stop looking at her like that.

He took a step closer. And then another. And then—“Stop,” she said. “Just…just stay there.” She was aware of the space between them, which was only a distance of a few feet. If she reached out now, she could almost touch him.

He could be dangerous, she reminded herself. The jester was a mystery, and she was a fool if she let her guard down around him.

“Very well,” he said, leaning against a pillar casually with his arms crossed. But then he seemed to think better of it because he straightened again and cleared his throat as if preparing to speak. No words were forthcoming, however, and he played with the cuffs of his sleeves for several moments before finally placing his hands behind his back.

He’s nervous, she realised, biting back a smile. It would have been funny if she didn’t feel so lightheaded.

Finally, he said, “Can I call on you?”

She nearly dropped her glass, which was already slippery in her clammy hold. “Excuse me?”

“Can I call on you sometime?” he repeated. “I’d like to get to know you better. I’ve made no secret of my attraction to you, but lately, I find myself unable to think. You consume my thoughts.”

She couldn’t move, pinned by Jester’s gaze and helpless as a roar of sensations surged within her. Standing before him—the jester, the spy, and now her suitor—she felt vulnerable, scared, and hopeful, all at the same time.

“No,” she answered. It was easier than saying ‘yes’. It was easier than facing the flurry of emotions.

“No?”

“No, thank you,” she corrected, cursing herself for saying the opposite of what she was feeling, for ignoring the pull that tempted her to approach him, all the while wanting to flee the room.

“Won’t you at least consider it?” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I got the impression you were interested…or, at least… that you were not ‘not interested’.”

She swallowed nervously, wishing she could see him without the mask.

And then it dawned on her, the reason for her confusion: the man before her was a stranger. He was entangled with secrets that he could not—or would not—divulge, and whose very occupation forced him to deceive her.

“The truth is, Jester,” she began in a soft voice, “I don’t even know your name. I’ve never seen you without a mask, and you’ve hardly told me anything about yourself. You’re a mystery, although if I’m being honest, I find you fascinating. My mind tries to fill in the details…but I don’t know who you are. And I don’t think even you know who you are. How do you expect me to?”

He gaped at her, stunned, as if he’d been struck by a bolt of lightning.

She gave a helpless shrug, wishing to spare him from the rejection, all the while wanting to escape before her own emotions spilt out. Before she gave in to temptation. “I’m sorry.”

She snatched up the wine bottle, thinking the bitter taste might be just what she needed to distract her from that conversation.

But as she looked up to face Seth, the sight of the prince filled her with horror. He was standing up on the balcony rails, swaying with the breeze as though he might jump, as though he might really jump.

To plummet to the ground far below.

Leyna opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out. She gaped like a fish, sucking in air as fear crushed her chest.

The bottle fell from her hand and smashed, the sound of shattering glass jarring her to life.

“Seth!” she choked, her scream strangled.

She leapt forward, wishing that she had a spell that could pull him back, that could wrap around him and keep him safe—if such a thing existed. She ran but did not lift her left leg high enough, and her foot caught on the edge of the rug, slamming her forward to hit the floor with a thud, knocking the wind from her lungs.

Grunting, she pushed herself up, struggling to get back to her feet and fearing that she would be too late.

Too late to save her cousin.

A figure flashed by as Jester leapt past, vaulting the sofa and leaping over the coffee table, a streak of colour that shot towards the open balcony doors. Hope flared in her.

He’s going to make it. Jester’s going to reach Seth and pull him back.

And then the worst happened.

Perhaps, it was a gust of wind. Or perhaps, Seth simply lost his balance.

But as the prince swayed, she knew that even the jester, with all his nimbleness, would not reach him in time.

And he didn’t.

Seth fell.

Chapter Twenty-Three

The Arrests

JUST BEFORE SETH’S BODY fell out of sight, he froze in midair as if suspended. Leyna could see him through the balustrade, and for a moment, she thought he had somehow got caught on the stone pillars.

But that didn’t make sense. She stumbled forward, brushing past Jester who had frozen in the balcony doorway. She threw herself against the balcony rails, peering over, expecting to see Seth’s body lying far below.

Only to realise that Seth was suspended in the air a few feet below her, a nearly invisible force whorling around him like a cloud.

Without thinking, she lifted one leg over the stone railing, gripping the lion statue’s tail with one hand as she reached to take a firm hold of his arm with the other. A wave of nausea seized her as she caught sight of the ground below. Her vision swam sickeningly. The cobblestones awaited, hard and unforgiving, and the people in the nearby gardens were small specks against the green lawn. Her grip on Seth tightened. A fall from this height would mean certain death.

“Seth,” she groaned, trying to pull him up, but he was tall for his age and she wasn’t strong enough to do more than hold him, not in this position.

It was magic that held Seth up, but it felt like time had stopped, and that her chance to save him was running out.

Desperate, she released his arm and flung her arm around his waist instead. Better. She pulled him close, clinging to the rails as Seth’s arms and legs dangled below.

“Grab the railing!” she cried, but he was facing the ground, nearly upside-down, and he couldn’t reach.

A levitation charm. She opened her mouth, prepared to cast the spell that would lift Seth to safety—

Crack. The lion’s tail was breaking. But maybe it would hold. She just needed a minute. Or half a minute. A few seconds…please…

She began the incantation, trying to still her rapid breathing, managing the first syllable—

The tail broke. She fell.

Fell onto Seth, onto the glassy magical barrier, grunting from the impact, too terrified to scream at the nothingness between her bare hands, at the fall that awaited them.

The ground was so far away. She would fall, spinning, to her death.

The invisible barrier rose, not smoothly, but in small pulses that sent gusts of air in her face, as if it struggled to bear their weight. Securing her hold on Seth, she seized the wide stone railing as soon as it came within reach, squinting against the rush of air as it whipped at her cloak and hair. Crying out, she pulled as hard as she could, her fingers straining painfully from the effort as she hauled him up, all her muscles working.

The spell must have continued to lift them because, finally, they were huddled together on the exterior side of the balcony, not yet safe, but out of immediate danger.

She tried to get Seth to climb over, but he wasn’t responding, whimpering and shivering like a drowned rat. Without releasing him, she climbed back over the rail onto the balcony floor, planted her feet with one foot wedged between the balusters, adjusted her grip on the boy, and with one last wrench, pulled.

Seth’s body tumbled towards her, and they fell back together onto the hard tiles, where her head hit the ground with a smack. She kept a tight hold of him, uncaring that he had fallen on top of her, his lanky body sprawling and elbows digging into to her stomach. He rolled off, and she lay there, gulping for air, her mind still racing with terror.

Unaware how much time had passed, she sat up. The knock had hurt her head, but the pain was no comparison to the icy shards of grief slicing her heart.

Seth crawled into her arms, and she clutched him as he whimpered.

“Seth, what were you thinking?” she cried.

“I don’t know! I didn’t mean to fall!” His eyes were wide with fear, his breaths short and sharp.

“Oh, Seth, I know you are hurting. I can see it. I wish I could take your pain away. But you need to be strong and know that you are loved. That you are wanted. That you are needed.”

He was shaking as he cried, and she hugged him tighter. “Listen to me. You still have me. I’m your blood, and your friend, and your guard. I will always be here for you.”

She was aware of Jester standing slumped against the doorway, watching over them, panting. She had questions for him—but they could wait. Seth needed her now.

“I wasn’t going to do it,” Seth insisted, but then his face crumpled. “I don’t think I was going to do it.”

“Oh, Seth,” she said, feeling the tears stream down her face. This felt like when she’d lost Tash, except that, this time, she felt responsible. Surely, she could have prevented what had nearly just happened? “I should have been there for you—”

“It’s not your fault, Leyna.”

“It’s no one’s fault,” she clarified. “Now Seth, listen to me.” She tried to wipe her face, but new tears trickled instantly to replace them, warm and salty on her lips. She had to hold them back.

I can’t fall apart now. Not when he needs me.

“Seth, you’re like my brother. Don’t leave me. Please. I can’t lose you, too.”

Her parents had invited Seth to join them in the Saunders’ suite on several occasions lately, including the night after the funeral, but he’d declined each time.

I should have followed up with him. He might be the prince, but he’s also my cousin, and I’m failing him…

“I’m so sorry, Leyna. I wouldn’t have done it.”

“You scared me so much.” He was shaking, and she hugged him close, smoothing his curly brown hair—it had grown longer, and even Queen Claire, who had been fond of her son’s locks, would have ordered a haircut by now.

His parents should be here.

Even though child-rearing was largely delegated to members of staff, it was no substitute for a parent’s love.

“It’s alright,” she said. “It’s all going to be fine.”

“I won’t do it again,” squeaked Seth, curling against her.

“I know.” She hoped it was true.

It was all she could do not to curl into a ball as well.

“I’m sorry, Leyna,” Seth said, his voice barely audible. He continued to repeat the words, bleating them over and over again as his tears dampened her shoulder and neck. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

By the time Leyna calmed down enough to look around, the jester was gone. She moved Seth to the sofa, where she tucked him in with a blanket to sleep. He had made her promise not to tell anyone about what had happened. She wasn’t sure if secrecy was the best thing, but agreed that no good would come of the whole castle finding out.

Seth wasn’t just her cousin—he was the crown prince of Rosaria. No good would come of people finding out that their leader had nearly died, especially in what appeared to be an attempted suicide. The kingdom needed a show of strength now more than ever.

But what about Seth? What did he need? Titles aside, he was a boy grappling with grief.

She kissed him on the forehead, then went to one knee before him. “Seth, I swear to you, I will do everything I can to avenge your parents.”

“You’ll find out who did this?” His voice had returned to normal, deeper and no longer high-pitched like a child’s, and for a moment, she glimpsed her future king.

“Yes. I promise. I swear.” She didn’t know the exact words for such as an oath, but she bowed her head, and she joined her hands together as if praying, and Seth put his hands around them in acceptance.

“Keep a close eye on him,” was all she said to Grace when she arrived to take over guarding the prince. The other guards stayed outside in the antechamber.

“What happened?” Grace asked, craning to see Seth sleeping on the sofa.

“Nothing,” she said, wishing she could tell Grace.

After leaving Seth’s room, she walked down the corridor and, checking to make sure the coast was clear, pulled back the tapestry, revealing the secret nook. It was barely more than a shallow cavity in the wall, and she was amazed to think that she and Jester had both occupied it.

The jester was not there, but he was not the reason she had come. Stepping into the nook, she let the tapestry fall back and sank down to the cold floor, hugging her knees to her chest in the darkness.

The pent-up emotions she’d been holding back now burst forth, and she shook with violent sobs, trying to muffle the sound with her cloak as she curled herself into a tighter ball on the ground. It was dark and cool, but she felt almost feverish as waves of sadness washed over her. Each time she thought the feeling had passed and that she’d run out of tears, the terrifying memory of Seth falling from the balcony would flash back in her mind, and despair would rock her again.

At long last, the sobs subsided, and her breathing gradually returned to normal. Patting her face with the corner of her cloak, she stood, her muscles stiff from sitting so long.

How long has she been in the nook? An hour? And how on earth was she going to pull herself together for her shift tonight?

Thankfully, she had the rest of the day off, which was a rare thing for a huskarl, and it couldn’t have come at a better time. She’d been relieved of her afternoon duties with the expectation that she rest, because starting tonight, she would only work the night shift, hunting traitors with the Arrest Unit.

Disappointingly, that meant no more magic lessons with Seth, but after the promise she’d made him, there was no going back.

She returned to her room feeling numb. Floofy was asleep on the windowsill, soaking up the sun, and she left him undisturbed. She wanted to see Sophie, but felt reluctant to ring the service bell—something that had never bothered her before—so resigned herself to slumping in a chair instead.

It was just as well she hadn’t rung for her because Sophie arrived a few minutes later and, taking one look at her, gave her a tight hug. The maid had a knack for knowing what Leyna needed, and in this case, seemed to sense she didn’t want to talk because she didn’t say anything as she ordered for hot tea to be brought and a bath to be prepared.

Leyna wished she could confide in her, to share what had happened—what had nearly happened—to Seth, but there was no one she could talk to except, perhaps, the jester.

The jester who knows magic, who used it to save Seth.

Who else could it have been, but him?

As Sophie directed servants carrying buckets of hot water, Leyna gazed around the room, which Sophie had transformed into Floofy’s playground. He’d managed remarkably well for a creature with only two paws and no legs or arms to speak of, but now, he had access to every part of the room—small ladders, ribbons, and makeshift stairs made of old books allowed him to reach any height, including the bed, the desk, and even the mantelpiece where Leyna’s hidden stash of biscuits had once been, the tin now mysteriously empty, the metal lid twisted and pockmarked as if something had gnawed it.

Sophie had found him a more appropriate water bowl than the saucer but hadn’t bothered with a food dish, instead opting to scatter the food around the room and hide it in places so Floofy would have to wander around to sniff it out, snuffling adorably like a piglet.

Once her bath was prepared, Leyna peeled off her clothes and sunk into the tub, the heat easing her tired muscles.

She was meant to be at training now but had opted to skip it. The world could wait.

Taking a breath, she slid underwater. Sound became distorted, and her hair swirled around her as she escaped the outside world. But she couldn’t escape her thoughts. The frantic whirr of questions slowed, but rather than fade, they presented themselves, one by one, as she held her breath. At the forefront was Jester—had he cast the spell? Had he been hiding magical powers all this time? And what was that spell he’d used? He’d withheld answers for long enough—it was time she held him accountable.

She resurfaced and rested her head on the bath’s edge, contemplating whether to go find Jester. Her head was stuffy from crying, but she felt better after soaking in the bath.

Sophie had laid out fresh clothes on the bed. The same clothes that would always be laid out—her huskarl uniform. Slim, buttoned trousers with gold piping. Slouchy leather boots with large cuffs that folded over the outside edge. A smart multi-layered cloak that looked dashing with its rich folds of fabric, outdoing even her old Guild cloak. Her banderole, neatly pressed. She had been naïve to want the uniform for the prestige—it represented so much more—or, at least, something different.

Lately, she’d felt like an imposter, as if she didn’t deserve to wear it. But the time for hesitation was over, and self-doubt had become a luxury she could no longer afford, not when Rosaria needed her. Not when Seth needed her. In five years, he would be the king, and he would need people he could trust. She couldn’t let him down.

Dropping the towel, she got dressed, pausing at the mirror before leaving. The uniform made her look regal, impressive, dignified—qualities that had seemed important before. The angles of her face were accentuated with her blonde hair pulled back, lending it a seriousness.

I look too serious.

Her heart lurched. I look like Professor Fry…well, a little.

Leyna loosened her hairstyle slightly, brushing some strands forward to frame her face. Perhaps Jester was right. She could learn to lighten up.

Are you quite done preening? she thought, as if hearing his voice in her head.

She sprang into action, hurrying down to the training yards. It was time she learnt how to use a sword, or maybe a dirk like Beatrice had worn. There was no chance of mastering a hand weapon in any reasonable amount of time, but she could at least become more familiar with handling one. Anything to give her an edge.

After training, she would join the Arrest Unit for its first mission. It would be the start of her quest to fulfil her promise to Seth. She would find the people responsible for the Court Massacre and ensure justice was served. It was time to set things right and restore order in Rosaria.

Tonight, she would hunt the traitors.

Captain Marton was in charge of the Arrest Unit, a team of mounted cavalry comprising castle guards and two huskarls—Damian and herself. Leyna was apprehensive of Patrick, the large, bear-like man, but he paid her no special attention.

“Vermin,” spat Captain Marton, walking down the line of mounted soldiers assembled near the training yards. It was dark, and the Arrest Unit prepared to head out for its first mission. “Every last one of them. We shall find them all and throw them in the dungeon. There, they will await trial until our lord regent devises an appropriate punishment.”

A low murmur of ‘hear hear’ sounded.

The Arrest Unit would aim to capture traitors in the cover of darkness.

“It gives us the element of surprise,” the captain explained.

It seemed underhanded, but the only person she dared voice this opinion to was Damian, who shrugged in response.

“If it means less chance of ‘em stickin’ a knife in me, I’m all for it.”

The captain led the way, down through Royad and beyond the city gates to the farmlands. It was close to midnight when they arrived, and at first, she thought the captain was lost until he ordered the unit to halt outside a peaceful cottage surrounded by fields of grazing sheep. It was not the gloomy fortress or camouflaged hideaway she’d expected, but they were given orders to move in.

They encountered little resistance from the traitor who, for all appearances, was a simple farmer. Vastly outnumbered, he did not try to run as Captain Marton read out his crimes, instead standing proudly, glaring at them from beneath bushy eyebrows. The captain then gestured at Leyna, who, as per her orders, cast a silencing charm on the traitor while his hands were bound by the soldiers.

The charm did not stop the prisoner from talking, but when he moved his lips, no sound came out. Eyes wide with alarm, he tried to make himself heard, first talking, then yelling at the top of his lungs—or so she deduced by the way he struggled against his restraints.

She pitied the man, especially when Rod, one of the guards, goaded the prisoner by dubbing what he was saying with ludicrous statements. As the prisoner grew agitated, she was struck with a horrible sense of guilt for having cast the charm—even if she had been following orders.

“Cut it out,” she snapped, but Rod only smirked at her.

She quickly decided she didn’t like Rod. His conduct was not appropriate for a guard of Rutherford Castle.

Captain Marton declined her request to lift the charm.

“I’ve arrested plenty in my time, Saunders. Trust me, you don’t want to listen to his hogwash. Let me give you a taste: he’ll swear that he’s innocent, that he didn’t do anything wrong, or that he was put up to do it by someone else. Bah, I’ve heard it all. Just stay focused.”

“But shouldn’t we at least question him? Hear him out?”

“All in due time. But not here—we’ll question him in the dungeon. It’s a controlled environment. And better than here, in the middle of nowhere and standing in this swamp of sheep piss.”

She winced at his crassness. “But there will be a trial?”

The captain pushed back his shoulders as if affronted, the movement making his armour plate clank. “Of course. But these things take time. There’s a due process we need to follow.”

He ordered her to help keep an eye out for an ambush while a handful of guards searched the house. She stayed alert, but the surrounding fields remained quiet, the sheep unperturbed by their presence.

“Time to go,” ordered Captain Marton, pausing midstride to wipe his boot against a fence. “Seize the livestock. We’re done here.”

Despite the success of the mission, she did not share the triumphant feeling of her fellow soldiers as they rode back at the castle. Gagged and bound, the traitor was forced to run to keep up with their trotting horses, and by the time they reached the castle’s gatehouse, he was wheezing, covered in sweat, and collapsed in front of the dungeon.

Whatever the justification, it was hard to watch a grown man cry, even if his sobs were soundless.

Near the training yards was the entrance to the dungeons—a simple wooden door. This door only had two castle guards at its entrance, and even that was excessive—the dungeon had a dangerous guardian below, and the guards did more to stop people from going down for their own good than anything else. A long flight of stone steps led down into the dungeon below, and when they finally reached the bottom, the guardian awaited them, illuminated by wall-mounted torches burning with green flames.

It was the Demon Door, and it was enormous, stretching from floor to ceiling, reaching the height of nearly three men. But it did not have handles, knobs, or hinges. And there were no guards, padlocks, or chains to keep intruders out. Instead, the door had a face. A large, grotesque, almost humanlike face with grey skin and distorted features.

Leyna froze. She had heard of the Demon Door, but never seen it. Growing up at the castle, she and the other children had told stories about it, daring each other to step through it—but no one ever did.

The origins of the door were a mystery—it had been here for as long as the castle had—but it was said that a powerful master mage had created it, capturing a demon and reworking it tortuously into the confines of a single plane.

“Yesss?” asked the Demon Door, coming to life, its eyelids springing up to reveal empty eyes.

“Open up,” barked the captain. “We have a prisoner, and I grant authority to all those here to pass through safely.”

“Oh, is that so?” asked the demon, and with a horrible, rubbery sound, its mouth opened, the lips and skin distorting and stretching wide, and then wider still, until its mouth was open from floor to ceiling. There was no throat and no tongue. Instead, razor-sharp teeth lined the opening to the dungeon beyond.

Like other demons, the door was bound by a contract and would only safely allow through those who were authorised to be there. The keyword was ‘safely’.

“It’ll open for anyone,” Damian explained as they stood at the rear of the line of Arrest Unit members, waiting to pass through the door. “The only thing is…if you’re not supposed to be here, it will kill you.”

Leyna’s eyes widened. “How?”

The huskarl grinned. “By chomping down on you, of course.”

“That’s horrible!”

“It’s effective. You’re lucky you get to start as a huskarl. When I worked as a dungeon guard, I used to have to clean the remains of intruders off its teeth.”

Leyna wrinkled her nose, glad that she had never had to work in the dungeon before. Unlike Damian and the other blades, who had put in years of service just to be considered for the Royal Guard, wizards like her were usually recruited by the Guard at a relatively young age after obtaining a wizardry qualification. She hoped she would never have to clean the Demon Door’s teeth—or any other part of the dungeon—as part of her new duties.

One by one, the members of the Arrest Unit stepped through the door. She was the last one in the queue, but when it was her turn, she hesitated, baulking at the rows of teeth suspended high above her.

How much faith did she have in the captain? What if there had been some mistake, and she wasn’t really a huskarl? What if those teeth crunched down and killed her?

It would take only an instant.

The Demon Door seemed to note her hesitancy because it made a ghastly noise that was somewhere between a cackle and a gurgle, its ice-cold breath rippling her clothes and making her teeth chatter.

“Leyna, come on,” called Damian, who was waiting for her on the other side of the door. “It’ll be alright.”

A part of her wanted to jump through the door, to make a running leap. Perhaps, then, she would have a chance of surviving if the Demon Door decided she didn’t belong. But it was a foolish thought—the door was infinitely faster than she. Its teeth would slice through her quicker than lightning, and that would be that.

Her legs felt giddy, her entire body numb, as she eyed the deformed, vicious jaws.

This is ridiculous, she thought, rubbing her hands together as she tried to bolster her courage. But whether it was ridiculous that she was scared to step through the door or ridiculous that she was even contemplating risking her own life with a demon, she couldn’t decide.

“Leyna, everyone’s gone,” said Damian. “Come on, hurry up.”

She lifted a shaking foot and slowly, carefully, stepped over the lower jaw, where the mishmash of razor-sharp teeth reached as tall as her knee. This could be another way to lose her leg—or her life.

Finally, the first foot contacted the cobblestone floor of the dungeon on the other side.

And then the other foot.

And then she was through.

She sighed in relief. She’d made it.

Chomp. She shrieked as the jaws snapped shut, tripping forward in her terror to escape the door.

Her body smacked against the cold ground, and for a moment, she saw white, then black, and braced for the pain that was sure to come. The teeth…the horrible teeth…

Was this death? And then…

And then she realised she was fine.

She was fine.

Pushing herself up on her elbows, hurried to stand, the damp floor slimy on her palms as she pushed herself up. Her legs, her arms, her head, and even her long cloak were intact. I’m fine.

The Demon Door was leered at her, its ugly face somehow visible on this side of the door.

“Oops,” it said, the deep voice echoing in the dark antechamber.

“Yeah, it likes to do that,” said Damian casually, nodding at the door. “Especially for first-timers—or for those standing at the back of the queue.”

“You should have warned me!”

“Nah, you would’ve shit yourself. Anyway, chin up. The first time’s always the hardest.”

“I thought it was bound by a contract,” she complained, dusting her clothes off.

“It is. It was just scaring you. The door can’t have killed you, even if it wanted to—not if you have the authority to be here.”

Leyna tried to calm her breathing as she followed Damian deeper into the dungeon. “Good thing I have the authority, then.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

The Chase

BY THE TIME SHE slipped under the covers, the first rays of sun brushed the tall, embroidered curtains.

“How was last night?” asked Grace, pulling on her uniform.

“Fine,” she mumbled, not in the mood to recount the arrest.

“Well, I’m taking Seth for a ride in the grounds,” said Grace. “He was looking so sad yesterday. I think fresh air is just what he needs.”

“Good idea,” said Leyna, sitting up. “And he agreed to go?”

“He did,” she beamed. “Would you like to join us?”

It was tempting. Perhaps a ride in the grounds—a proper ride, one without the stress of arresting traitors in the middle of the night—would do her some good.

“Will the jester be there?” she asked. She needed to talk to him—or interrogate him. She wasn’t sure which.

Grace paused in the middle of brushing her hair. “The jester? I suppose so. He’s usually there in the mornings, isn’t he? Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” she said quickly, pulling the covers aside and sliding out of bed. “Yes, I’ll come.”

Outside the stables, she introduced Floofy to Budsworth, holding the furry creature outstretched in her palms. Floofy sniffed the air uncertainly, while the horse pushed its snout close, her nostrils flaring as she inhaled his scent. Suddenly, without warning, Budsworth snorted at Floofy in greeting, the strong puff of air causing his messy fur to whorl and fuzz out around him. With a high-pitched yelp, Floofy shied away from the mare and scurried up Leyna’s arm, where he buried himself under her collar. Despite her attempts to coax him out, Floofy refused to emerge.

Seth was already at the stables and gave them a strained smile as they greeted him. He was sitting astride a smart, sturdy mountain pony with a dark coat and feathered feet. A dozen heavily armed guards were assembled behind him. Each time Seth rode more than a few feet, the guards would follow, the clunk of chain mail and plate ringing in their wake.

“Shall we?” he asked.

“Shouldn’t we wait for Jester?” asked Leyna, looking around the yard. He was nowhere to be seen.

A smooth, syrupy voice answered.

“He’s not coming.” Leyna jumped as Professor Fry, emerging from the stables and pulling on riding gloves. “He sent a note—he won’t be coming to the morning sessions anymore.”

Leyna tried to mask her displeasure at seeing the blonde-haired woman, who, up to this point, she’d successfully avoided. “Why isn’t he coming?”

“I had the captain reassign him,” said Fry.

Leyna’s grip on the reins tightened. “Reassigned where?”

“Where?” Fry tittered, adjusting the fingertip of each glove one by one. “Why, anywhere else! I don’t see what a jester was doing skulking about with the prince, anyway. He seemed too clever for his own good.”

Leyna glance at Seth, but her cousin was staring into the distance, as if troubled by gloomy thoughts.

“Not to worry, sweetie,” Fry continued. “I’m replacing him for the morning sessions. Isn’t that nice? As an experienced wizard, I’m far more valuable than a jester.”

“Are you sure about that?” Leyna bit back, her comment knocking the smug smile from Fry’s face. She felt a soft touch on her arm. It was Grace, and the warning look she gave was clear: Do not provoke Fry.

She bowed her head in deference to Grace, who was in charge that morning. She gave the order, and they set off, leaving the safety of the rear castle wall. Leyna threw one last glance behind her, but she did not see the jester anywhere.

The gently sloped foothills were thick with grass that had yellowed beneath the hot sun, and had only a scattering of beech trees, their wide-spreading branches bright green with leaves.

Grace led the way with Leyna and Seth just behind, the grass rustling past them, and as they rode faster, Budworth’s golden mane fluttered in the breeze. Fry and the guards fell behind, the metallic jangling of armour hardly audible over the clip-clop of hooves. Leyna inhaled deeply, drawing fresh air into her lungs, and tilted her head upward so the morning sun would warm her face.

A yell sounded beside her—it was Seth, his face bright with exhilaration as the horses charged forward. He gave another whoop and shot her and Grace a gleeful grin, his brown curls bouncing from the motion of the horse. It was the first time she’d seen him smile in weeks, and after the trauma of his near-death experience, she allowed herself to rejoice in his happiness.

As they traversed the grassy hills, the increasingly rocky terrain forced them back to the main trail, which they followed at a slow trot as it climbed up the mountain.

Despite his earlier reservations, Floofy finally emerged from his hiding place beneath her collar. He moved to her shoulder, cooing softly as he stared at the surrounding woodland, where birds flitted from tree to tree and butterflies adorned the ivy vines that circled the lower branches. Soon, Floofy ventured out more bravely and settled upon Budsworth’s head, his chestnut-coloured fur blending with the horse’s finer pale-yellow mane.

They rested at the base of Triplet Falls, enjoying the cool spray of fresh mist from the three waterfalls, their horses untethered as they drank from the pool nearby. Relaxing by the watering hole, Leyna was pleased to see that Seth looked at peace. As the minutes passed, however, his facial muscles grew taut, and despite her and Grace’s attempts at small talk, he closed off again.

They began the journey back towards the castle, plodding down the steeper inclines. Grace led the way, whilst Fry and the guards stayed far enough back that the professor’s snickers were barely audible. Leyna’s shoulders stiffened, suspecting that Fry was hanging back on purpose to undermine Grace and sway the guards in her own favour.

Taking a breath, she focused her attention on Seth.

“Have you thought more about what sort of mount you would like to summon one day?” asked Leyna, hoping the topic would garner Seth’s interest.

“Not really.”

“Still thinking of riding a lion into battle?” she joked, remembering their conversation at the feast several weeks ago. She instantly regretted bringing up the feast—it was one of the last times the young prince had seen his parents.

Seth shook his head, looking so miserable that a stronger breeze might have blown him off his pony. What can I do? What can I say? There must be words that can comfort him…

She wondered again whether keeping yesterday’s incident on the balcony a secret was the best thing for him.

Had he meant to step off the balcony rail? Or had he simply lost balance? One thing was clear: no one in their right mind would have climbed up to stand on the stone railing like that.

A thought occurred to her: his parents were gone, but he wasn’t alone.

“You should tell Grace,” she murmured. There was enough distance between them that Grace wouldn’t hear, but she kept her voice low, just in case.

“Tell her what?” asked Seth.

“About what happened yesterday. She won’t tell anyone, and she’s a good friend to have. You’ll be seeing a lot more of her now that I’m on the night shift, so you may as well.”

Seth nodded. “Alright. I might do that.”

“Good.”

“And the magic lessons? Does that mean you won’t be teaching me anymore?”

“I’m afraid not,” she said. “Not for a while, anyway.”

“Oh. Well, I did have a question on magic.”

Leyna sat straighter. Anything that took Seth’s mind off things and sparked his enthusiasm was a good thing. “Go on.”

“Where does magical energy come from? And why do I have so little? I can only cast a couple of spells before I’m done.”

“You’ll build up your reserves with time.”

“Yes, but why do we need energy if the magic comes from the Other Side?”

“It’s not that simple,” she said, wondering if they had time for her to explain it all. “Here’s the short version—each spell is a contract, a bargain that you make with the demons. But it doesn’t come free—there’s a price to pay. Think of it like the market. You don’t show up to the Royad Market without coin, do you?”

“I suppose not…”

“Well, in the same vein, you can’t have secured a contract without offering the Other Side something in return. That’s where our energy comes in.”

Seth did not seem satisfied with her explanation.

“So…are you saying that each time I cast a spell, I’m giving something up? Like a piece of my soul?”

“Er, of course not,” she said, trying to mask that his question had caught her off guard. For all the theory she’d studied in her first year, the topics had never covered the spiritual aspects of casting magic. She rubbed her palms as she recalled the lessons.

“What’s that?” Seth asked suddenly, pointing to their left.

Leyna tensed, following his finger. “What’s what?”

The trees were thick, but an old weather-beaten path branched off the main trail.

“Seth…I don’t see anything,” she began, but then spotted it. Lifting her gaze, she made out the silhouette of a beast perched upon a rocky outcrop.

“A wolf,” said Seth in awe.

“Get back,” Leyna muttered, but she was transfixed on the creature looming above.

It was watching them, motionless, and made no move to attack. It was large and muscled with black shaggy fur and was close enough that it might have made the distance if it pounced. She should have raised her casting hand to protect Seth, or signalled the guards behind, or called out to Grace, but something stopped her.

It was the eyes that had her captivated—they were not yellow or amber as a wolf’s should have been. Instead, they were almost as black as its fur, the dark brown irises barely distinguishable from its pupils.

The horses had scented the wolf; their ears twitched, but neither of them showed any signs of anxiety.

“I’ve never seen a wolf that big,” Seth said.

“It’s not a wolf,” she whispered. “It’s Quinn.”

“What?” Seth’s jaw dropped. “But I thought he died.”

Behind them, the metallic clink of their armoured escorts was growing louder, and up ahead, Grace was riding back in their direction. As Grace drew nearer, she called out:

“What’s the holdup? Is everything alright?”

The wolf flinched at the sound of Grace’s voice.

“It’s Quinn!” cried Seth. “Grace, it’s Quinn! Hurry!”

Grace could not see the wolf from her position.

“What?” she called back.

Suddenly, the wolf spun around in a flash of fur and disappeared into the woods.

“Quinn, wait!” cried Seth, and without warning, he rode off the main trail, vanishing amongst the bushes and trees.

“Seth!” Leyna yelled, squeezing her thighs—but Budsworth had read her mind and was already plunging into the trees. The mare rapidly picked up speed as they followed the old, sloped path down, the overgrown bushes pressing in on either side.

“Seth!” she yelled again, her ears too full of wind and noise and rustling branches to know if the guards were following. “Seth, wait!”

The speed was dangerous. Seth was not far ahead, and as the trail levelled out, she glimpsed the wolf that Seth was pursuing.

Could it really be Quinn?

Her priority was Seth.

Just a little further. If I can just catch up to him…

Seth was a much better rider than she remembered, but she and Budsworth were faster, and it wouldn’t be long before they caught up to him. How she would grab his reins on the narrow trail to stop him was another matter.

The trail curved gently, and Seth disappeared out of sight, blocked by the trees and undergrowth. She urged Budsworth forward, risking a gallop despite the blind corner, squinting against the air in her face.

The corner continued to curve. Trees rushed past.

Then the path straightened, and there was only a short section before the trail diverged.

There was no time to think.

It was impossible to know which way Seth had gone.

They went left, the mare bravely taking the twists and turns, her agile legs navigating the old winding trail. Leyna leant with the horse, trying to stay light, and they swung left and right around the corners as if they’d been training for it— until they took a sharp corner, and a fallen tree the height of Budsworth’s stomach blocked their path.

There was no time to slow down.

Too fast. Too late. They would trip and fly forward. Bones would be broken—that’s what the mossy log meant. The death of horse and rider.

But not today.

Muscle memory saved them. That, and sheer blind luck.

Budworth’s powerful front legs were already slamming the ground for takeoff before her hind feet had even touched down. Leyna kept her weight back as Budsworth pushed off the ground, lifting them into the air vertically.

And they were flying. Flying over the log, their backs curved, their eyes locked ahead.

Free-fall.

Time slowed as Budsworth’s first foreleg landed.

Time sped up, jerking them forward along the trail before Leyna had registered the impact.

They were alive. They were stupid, reckless, and alive.

And then she registered the impact, shrieking as her injured leg took her weight in the stirrup, and her head thumped against the back of Budsworth’s head, her body deadweight as she absorbed the shock. Budsworth had executed the leap perfectly, as had she—but only the mare had managed the landing well. Thankfully, the mare was in tune with her, and immediately slowed down.

“I’m fine,” she muttered, steadying herself. The flash of pain was gone, but a dull ache remained, warning of a sprain that she would feel later. She had pushed her leg too far. “Where to now?” Seth had clearly not come this way—he wouldn’t have cleared that log. No one in their right mind would have tried it.

Her heart was thumping, her breathing heavy, and she chastised herself for risking injury to her horse.

“Good girl,” she murmured, patting the horse whose body was glistening with sweat. She walked Budsworth forward, scanning the thick woods in the hope of some sign of Seth or Quinn. Turning back wasn’t an option; the undergrowth was too thick with brambles, making it impossible to go around the fallen log.

“We’re not jumping that again,” she said. Budsworth snorted in agreement. “Onwards, then.”

They continued along the narrow trail, this time at a more sensible speed. The brambles grew bold, reaching across the path to scratch at her arms and pluck at her clothing. After ducking low beneath the low-hanging branches of a beech tree, they were back out in the open.

They had traversed the mountain significantly, and the castle and city below her were now situated much farther to the left. Beyond Royad lay the flatter farmlands, the pastels pale and fading as they stretched to the horizon.

Directly below were the mountain foothills, but this aspect was rocky and shrouded in a thick forest of beech and pine. Running down the mountain to divide the trees was a smooth narrow gully that had once been a branch of the Maidstone River before its diversion to the castle.

A shout pierced the air, and a large, furry mass broke out of the left side of the tree line below and leapt into the gully. The dry riverbed was rocky, but the wolf crossed the terrain with ease, and she only got a glimpse of its broad head, muscled limbs and brush-shaped tail before it leapt out of the gully and disappeared into the treeline beyond.

Leyna was already halfway down the smooth gully when Seth appeared at the left side of the treeline from which Quinn had emerged.

“Seth, stop!” she yelled. “Stop where you are!”

Seth’s mountain pony skidded to a halt near the edge of the gully, dry pebbles scattering over the side.

Budsworth climbed out of the gully at a shallower aspect and loped towards the prince, who looked as though he was still considering pursuing Quinn.

“The gully is too rocky for your horse,” she puffed, drawing up beside him.

“It’s a mountain pony,” Seth said. “It can cross the gully just fine.” But he didn’t move. “Was that really Quinn?”

“It was definitely him.”

“Should we go after him?”

Leyna shook her head. “I don’t know what he’s doing here, but it’s clear he doesn’t want us to follow.” She stared at the place where he’d disappeared into the trees. Was he still there, watching? Or was he long gone?

A chill ran along her back as she wiped the sweat from her brow. “Come on,” she muttered, taking Seth’s reins and gently guiding his horse around to walk beside hers. “We need to get back.”

“What about the guards?”

“We’ll go back towards the castle and hopefully meet them on the way.”

As much as she wanted to rejoin the unit, the important thing was getting Seth back to the castle quickly and safely. The terrain here was dense with trees, but it was flat and bore a trail leading in the castle’s direction. It was in fair condition, with room for them to ride side-by-side.

They rode back slowly, which helped her heart rate calm down. The pretty song of a bird warbled through the trees.

“Do you reckon it’s much further?” asked Seth for the third time.

“We’re nearly there,” she responded. “Try to enjoy the ride.”

“I’m thirsty.” He had drained his water flask, and because she’d joined the trip at the last minute, she hadn’t packed one at all.

“I know, but don’t worry, we’re nearly ther—”

Crack.

She tensed, snapping her head in the noise’s direction. The woods revealed nothing unusual.

And then she heard a snort. A low grunt. Then silence. Had she imagined it?

Crack.

Wild pigs? Wolves? Quinn?

All was quiet and still. The songbird had stopped.

Except for the sound of the horses’ hooves, it was quiet. The large beech trees cast shadows across the ground, and the leaves were still. Bright sun filtered through the chinks in the leafy canopy, and dust particles danced happily in the rays of light, at complete odds with the drumming of her heart.

If the leaves were still, why could she hear rustling?

“We should go back to the waterfalls and drink,” Seth was saying.

“The waterfalls are further away than you think,” she muttered distractedly, still peering at the woods. Was that a shadow?

Crack.

“Or we can find a river. My throat is parched—”

“Seth, quiet,” she hissed, turning to face him. That was when she spotted the pale, muscled shape behind Seth, its form lost in the shadows of foliage. Her heart stopped.

Was that…?

She blinked. It was gone. If it had been there at all. She raised her casting hand.

“What is it?” Seth whispered.

She shook her head. “We’re not alone. We need to leave. Now. There’s something out there.”

Seth whipped his head around, staring at the woods. “Are you sure you heard something?” he asked, his voice high-pitched. “It could have been a deer.”

Crack-crack.

That time, he heard it too, and they both flinched at the noise.

A low growl ripped through the silence, coming from behind them.

“Run!” She gasped.

Seth bolted as she yelled an incantation, digging deep to draw on a large burst of energy—more than she would ordinarily use—and blasted a pressure spell into the trees and brush. The near-invisible shockwave pulsed forward. The unrestrained power tore bark off trees and caused foliage to whip around. Leaves and dust swirled, and Leyna glimpsed the ugly beasts as the spell’s force threw them back against the ground and slammed them into tree trunks with loud thunks.

Demon hounds. Dog-sized and four-legged, with flat faces, wide, sharp-toothed smiles and wild, human-like eyes. A whole pack of them. They snarled as they clambered back onto their stumpy, muscled legs, but she and Budsworth were already off, charging down the trail after Seth.

The hounds were fast, the ominous thumping of their short, fast feet infinitely more terrifying than their bloodcurdling growls.

“Faster, girl,” she urged Budsworth, ignoring the protests of her own leg as she tried to stay balanced on the mare. It wasn’t long before she’d caught up to Seth. She suspected he was growing tired, making the pony’s job more difficult.

“Come on, Seth!” she urged. “Follow me!”

Budsworth pulled ahead just as the path narrowed again.

Please let this be the right way. No obstacles. No gullies. Just give us flat plains and solid ground. Take us to the castle.

The growls grew louder and harsher, mixed with the sound of thrashing undergrowth as the demons cut corners and took shortcuts through dense woodland.

The trees thinned.

Seth was right at her heels, but the demons were closing in fast.

She didn’t dare cast another spell, not unless she absolutely had to—the rocky motion made the risk of tripping over her words too high, and the last thing they needed was a Renegade.

“They’re getting closer!” cried Seth.

“We’re nearly there. Keep pushing!” She was crouched in an aggressive stance above Budsworth, whose powerful hooves pounded the earth. The opening was up ahead, revealing the grassy foothills and the castle beyond.

The trail ended, and they burst out onto golden planes.

“Don’t stop!” she cried as they tore across the hillside.

“What are you going to do?”

“Just don’t stop! Ride straight to the castle!”

To her far left, riders approached bearing spear-mounted banner flags—it was their unit, led by Grace.

“Riders, to me!” Leyna yelled, hoping her voice carried across the distance.

The demons were still pursuing her and Seth, their fat tongues lolling in the air, but the guards were close.

“Keep going, Seth!” she yelled, hoping he would listen. Halfway to the castle, she brought Budsworth to a sharp halt, her cloak billowing as she spun them around, her casting arm stretched out before her.

A second pressure spell erupted from her hand, larger than the one she’d used before.

The force of it sent the demons flying back, tumbling and spinning as carelessly as if they were pins knocked over by a bowler.

It was alarming how quickly the demons were back on their feet, but the spell had bought precious time.

The unit reached her. Swords were drawn, and Grace dispatched two guards to follow and protect Seth, before raising her casting hand.

She spun back to face the demons, but it was too late.

One hound had pounced and was flying at her face. There was no time to react, to duck, to even register that she should shut her eyes.

A pink slice of light flew up in front of Leyna, cast by Grace. The demon collided against it with a thunk, bouncing off and landing at their feet.

A nearby guard was not so lucky—a demon hit his chest, sending him flying off his horse and slamming him back against the ground. The nearby guards raised their weapons, but the demon had found the guard’s neck. By the time they plunged a spear into its body, the guard was already dead.

The speared demon continued to fight, even after two of its legs had been severed, and it wasn’t until a sword had plunged through its maw that it went still.

There was no time to process the gruesome scene—seven hounds remained.

Fry entered the fight, and in that moment, Leyna gained a newfound appreciation for the professor as she conjured a gigantic pink shield, this one wide enough to create a barrier between the guards and the demons. But Fry was not done. Rather than leave the pink wall upright as Leyna expected her to, she tilted the entire shield forward, angling the far edge down onto the creatures.

She’s crushing them, Leyna realised.

Most of the demons scrambled out from underneath the crackling shield as it lowered, but one demon was not so lucky, and as Fry continued to push the shield against the ground, it became trapped. Fry made a sharp, pushing movement with her hand, and the shield crushed down onto the demon, creating a crackling, squelching crunch that Leyna hoped to never hear again.

As the other demons rounded the corner, she threw scorching fireballs at them—one, two, three, four, each hitting its target with a satisfying whoomph.

The scorching fire seemed to have little effect beyond pushing the demons back, and to her dismay, it set the field alight. She changed tack, casting a new spell that ripped at the tall grass around her, the yellow stalks shooting into the air and rapidly weaving together into a cord of thick, grassy rope. It had only taken seconds, but two demons were already charging towards her. She completed the spell, the long, grassy cord bursting alight with a shimmering green flame, and with a swipe of a hand, she sent it at the demons.

The fiery green rope sliced through the air and wrapped around the demons, encircling the neck of one tightly so its eyes bulged, and catching the other by the foot, tripping it so its heavy body stumbled and fell forward, somersaulting towards her with a yelp. She leapt aside just in time as it rolled past. Suddenly, the demon jerked to a halt as the slack cord went taut, the other end snapping its companion’s neck.

Cries filled the air, spells blazed, and swords flashed as the fighting continued. They were winning.

Two more guards fell, but by that time, the demons had fallen. Fry saw to stabilising the men’s wounds, and Grace was casting streams of water to soak the burning grass.

Leyna was glad that Seth had returned to the castle and hadn't witnessed the horror unfold. Most of the guards would not have seen a demon before, and the battle left them dazed and shaking. One guard, who appeared uninjured, fell to his knees and sobbed, whilst another retched. The others finished dispatching the demons that were disabled but still alive. They snarled menacingly until their last breath.

That was the most frightening thing of all—the realisation that the demons did not stop. They had no sense of self-preservation. Even when the odds were against them, where any human or animal would have fled, they continued to fight. They were fast and strong, but it was their unrelenting nature that, above all else, made them a frightening enemy.

A bead of sweat tickled her eyebrow and she swiped at it, squinting against the bright sun as she scanned the landscape one last time. That was when she spotted Quinn, returned to his human form and lying on his side in the tall grass.

“Quinn!” she cried, running over. His shirt was torn, and his face, arms and torso were covered in black and blue bruises that did not look recent. “Quinn, what happened?”

“Leyna,” he murmured, opening one eye. The other was red and swollen, with the brow above it split and bleeding.

She helped him sit up, frowning when she noticed his hands were bound.

Crouched down and supporting his back, she rounded on the rest of the party, her voice low and dangerous as she demanded: “Why is he tied up?”

No one answered. Grace hovered nearby, her eyes puffy as if she’d been crying.

Leyna stood, using her leg to help keep Quinn upright.

“I said, why is he tied up? Answer me!”

Fry strode forward and cleared her throat, but allowed the seconds to stretch out to ensure she had everyone’s attention before answering. “Why, he’s under arrest, of course!”

“Nonsense,” Leyna growled. “There must be a mistake. Release him.” She gestured at the nearby guards to untie Quinn, but they only exchanged uncertain looks.

“You don’t have the authority,” Fry smirked, plucking at a tall blade of grass and twisting it between her fingers.

Leyna squared her shoulders. “Yes, I do. I’m a huskarl of the Royal Guard and your superior.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” said Fry, clasping her hands. “I’m sure we could split hairs all day long! But I think it’s best that we let the lord regent decide, don’t you?”

“Believe me, the lord regent won’t take kindly to us returning with his son tied up like a prisoner.”

“Oh, I think he will be very understanding, given the circumstances.”

“What circumstances?” she asked, swatting at a fly that was almost as annoying as the woman before her.

“Poor Leyna, a little out of the loop, aren’t we?” Fry sighed and batted her eyelashes, which made her look stunningly beautiful, cruel, and ugly, all at the same time.

“What are you talking about?”

“Quinn deserves to be tied up like a prisoner. He’s a traitor.” Fry clicked her fingers at Firmin, who approached obediently, his beady eyes glowering wherever they roamed.

“I’ve been getting to know our dear surviving hero, Firmin, a little bit better,” the professor purred. “It turns out there’s a lot more to his original testimony than the Royal Council saw fit to make public knowledge!”

“Like what?” Leyna asked coolly.

“Oh, I really shouldn’t say,” said Fry. “Not if it’s confidential. Although, I’ll admit, I had hoped the steward would be a little more transparent with the public instead of hiding information to protect his own reputation!”

“Quit playing,” Leyna snapped. “Just spit it out. What is it that Quinn’s supposedly done?”

It was Grace who answered, looking so distraught that Leyna wanted to run over and hug her. “Firmin says that Quinn was involved in the Court Massacre, that he attacked the court.”

Leyna jerked her head back. “No.”

“He’s a traitor,” spat Firmin. “He killed the Queen.”

“Rubbish,” she said, dividing her glare between Fry and Firmin. She could feel her control of the situation slipping away, as if Fry was prying it out from between her fingers. “That can’t be true.”

“Oh?” simpered Fry. “Why not ask him?” She pointed at Quinn, who was swaying on his knees.

Leyna glanced at Grace, hoping she would come to Quinn’s defence, but she only gave a sad shrug.

Confused, Leyna knelt down beside Quinn, swiping away the matted hair from his forehead. “Quinn, what’s going on? Is what they’re saying true? Were you involved with the attack on the court? Did you…” she swallowed. “Did you kill Queen Claire?”

Quinn’s lip trembled as he tried to speak, but his voice was hoarse.

“Water,” she ordered, and helped him drink from a flask. “Quinn, is any of it true?”

Quinn gave what looked like a small nod at the ground.

No. It couldn’t have been a nod. Gently but firmly, she tilted his chin up. His dark eyes penetrated hers. She swallowed. “Is it true you’re a traitor?”

He lowered his eyes. “It’s true.”

Leyna’s hand slowly withdrew, and Quinn’s head dropped again—whether from weakness, shame, or simply defeat, she could not tell.

“See? There you have it!” Fry strode forward triumphantly, but Leyna leapt to her feet and raised her casting arm.

“Stay back.” For the first time, she realised she was nearly a head taller than the female wizard. It had never been obvious before now, and she might never have taken much note were it not for the loathing she felt for Fry in that moment. As it was, she drew herself up to her full height.

The false smile on Fry’s face wavered, then returned. “Out of my way, sweetheart. It’s off to the dungeon with this one!”

Fry gestured to Firmin, who pulled Quinn upright into a standing position with one hand, then pushed his head forward roughly with the other before leading him towards the castle.

“Grace,” said Leyna, moving to her friend and taking her by the shoulders. “Grace, say something. You’re in charge of this unit.”

Grace shook her head helplessly. “I don’t know what to say. Quinn says he did it.”

Leyna lowered her head so her forehead touched Grace’s. “We’ll figure this out,” she said. “There has to be a mistake.”

A soft mewing reached her ears.

“What was that?”

The sad cry came again. It sounded like—

“Floofy!” she cried, whipping her head around while patting her shoulder where he’d been during the ride. He was gone.

The mewing sounded again from the direction of the boulders.

“No, no, no,” she moaned, stumbling through the grass as the pitiful cry sounded again. He was calling for her. “Floofy!”

He was trapped inside a deep crevice between two boulders, his large brown eyes watery, peering at her as he mewed more insistently.

“It’s alright,” she said, trying to keep her voice calm as her shaky hand slid into the crevice. The rocky surface dragged her sleeve back, abrading her skin as she tried to reach him, her fingers outstretched. But the crevice was too narrow.

“Is he alright?” asked Grace, kneeling beside her.

“He’s stuck. I think he tried to hide. I…I think he’s in pain.”

“Here, let me. Stand aside.”

Leyna sat back, overcome with emotion, as she watched Grace try to levitate Floofy out of the crevice. Several times, she failed, and Floofy squealed in either pain or fear.

“What’s happening?” asked Leyna, trying to see inside the crevice.

“It’s fine,” soothed Grace. “Just give me some space. I have no idea how he managed to get himself stuck down there…”

It must have only taken a minute, but she was beside herself with worry by the time Grace managed to lift the small creature out from between the boulders and place him in Leyna’s hands. His round, furry body was shivering, and he squealed every time she moved him.

“What’s wrong with him?” she asked, cradling the tiny animal. How could she have forgotten about him? And how on earth had he managed to stay on during the ride through the woods?

Leyna stood and found herself face-to-face with Fry.

She froze.

Professor Fry. The Wizarding Guild’s healing teacher.

“What are you doing?” the woman asked.

Leyna did what she had to, and she did it without hesitation. Swallowing her pride, she held out Floofy to the blonde woman.

“He’s hurt,” she choked. “Please, can you heal him? Please.”

Fry’s fine eyebrows drew together, and she looked down her nose at the fluffy creature. “Oh, sweetheart. I’d love nothing more than to help…but I don’t do animals…or vermin.”

Leyna’s stomach dropped, and she hugged Floofy close.

“What a horrible thing to say!” said Grace, and Leyna could tell she was only seconds away from striking the woman.

“We have a prisoner to escort back—this is hardly a priority,” Fry said, brushing past them. The contact had been purposeful, and it made her skin crawl.

“Oh, and another thing,” said Fry, halting in her tracks, “while we’re at it, we can charge Quinn with leading the prince into an ambush of demons! Hasn’t this been a productive morning? And I’m not even in the Arrest Unit! Not to worry, sweetie, you can thank me later.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Guilty

LEYNA SAT ON A padded chaise beside the Foyer stairs with Cornelius. She barely registered the people moving past them into the Great Hall. They were drawn by the news of Quinn’s return from the dead, and the atmosphere simmered with anticipation.

Contrary to what Fry had said about locking Quinn in the dungeon, the unit took him to the Great Hall for a preliminary hearing.

Distressed by the limp animal in her arms, Leyna had been relieved to see Cornelius in the Foyer. Detaching from the unit, she’d boldly walked up to him and begged him to help her. Cornelius owed her nothing, not after everything he had done for her—but this was too important, and she had to ask. She had to make him listen. Floofy’s companionship, she suddenly realised, was something she could not bear to live without. The funny little creature had brought her joy in the recent dark days, always yipping in delight to see her, loving her without condition.

Cornelius did not need to be persuaded—he took one look at Floofy and ushered Leyna aside to sit by the stairs.

Meanwhile, Grace had gone ahead into the hall with the unit.

“I’ll be there soon,” Leyna promised her, returning her attention to Floofy.

“What happened?” Cornelius asked.

She began to describe the chase through the woods, but he interrupted her.

“I’m eager to hear the details, but my curiosity can keep. Just tell me, what happened to the creature?”

Leyna’s mouth dropped in surprise, but she quickly recovered and summed up how Floofy had gotten trapped in the rocks during the battle with the demons.

“Hmm.” Cornelius probed Floofy’s body with a tendril of blue magic, turning his body this way and that.

Leyna had never wished to be competent in healing spells more than she did in that moment. By the time they’d reached the Foyer, Floofy had grown unresponsive, and the only signs of life were his laboured breathing and quiet whimpers.

“What’s wrong with him?” she asked, unable to contain herself.

“His foot is swollen, but it’s not broken. It appears he twisted it.”

“What about the blood?”

Cornelius surprised her by seizing her arm and turning it.

“It’s your blood,” he said, nodding at the gash on her forearm. It was raw but clotted, and now that she was aware of it, felt sore. The rest of the skin was crosshatched with scratches where branches had whipped at her during the ride.

Leyna nodded in relief. “Fine. What about Floofy? Will he be alright?”

Cornelius arched his eyebrows. “Floofy?”

“Yes, that’s his name,” she said impatiently. “What’s wrong with him? Is he unconscious?”

The wizard shook his head. “No, just in shock. I can heal his foot, but he’ll need rest. I can give him something to help him sleep later. What do you think?”

Leyna nodded eagerly. “Yes, sounds good. Is…is it a sleeping draught? Is it like what you gave me at the Wizarding Guild when you were looking after me?”

She waited for his reaction to her hint, a reminder of the connection they had shared. Perhaps it had all been in her head, and the relationship had strictly been professional, but she couldn’t help but bring it up.

Cornelius did not so much as glance at her as he said, “Yes, the very same. Now, please allow me to concentrate.”

Blue light swirled around Floofy’s body as Cornelius worked the healing spell. The light was almost blinding, but she couldn’t look away for even a moment as the magic settled on Floofy’s foot before melting like honey. Finally, it faded.

“All better,” smiled Cornelius, handing Floofy back to her. “Your arm?” he offered.

“It’ll be alright,” she said, unsure why she refused, except perhaps out of habit. But he took her arm again gently.

“Are you sure?” He leant closer to examine it, and a pleasant flutter spurred to life in her tummy. A faint scent reached her nostrils—it was spicy, and tantalising. She half-closed her eyes, fighting the urge to lean in and smell his hair.

“Huskarl Leyna?” he prompted, his voice soft and low in a way that left her lightheaded.

“Yes?”

His eyes met hers. He was still leaning in, his face close as he held her arm. “I asked, are you sure?”

“Um, yes, it’ll be alright,” she said quickly, drawing her arm back and pulling her sleeve back down. “I’ll wash it when I get upstairs. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Cornelius stood without warning and walked away.

“Lord Brighton, wait!” she called after him. “What about the sleeping draught?”

“I’ll make sure you have it soon. Will you be in your chambers this afternoon?”

“Yes,” she said breathlessly.

“Excellent. Now, everyone is in the Great Hall. Shall we?”

“Yes,” she said again, but was left feeling a strange mixture of gratitude and disappointment as the wizard crossed the Foyer and entered the Great Hall without once looking back at her.

Kissing Floofy’s fur, she kept him cradled in the crook of her arm as she took her place near the dais beside Grace.

The lord regent, Steward Marek, the prince, and the entire Royal Council had gathered, as had most of the court.

The accusation that Lord Quinn Volak, son of the lord regent of Rosaria, was one of the traitors involved in the Court Massacre, was grave indeed. Had Leyna not heard it confirmed by Quinn himself, she would not have believed it.

Quinn had grown up in the castle with her, and she’d spent seven years studying and training alongside him at the Wizarding Guild, but to this day, she still hadn’t figured him out. There had been many misunderstandings between them, and while they shared the blame for that, he had almost certainly lied to her on at least one occasion. First, about why he had left the Guild early to travel to the castle, and second, about the Renegade Spells, which he had always claimed were an accident. Quinn had never been her favourite person, and his odd, contradictory behaviour was confusing, but the fact that Grace loved him, and believed in him, said a lot in his favour. All things aside, her gut feeling was that Quinn was not a murderer.

Especially not after she’d seen a different side of him on the night of the king’s farewell feast. Behind his brusque, reserved temperament, Quinn had been vulnerable, like someone in need of protecting. It made sense why Grace—with her encouraging nature and easy acceptance of others—and Quinn—with his quiet level-headedness—were a good match. They brought out the best in each other.

This made it all the more difficult to see the couple separated as Quinn was questioned in the Great Hall.

After giving his son a stiff hug, Steward Marek returned to the throne, where he sat in near-silence as the Royal Council debated Quinn’s fate.

Restrained by guards, Quinn stood alone, and when he did not deny his part in attacking the Baxton Estate, Leyna squeezed Grace’s hand as jeers resounded in the hall.

Steward Marek looked dejected but unsurprised to hear the charges of treason and murder laid against his son, and when Quinn did not deny them, he looked troubled but said nothing.

“One more thing, Your Grace,” said Professor Fry, striding forward and bowing to the High Table. She wasted no time in sharing her theory—which she presented as fact—that Quinn had led the prince into an ambush. When she described the battle that had taken place against the demons, panic rippled through the hall at the report of the creatures so close to the castle.

“The traitors are coming!” someone cried.

Steward Marek rose to his feet. “There is no need to panic,” he said sternly, and with the Council’s help, he was able to calm the gathered audience.

When the room finally settled, Leyna stepped forward before Fry could speak again. “I don’t think Quinn was leading us into an ambush,” she said loudly. Every set of eyes turned to her, and she cleared her throat nervously. Even Lord Brighton was staring at her in surprise, and she lifted her chin as she continued, “Quinn had no way of knowing we would follow—the prince could just as easily not have followed him. I think he was just trying to run away.”

Her words sounded weak, and she was met by silence. Fry was the first to speak.

“Then how do you explain that the Crown Prince was lured straight into the midst of demons?” She turned in one spot, addressing the entire room. “I mean—” she gave a forced, high-pitched laugh, “I understand that he’s your friend and colleague, Huskarl Leyna, but really, how can you make excuses for him? The prince could have died. Because of him, two of our bravest castle guards are dead.”

The room erupted into conversation.

“Huskarl Quinn, what say you?” Chamberlain Percy asked, struggling to make himself heard over the babble. He fidgeted as he peered down at Quinn. “Did you mean to lure the prince into an ambush? Surely, there’s another explanation?”

“I don’t deny it,” said Quinn, and a flurry of gasps rushed through the room.

“No, Quinn,” moaned Grace in an undertone, half-leaning on Leyna and squeezing her hands tight enough that it hurt.

“Are you sure?” Percy tried again. “Come now, Huskarl Quinn, there’s no need to take the blame for something you didn’t do.”

Quinn lifted his chin. “I did do it.”

Seth piped up. “It’s not true. I could tell he didn’t want me to follow him.”

The crowd’s murmur drowned the prince out.

“This is not the time nor the place,” said Steward Marek, raising his voice, “But the charges will stand, and we will consider the evidence at a formal trial.”

“And where shall we take him?” called Fry, her tone bordering on insubordination. “His fine chambers? Or perhaps, one of the guest suites overlooking the gardens?”

Leyna’s fists clenched as she realised what Fry was doing. Traditionally, exceptions were often made for accused members of the upper class to await trial in the comfort of their rooms. In a situation such as Quinn’s, house arrest would have been the norm, but the quiet outrage rippling through the crowd showed Fry’s statement had aroused resentment towards both Quinn and his father.

Steward Marek’s face darkened. “There will be no favouritism,” he announced. His gaze lingered on his son. “You are to take him to the dungeons to await trial. No visitation but direct family members. The number of guards permitted to access the dungeon will be restricted. That will be all; this hearing is adjourned.”

He turned away and spent several minutes talking to the captain in an undertone. Sitting at the High Table, Percy leant forward, visibly trying to listen in, his expression growing more concerned as he twisted a napkin in his hands.

The captain escorted Quinn from the Great Hall. His father did not watch as he was led away, nor did he seem to notice the crowd’s displeasure. Meanwhile, the room was alive with chatter.

She spotted Cornelius in the crowd. He was watching her—or perhaps their eyes had only met accidentally, because in the next instant, he wasn’t looking at her at all.

Grace was kneeling on the floor, sobbing. Exhausted after the chase through the woods and the battle that had taken place, Leyna sank down to the tiled floor beside her and drew her close.

“Leyna, I don’t understand what’s happening,” cried Grace, leaning her head against her shoulder.

“Neither do I,” she said. “It doesn’t make sense.”

A few hours after the hearing, Leyna sat on her bed, resting with her legs stretched out as she waited for Cornelius to arrive. Floofy was asleep beside her, and while there was no longer any need for the sleeping draught, she waited with anticipation for the wizard to arrive. This was partly because her left leg had begun to radiate pain from when Budsworth jumped the log. She hoped it was only a pulled muscle, but sharp spasms of pain were shooting up her calf, and she was concerned enough that she wanted Cornelius to have a look at it.

This didn’t explain the giddiness she felt as she waited for him, nor the eager way she swung her legs off the bed and rushed to the door when the knock finally came.

If she’d thought Cornelius would deliver the draught in person, she was mistaken. Opening the door, she was disappointed to see a messenger boy holding a small vial of what looked like honey. There was no note, only a verbal message with instructions on dosage.

In the days that followed, the Royal Council revealed few details about Quinn’s involvement in the Court Massacre, with no mention of whether he truly had attacked the queen, and it left the rest of the castle’s inhabitants to read between the lines.

The gossipmongers of the court were, as always, quick to fill in the details:

“I heard he’s a werewolf,” whispered a young noblewoman, who was standing near Grace and Leyna in a fine cream gown, surrounded by other ladies. “When the moon is full, he turns into a horrible beast! He’s a danger to us all.”

Leyna repressed a snort. There was no such thing as a werewolf. It wasn’t even a full moon when the Massacre had occurred.

Quinn was a morpher, and was one of only three students in her cohort who had committed to the advanced subject. His inherited natural talent and family predisposition to the wolf form had given him an edge, but it would have been for naught if he hadn’t dedicated five years to mastering the skill. She had desperately wanted to become a morpher herself—until she’d realised that learning to transform into an animal would mean limiting herself to just three subjects after third year, and she’d already had trouble choosing only six. Although Quinn had covered the fundamentals at the start of his tuition, he had dropped all his subjects after third year except for magical combat, magical defence, and morphing.

But no one would be interested in hearing about the Guild’s curriculum—a werewolf made for more palatable gossip. She forced herself to continue walking but the women’s voices followed her.

“Well, I heard he killed the queen!”

“No!”

“Yes! I heard Quinn dragged her off by the hair, then went straight for her neck with his teeth.

“Oh my! It’s a good thing he’s locked up.”

Leyna’s temper sparked, and she strode towards the huddled circle menacingly. When the gaggle of women spotted the white lightning crackling at her fingertips, they immediately scattered. Her show of magic had been unintentional—a sign of the frustration that boiled beneath the surface.

Steward Marek faced significant public backlash after the arrest of his son, with some blaming the steward himself for the attack. Whispered rumours circulated he had orchestrated the Court Massacre in order to usurp the king.

“The taste of power went straight to our dear regent’s head,” said a nobleman with a melodramatic sigh, cooling himself in the gardens with a lacy fan that was as white and elaborate as his wig. “First, Marek sent his son to assassinate the king and queen, and now, he’s using him as a scapegoat for his own crimes!”

Leyna squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out the surrounding noise. She longed for a quiet moment, but the fine weather had attracted other nobles to the gardens, disrupting the solitude she’d hoped to find there. She crossed her arms and nestled closer against her favourite tree, where she had a perfect view of the fountains. The sun was warm against her skin and a bee buzzed in the flowering tree above.

“And indeed,” continued the nobleman, his voice carrying over the low hedges, “it is simply shocking that the steward would repay our beloved King Rutherford—may his soul rest in peace—with such villainy. Alas, what can you expect from a Kormendian? They are not a reasonable people. I always said King Rutherford was generous to allow him a seat on the council, let alone the stewardship. And look at him now, the lord regent! That’s the trouble with Kormendians: give an inch, they’ll take a mile.”

Something in Leyna snapped. She vaulted the low hedge and confronted the group of gossipers, jabbing a finger at the nobleman with the white wig. “Watch yourself, my lord.”

The other aristocrats scrambled back several steps, clearly worried at being caught criticising the kingdom’s ruler, but the nobleman merely regarded her with polite surprise, a lacy hand on his hip as he looked down his nose at her. “Why, Huskarl Leyna…do feel free to insert yourself into the conversation.”

“How dare you criticise the lord regent?”

“Criticise? Goodness me, no. I was only making an observation.”

Leyna narrowed her eyes. The nobleman may have backtracked, but his mannerisms made it clear that he was anything but sorry.

“You said he usurped the king.”

“Goodness! I said no such thing.”

“You said he arranged the king’s assassination.”

“Did I?” The nobleman gave a titter and cast an incredulous gaze around at his companions. “I don’t recall. But in any case, I’m merely repeating things I have heard.”

“Repeating is just as bad,” she growled, wondering how the other nobles could take him seriously—his face was powdered stark white, his cheeks were bright pink, his lips were red, and his shiny satin costume was a vivid turquoise that matched the ribbons in his wig. Nonetheless, his companions deferred to him, echoing his laugh, albeit nervously. “Well,” he went on, “if I did, it’s a warning to us all, isn’t it?”

“Is it?” she asked.

“Oh, yes. We must all be careful who we place our faith in. One never quite knows who to trust or who one is speaking to.”

“Right,” said Leyna, walking away feeling unsure if she’d won the confrontation.

At first, she had not believed the steward power-hungry enough to be capable of betraying his king. But since Quinn’s arrest, she had heard the theory repeated so often by the castle folk—usually in hushed undertones—that it now seemed plausible.

The following day, Leyna attended the joint funeral of the guards who had died in the battle against the demons. Many people attended out of respect, including the steward, the chamberlain, and the prince, who honoured the fallen soldiers.

Unsurprisingly, Professor Fry was absent, as was the jester, who she hadn’t seen since the incident on Seth’s balcony. So much had happened since the demon attack. What did Jester think of it all?

As a harp and lute played the funeral march, she held Grace’s hand, suspecting that her friend’s tears were at least partly because of what had taken place with Quinn. How could Grace bear it? To first mourn the death of the man she loved, only to see him returned from the dead? To then watch him flee? To witness his capture, and on top of everything else, to learn he’d betrayed the king he’d sworn to serve?

One conclusion that Leyna had drawn from her battle yesterday was that whilst the demon hounds were dangerous and deadly, they were not invincible. They could be wounded and killed. She hoped this held true for other demons as well. How many soldiers would it have taken to slaughter the demon that she’d accidentally summoned in Master Emsworth’s office?

Yesterday, it had taken three wizards—her, Grace, Fry—and a dozen castle guards to overcome a group of fewer than ten demons. Interestingly, they had done so with few casualties, with the blades of the castle guards seemingly more effective at killing the demons than magical spells had been.

With the help of Amelia, a friendly guard she had met in the armoury, she had started learning to use a dagger. As expected, progress was slow—like magic, it was not a skill one could pick up after only a few weeks. She made a mental note to visit the training yards after the funerals, but when the ceremony ended, she was approached by Chamberlain Percy.

“May I speak with you in my office, Huskarl Leyna?” he asked.

Leyna threw a glance over her shoulder at Grace, who was hugging Seth. “Of course, sir.”

The chamberlain’s office was located upstairs in the castle and looked as any court official’s might have; neat and plain, with bookshelves, a large desk and several upholstered chairs. The only item of interest was a cow skull with horns that was mounted over the fireplace.

“Family heirloom,” said Percy, noticing her looking. “Please, have a seat.”

Leyna sat at the desk opposite him, stretching her leg out into a comfortable position. Thankfully, the pain in her leg hadn’t worsened, but it was sore enough that her limp was back, and trying to disguise it was futile. If the captain had noticed, he hadn’t said anything. Given how understaffed the Royal Guard was, she suspected he was turning a blind eye to her injury.

“Now, Huskarl Leyna…I have asked you here because I need your help.

“My help, sir?”

“Yes. I am quite concerned by the demons who attacked the other day, and the danger the prince was placed in.”

“I’m sorry, sir. It won’t happen again.”

He gave his head a small shake. “Oh, I didn’t call you here to reprimand you. Although, the lapse in security does reflect poorly on the Royal Guard.”

Leyna squirmed in her seat. “Do you really think Quinn did it?” she asked. “Only, the public hasn’t been given the full details of Maurice and Firmin’s testimony.”

“It’s hard to say for sure. Generally, I listen to everything and everyone—but I try not to believe everything.” Percy breathed on the lens of his spectacles and rubbed them with a cloth. “What you need to understand is that public opinion is shaky, and the Royal Council has had to make some difficult decisions on how much to reveal. In the wake of the Massacre, Rosarians need to see strength and unity—the last thing they need is for one of our huskarls to be found guilty of betraying the Crown.” He replaced his glasses with a sigh. “What we need is damage control. You are close to Huskarl Quinn, are you not?”

“Er, a little. We studied together. How can I be of help, sir?”

“Huskarl Leyna, I need someone I can trust to look into this matter more closely. As a relative of our late King Rutherford, I naturally thought of you.”

She sat a little straighter.“What do you need me to do?”

“I would like to make you an investigator of the Court Massacre. Should you accept, you will officially be tasked with finding the perpetrator of the attack. Unofficially,” he leant forward, “I hope you might find evidence that could clear Quinn’s name. I don’t think the poor boy is in his right mind.”

“Maybe someone’s putting him up to it?” she suggested.

Percy nodded profusely, his spectacles sliding down his nose as his head bobbed. “Yes, that did occur to me as well.

Leyna rubbed her palm thoughtfully. “So, you want me to find the real culprit? The one behind the Massacre?”

“Yes, or at least someone higher up.” Percy peered at her over his spectacles. “It would help deflect the controversy which Quinn has cast on the lord regent and the Royal Council. And having seen him grow up at the castle, I think you and I both know Quinn and his father have a…complicated relationship.”

Leyna gave a tiny nod but stayed silent.

“And you must understand, it is difficult for the Royal Council to exercise any…leniency…when the entire court is calling for blood. Finding one of the chief perpetrators could very well reduce the severity of Quinn’s punishment. Ideally, if he’s innocent—and I very much hope he is—then he might be able to walk free.

Percy’s meaning was clear—this was a chance to prevent Quinn from receiving the death penalty. In the best-case scenario, she might even find enough evidence to exonerate him.

“I’ll do it,” she said.

“Excellent. It is done. Now, I would suggest you try to be discreet in your investigation, yes? I suspect the culprit is here amongst us in the castle. Try not to draw attention to yourself.”

“Yes sir. But what makes you think there is a traitor in the castle?”

He steepled his fingers. “Because, there are always enemies in the castle. Although, some are not outright enemies, but instead are opportunistic, dangerous people who lurk in our midst, with loyalties to a hidden faction. Do you know who I speak of?”

She shook her head.

“There is a secret society amongst us called the Brotherhood,” Percy began, his voice lowered. “It has existed for centuries, and its members infiltrated our court a long time ago. You will have met some of its members without even knowing it.”

A chill crept up her spine. The thought of a secret society at the castle was beyond intriguing, and she eyed a nearby bookcase nervously, as if expecting it to swing open and reveal a hidden hideout.

“Leyna, what you need to understand is that this organisation holds great political power. They see themselves as ‘kingmakers’, deciding who rules…and ridding themselves of those who do not suit their agenda.” The facial muscles of his narrow face were taut.

“I’ve never heard of them before.”

“Naturally. They operate in complete secrecy—it is rare that anyone but the king himself is aware of the Brotherhood’s existence. As a word of warning—you would be wise not to mention the name out loud.”

“Understood. But what does the Brother—err, I mean, what do they want?”

“In principle, they serve the kings of Rosaria. But it is dangerous for a single group to wield so much power. They can take the rule of law into their own hands, make life-and-death decisions, and leave almost nothing for the common man. It is the root of corruption.”

Leyna shifted in her chair. “And you think the Brotherhood might have had something to do with the Court Massacre?”

“I truly do not know. If they did…well, you need to be careful. A piece of advice, Huskarl Leyna: until you know what someone wants, you cannot trust them.”

She hesitated. “What about you sir? Are you a Brotherhood member?”

He shook his head, his eyes never leaving hers. “No, and I have no desire to be.” He gestured at the horned cow skull above the fireplace.

“My ancestors were simple peasants—and I say this with the utmost pride. They were wealthy farmers, with large cattle farms in the Maidstone Mountains.”

“Beef?” she enquired, mostly to be polite.

“Yes. Beef and draught. In fact, my great-great-grandfather developed the best breed of mountain cattle in the kingdom. He not only bred for traits like health and temperament—he bred the best hill-climbers around.” The chamberlain’s eyes sparkled with life as he spoke, his pale cheeks turning light pink. “Conventional wisdom says that cows don’t climb hills and don’t travel far from water. But he figured that if ranchers could select for the hill-climbing trait, then they could graze more cows on the mountainous ranches.”

Leyna stifled an incoming yawn as subtly as she could. Whilst the details were not uninteresting, Percy had already told her far more than she wished to know about farming.

“And now you’re the lord chamberlain of Rosaria,” she said.

“Indeed.” Percy clasped his hands in front of him. “Risen from humble beginnings—but I consider my privileged place in office to be a chance to bring equal opportunity to the citizens of Rosaria. And justice and fairness to all.”

She lifted her chin, thinking of Quinn. “I won’t let you down, Lord Chamberlain. And I’d like to start by questioning Quinn.”

Percy shifted uncomfortably. “I’m afraid that is easier said than done. The lord regent has withdrawn top-tier access to the Demon Door from everyone except himself and Captain Marton. Only they have the power to authorise others to pass through the door safely, and he is under strict orders to supervise anyone who enters the dungeon personally—and to remove their privileges when they leave."

Leyna’s eyes widened. “That’s a lot of work for the captain.” There were prisoners to feed, cells to clean, and a myriad of other tasks.

Percy inclined his head. “Indeed. I expect the poor man will be overworked. But I am trying to help our lord regent see reason. It is somewhat difficult to get through to him. But I’ll keep trying. In the meantime, do what you can.”

She rubbed her forehead, thinking. “I have another question, sir. Do you think the Demon Book that was stolen from the Guild is relevant to the investigation? Could it have been used to summon the demon army that attacked the court?”

“Yes, that’s quite possible, isn’t it? Why don’t you look into it? And report back what you find out. Good luck.”

Leyna rose and bid the chamberlain goodbye, but he called her back.

“Oh, and one more thing.” Percy leant forward in his chair, his fingertips pressed together. “I know this is not an easy thing I ask of you. But anything you can do to help free poor Quinn would be a noble pursuit.”

Leyna pondered all that he had said as she left his office, trying to organise the fragments of potential clues in her mind. By the headmaster’s own account, only a powerful wizard could have disarmed the wards protecting the Demon Book quietly—while this did not rule out a student at the Guild being the book thief, it did make it unlikely. Perhaps, a teacher?

Her thoughts leapt at once to Professor Fry.

She’s probably more than capable of stealing the Demon Book…and she was at the Guild when it was stolen. But why would she do it? What’s her motive?

Leyna wandered down to the training yards. She loathed Professor Fry, but that wasn’t a good enough reason to assume she was guilty. As an investigator, she had to remain fair and level-headed.

But if Professor Fry had stolen the Demon Book…did that mean the book was here?

Chapter Twenty-Six

The Investigator

“DO YOU WANT YOUR fingers chopped off?” asked Amelia, flipping her double braids back.

Leyna liked the stocky, middle-aged castle guard, but wished she wouldn’t insist on her using a parrying dagger at their lessons. It had a short, skinny blade and a shiny round knuckle guard. Not even Amelia could make it look threatening as she twirled the thin blade in the air.

“Can’t I start with a dirk?” asked Leyna, not for the first time. “Something like what Huskarl Beatrice had.”

“Aye, I know the one, but this is better to defend yourself with. Ideally, you would use it with a rapier, but let’s start with the basics, yeah? With this, you can parry, and while you’re learning, the guard will stop your fingers from getting chopped off.”

Keeping her fingers was appealing, but Leyna was still dubious.

“I don’t see myself killing any demons with this.”

Amelia laughed, and it was a hearty sound—she was everything that a nicer version of Beatrice might have been like. “Maybe not. But trust me—for learning, with your limited experience, this is the best one for you.”

There was no point arguing; her ‘limited experience’ was essentially none.

“Grip the handle firmly,” Amelia reminded her. “So you don’t drop it. But don’t crush it, either. And don’t forget to align your thumb with the blade.”

The lessons gave Leyna a new appreciation of the castle guards. There was a lot to learn, and it soon became apparent that even if she’d spent an entire year training with Amelia, she wouldn’t stand a chance against a seasoned swordsman.

“Now,” said Amelia, “it depends who yer fighting, of course, but if you ever run out of magic, you should probably run.”

Leyna could not disagree.

On her way to dinner, she spotted the jester in the corridor. A smile sprung to her face, but she hurriedly smoothed it away.

“Jester,” she called, moving his way.

“Why, Huskarl Leyna. Hello, and what a pleasant surprise. I heard of your heroism in the battle against the demons—very swish!”

“Err, thanks,” she said, shuffling her feet. “Listen, we need to talk about what happened the other day in Seth’s chambers.”

“Oh, do we now?”

“Yes,” she said, her brow wrinkling at his coyness. “Is that a problem?”

Jester shook his head slowly with a wide smile, and Leyna couldn’t help but feel like she was inviting herself into the lion’s den. “Why, it’s no problem at all. But I’m afraid you’ve caught me at a bad time—I’m on my way to dinner, you see. I’m the upper crust’s entertainment this evening.”

Leyna pursed her lips. “I see. Well, have you seen Lord Cornelius Brighton?”

She wanted to question Cornelius regarding the Demon Book’s theft. She’d made a list of potential suspects, and given Professor Fry had made the list because of her magical skills and proximity to the Guild, it was only fair she investigated him as well. And unlike Fry, Cornelius had arrived at the castle much closer to the book’s disappearance. Her attraction to him had been tempered by his unusual behaviour around her at the castle, which had driven any romantic notions out of her mind. She would seek him out, but for no other reason than to question him.

Meanwhile, Jester was staring at her as if dumbfounded.

She sighed. “Well? Have you seen Lord Brighton or not?”

He jolted back to life, rolling his shoulders in a way that reminded her of a cat stretching. “Why, Huskarl Leyna, I’m a little taken aback. Seeking another gentleman?” He switched to a melodramatic tone. “Oh, the heartbreak is simply unimaginable! Won’t you spare a thought for my poor humble heart?”

“Very humble, I’m sure,” she said. “Have you seen him or not?”

Jester raised a flat hand above his eyes as if blocking the sun and made a show of peering around the quiet corridor. “I cannot see him at present.”

“Thanks, you’ve been very helpful,” she said sarcastically.

“May I ask as to the nature of the enquiry? Perhaps I can pass on a message when I next see him.”

She hesitated, wanting to tell Jester, but remembered what Percy had said about discretion. “I’d like to tell you. But I need you to keep it to yourself.”

Jester pressed his hands to his cheeks, his voice growing husky. “Ooh, I do love a good secret. Go on.”

She tried to hold back her smile at his reaction. “I’ve been made an investigator of the Court Massacre. I’m questioning anyone who might know something.”

Jester seemed to consider this, then gave a pout. “Aren’t you going to question me? I don’t want to miss out on the fun.”

“I wouldn’t even know where to begin with you,” she muttered, knowing he would dodge her questions like he usually did. “Aren’t you going to be late for your performance?”

He smiled. “Will you come and watch?”

“Why not?” she said, and they entered the Great Hall together.

The table she usually occupied with Grace was empty. She wasn’t surprised to find her absent; Grace didn’t have an appetite of late.

She ate distractedly, barely registering Jester’s performance as she scanned the hall, hoping to spot Cornelius’ wavy, caramel hair.

“Leyna, there you are!” said her mother, arriving arm-in-arm with a young man she had ensnared. Introductions were made, and she did her best to be polite, but she wasn’t in the mood.

“It’s so lovely to meet you, Lord Alfred.” Leyna smiled warmly, but she was already pushing her chair out as she rose. “However, I’m afraid I need to go—”

“Leyna,” warned her mother, but Leyna was already hurrying away.

She cast one last look around the Great Hall for Cornelius, but he wasn’t there, and she left in the middle of Jester’s performance. He gave her a wave, and she almost returned it, until he followed up the gesture by blowing her a kiss. Heads turned towards her, and she felt a warm flush creep across her face as she scampered out, conscious of her limp nearly as much as the combined attentions of Jester and Lord Alfred.

Ever since the Court Massacre, Lady Saunders’ matchmaking efforts had intensified. The perceived threat of danger that overshadowed Rutherford Castle had made her more desperate than ever to see her daughter ‘settled and looked after’.

Deep down, Leyna understood that this was her mother’s way of dealing with the tragic events, having lost many of her friends and social connections after the Massacre. But no matter what her mother said about the importance of marriage, she could not disguise her fear that Leyna would suffer a fate similar to Tash.

Sympathetic to her mother’s hopes, Leyna did her best to bear the introductions to potential suitors with as much dignity as she could salvage—and there were many potential suitors. In normal circumstances, she should have met them all by now, but there were plenty of new faces at Rutherford Castle. Despite the devastation of the Massacre, the court had been quick to replenish its numbers, with newly arrived nobles crying crocodile tears as they hurried to occupy the best vacant suites.

The problem, therefore, was less to do with the variety of suitors and instead more to do with her own lack of interest. The Court Massacre had turned her world upside down, and life was too unstable, the pain of loss too fresh, for her to simper and make small talk as if everything was normal—as if the newly arrived Alfred inviting her to tea wasn’t occupying the suite where, only a few weeks ago, a young couple expecting their first child had lived, a fact that he’d been oblivious to when she asked.

With two hours left before her night shift, she headed for Captain Marton’s office, hoping to glean answers.

No one answered the office door, but she found him in the armoury with Huskarl Damian.

“You’re not wrong, Saunders,” said Captain Marton, looking dignified even as he admitted to the Royal Guard’s failures. “The huskarls should have been able to fend off the attack.”

“So, why couldn’t they?” she asked.

“Our investigation revealed that someone drugged the wine barrels that were served at the Baxton’s home.”

“You mean the Baxtons poisoned the king?”

The captain shook his head.

“No, no and no.” He ticked off a list with his broad fingers. “First, we do not think it was the Baxton’s. Second, it wasn’t poison. And third, the king would not have been served that slush—the Baxtons are a respectable noble family, and I am confident that they served him a much a finer vintage.”

Captain Marton puffed out his broad chest, as if the quality of wine that the deceased king had been served was amongst the more important details.

“The wine barrels were for the guards,” Damian explained. The blade had his legs propped up on a stool as he sharpened his knife with a whetstone. “It was all loaded up here at the castle so it could be served at the Baxtons’ welcome feast.”

“So, the Baxtons weren’t the ones who drugged the wine?” Leyna asked.

The captain shook his head.

“And it wasn’t poison,” added Damian. “It was some kind of magical potion. Anyone who drank the wine grew weak, both physically and magically. And everyone was drinking, apparently. Even the huskarls had a little something.”

“Yes, well…” Captain Marton was visibly uncomfortable that his guards had been drinking while on duty.

“What do you mean, ‘magically’ weak?” Leyna asked.

“The potion affected everyone, but they clearly intended it to disable our wizards.”

“Yeah,” said Damian, “to cripple ‘em, magically speaking. The blades were off-form, of course, but the wizards were the worst off—they lost their magical powers completely. And without magic, there was nothing they could do when the demons attacked. The guards all fell like flies—Firmin said it was a shit show.”

She frowned. Firmin had a lot to say about what had happened at the Baxton’s estate.

Leyna set down the wooden cup she’d been drinking from as if it, too, had been drugged. It would be horrible to find herself without magic or physical strength, unable to cast a spell or run away.

“Sir, I don’t quite understand. Why not just use poison?”

Captain Marton gave her an affronted look, and she hurried to clarify her meaning.

“That is, if the traitors wanted the guards dead, why wouldn’t they just use poison? Wouldn’t that have been easier if their intention was to slaughter everyone?”

It was Damian who answered.

“If you’ve ever been on a long road like that, Leyna, you’d know why.” He stopped sharpening his knife to laugh at her confused expression. “Let me put it like this: do you really think that none of the guards mighta slipped a swig or two during the journey?”

She looked at Damian questioningly. “You’re telling me that the guards helped themselves on the road?”

“Leyna, I don’t think that—I know. I mean, what would you do? The nights can get cold.”

“But it’s summer,” she pointed out.

He shrugged. “The nights can get boring. Anyway, point is, had the wine been poisoned, you woulda had a couple of guards dropping dead on the road to the Baxton’s. Would’ve been kinda obvious, right?”

“Yes, but…it sounds like you think the wine was drugged at the castle. What makes you think that someone didn’t drug it at the Baxton’s estate?”

“Because then they definitely woulda used poison.” Damian winked. “As you suggested.”

The captain cleared his throat. “We don’t know anything for certain, but we suspect our enemies were using the feast as an opportunity to ensure that as many guards drank the wine as possible.”

Leyna nodded. It was a plausible explanation as to why the traitors hadn’t attacked the court en route to the estate. It would have been hard for anyone not to relax upon arrival after a long journey, especially amidst food, wine, and entertainment.

“What about the murder of Queen Claire?” she asked, looking between Damian and the captain. “I heard a rumour saying he killed her.”

“I’ll be on the trial panel, so I won’t comment,” said the captain, leaving the armoury.

Leyna looked at Damian.

“Well,” he said, “according to—”

“—to Maurice and Firmin,” she finished, unable to help herself. A lot seemed to ride on the testimony of the two guards.

Damian shrugged. “Yeah. Well, anyway, they say Quinn was a wolf for the entire journey. So maybe he did kill her, and maybe he didn’t. Who knows? Firmin and Maurice won’t say what was in their testimony. But Quinn didn’t deny it, did he? Went so far as to say he did it.”

She crossed her arms. “Do you really think he’d be capable of turning on his own?”

“Define ‘his own’. He’s Kormendian, ain’t he? He was born there.”

“That shouldn’t matter. He grew up here, in the castle.”

“Well, I reckon it matters a little, don’t you?”

“Maybe. But Quinn isn’t like that.” At least, Leyna hoped he wasn’t like that—would Quinn have betrayed Rosaria for his homeland? Did he even remember what Kormend was like?

Damian shrugged again and resumed honing his knife. The grey stone ground satisfyingly as it slid across the blade.

“And what do you think?” she asked, desperate to hear another opinion.

Damian raised his eyebrows at her. “What do I think? Leyna, I don’t get paid ter think. Listen, take my advice—if you want to enjoy a long, prosperous career as a huskarl, you better learn not ter look too closely, you follow me?”

“Yes,” she said, not voicing her disagreement as she left the armoury. Her heart ached at the horrors that the king and his court must have faced that night. She finally understood how the Rutherford soldiers had been overpowered; incapacitated by drugged alcohol, the king’s best and finest had been reduced to sitting ducks.

The new knowledge also shed light on Bancroft’s death. Up to this point, she had pictured the middle-aged huskarl dying valiantly during battle, blasting the enemy with powerful spells until the very end. She would never have imagined that he’d be left without magic.

Her chest grew tight and heavy. She was all too familiar with Bancroft’s mediocre swordsmanship—and that was assuming he’d been able to get his hands on one.

And Bancroft would never have run. With or without magic, he would have stood his ground and protected the king and queen with his last breath.

Bancroft was gone. Like so many others, she would never see him again. The flame of hope that he might still be alive, a hope she’d secretly protected, went out with a puff as if blown by a harsh wind.

Her heart skipped a beat as the jingle of bells attracted her attention, but it was only a white cat darting through the corridor, the bells jingling at its neck. For a moment, she’d thought it was Jester. Her heart fell in disappointment.

Why did she walk the corridors with a secret longing to see the court fool? What was it about him that made her senses tingle? And why didn’t she feel that for any of the suitors that her mother trotted out in front of her?

The sound of the jester bells had once annoyed her, serving as a warning of his imminent approach. But now, something had changed between them. There was a tension there that hadn’t existed before—it was new and untested.

Leyna stopped in the Foyer to sag against a pillar.

Was the jester—or whoever he really was—truly attracted to her? Despite his offer of courtship, she still had trouble believing that he was interested in her romantically. Hadn’t he once described her as being like Captain Marton? She herself could have thought of several choice words to describe the captain—honourable and dignified, to be sure. Stubborn was another, as was pompous. Were she and the captain really ‘two birds of a feather,’ as Jester had once said? She would much rather be compared to Bancroft—or just about anyone else.

The momentary happiness she’d felt in thinking of the king’s spy vanished, and she picked at the lacings of her clothes. What if the courtship was a ruse designed to distract her from something sinister? She wanted to trust him, but her conversation with the captain and Damian had breathed new life into her suspicions.

If someone had drugged the wine barrels before they left the castle, then Leyna knew who to suspect. After all, who else had a proven history of spiking drinks but the jester?

The image of a gleaming, jewelled goblet spinning through the air flashed through her mind. She could almost hear it bouncing and clattering across the tiled floor, scraping noisily before it came to a stop.

He could be dangerous. I need to be careful.

She glanced at the stairs, where the white cat was slinking around the balusters.

Jester had been near the Wizarding Guild at the showgrounds around the time of the book’s disappearance. If he was secretly a wizard, then it made him a suspect as well.

Leyna pursed her lips, thinking. There was no point in asking him—he held his cards close and would never answer her questions. There was an alternative, however, but it meant crossing a line.

She glanced at the doors to the Great Hall. Was he still performing? If so, she would have no better opportunity than to go right now.

Pushing herself off the pillar, she carefully stepped out of the furry circle that the slinking cat had formed around her feet, and made for the servant’s wing.

Her mind was made up.

She would search the jester’s room. If the Demon Book was there, she would find it.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The Kitchens

STRANGELY, SHE WASN’T ABLE to find the jester’s room.

Wandering through the servants’ quarters, she had half expected to find a fantastical, colourful door decorated with sequins and tassels—a gaudy entrance declaring itself the jester’s room. But the narrow corridor and blank doors only held nameplates. Stranger still, none of the servants knew where his room was.

A maid directed Leyna to the butler’s pantry, where she squeezed herself into a stuffed armchair that was wedged in between a large desk and a cupboard full of silver. The butler, a dignified man who knew the ins and outs of the castle, seemed flustered by both her question on how to find the jester.

Leyna was baffled. Even though the jester was just an identity, he still felt real—and now it was like he’d never existed.

As she made to leave the servants’ quarters, a familiar smell reached her nostrils, calling her back, and she followed her feet down a wide set of steps where the clamour of merrymaking filled her ears. She hadn’t visited the castle kitchens since before starting at the Guild, and the sights and smells brought on a wave of nostalgia that lightened her spirit. The large kitchen doubled as a dining room and was packed with servants and guards sitting at large wooden tables made of rough sawn pine. Simple circular chandeliers lit with waxy candles hung overhead, and though less elegant than the crystal light fixtures of the Great Hall, she instantly knew which ones she preferred.

Some folk were still eating, but most had turned to drink and entertainment. A lute was playing in a far corner, and several games of Ruffles and chess were in motion.

Despite having had dinner, she suddenly felt hungry. Grabbing a wooden trencher from the kitchen area, she joined a table of guards that she recognised from her unit. They greeted her jovially, and soon she was playing Ruffles with them, the ceramic tiles clicking as they were shuffled in a cloth bag to prepare for a new game.

The night wore on, and gradually, people filtered out of the room. The cooks had retired for the evening, and only a few kitchen hands remained to clear away the mess and prep food for the coming day.

Leyna had been so immersed in the game of Ruffles that she hadn’t noticed the time. Thanks to the house rules that her unit had made up, the game never seemed to end, and despite the ridiculousness of it, her table persisted, slapping tiles down and roaring with laughter until—finally—a flagon of beer was accidentally spilt across the table, washing away the small, ceramic tiles and ending the game.

The white cat, who had been sleeping on the chair beside her, hissed as the beer splattered its fur.

“See you in an hour,” a guard called to her, one of the last people to leave the room.

Soon, apart from a drunk draped over a nearby table, she was the only one left in the kitchens. With time to spare before the night shift, the wise thing to do might have been to have a nap. Her irregular pattern of sleep was catching up to her, and she would be lucky if she could stay on alert tonight.

Even so, she was reluctant to leave the kitchens. Something about the rustic setting’s cheeriness had put her at ease and temporarily made her forget her troubles. Beer had helped her relax, but it was mostly the easy camaraderie of the castle folk here, which was devoid of the pretence or stiff etiquette she usually experienced in the Great Hall.

The near-deserted kitchen had grown dim as the candles burnt low, the wax congealing as they grew short.

With a yawn, she folded her arms on the table and rested her head sleepily in the crook of her arm.

In a little over an hour’s time, there would be another mission, another arrest, just as there had been the other nights. Captain Marton was pleased that the Arrest Unit was making good progress through the list of traitors.

“Victory!” the captain had yelled amongst cheers last night. “Can you feel the triumph, men? It’s our people’s pride returning!”

But whilst the rest of her unit seemed to share the captain’s feelings of triumph, she had barely managed a smile. Locking people away in the dungeon, however necessary, was not something she wanted to celebrate. The horrid conditions of the cells only made her feel sorry for Quinn, who she hoped she’d be able to visit soon.

A voice broke through her thoughts.

“Boo.”

Leyna startled. She hadn’t heard footsteps approach, but she didn’t need to look up to know who it was.

“Jester,” she greeted cautiously, lifting her head to steal a glance at him. He was wearing an outfit of rich purples and golds with matching checked tights. Despite the bold colours, he looked more impressive than comical, and it made her hair stand on end. Even though she’d given up searching for his room, she still felt as if he’d caught her red-handed. If he knew that she’d been snooping about, he gave no sign. “It’s you.”

“Yes, it is I,” he announced. “May I join you?”

He didn’t wait for her to respond and sat down at the far end of the table. The distance between them was almost absurd, with each of them sitting at opposite heads of the long wooden tabletop that stretched between them.

“Scared everyone off, have you?” he asked, gesturing at the dim, almost-empty room. It was quiet except for the occasional crackle of the fires at the far side of the kitchen, which burnt low beneath large black pots that hung over them, simmering. The smell of meaty broth wafted around the room, hinting at tomorrow’s meal.

“I didn’t scare anyone off,” she said lightly, determined not to be riled up by the jester tonight. A sense of contentedness was humming around her, and she wouldn’t let him ruin it. “Why would you think I did?”

He folded his hands. “Well, maybe you did, and maybe you didn’t, but I hear you’ve been creating a rather scary reputation for yourself. A game?” he added, shaking the cloth bag of tiles.

“A game,” she agreed and watched him upturn the bag so that the small ceramic tiles spilt onto the table with a shower of clicks and clacks. The sleeping drunkard nearby snorted loudly in his sleep before resuming his even snoring. “What do you mean? I don’t have a scary reputation, do I?”

Instead of answering her question, he asked: “Why don’t you come sit by me? You’re too far away!”

It was a power play, but she did as he said, with the hope that she would catch more flies with honey. She stood and walked the length of the table and sat across the corner from him. The jester seemed both surprised and pleased by this.

“So?” she prompted. “You were saying something about my reputation?”

He leant back on the chair’s legs, swaying precariously as he answered, “Why, Huskarl Leyna, I’m referring to your role in the arrests, of course! I hear you’ve been a busy little bee, rounding up all those nasty traitors. And it seems you are the celebrated hero of the castle now—the saviour of the people, the light in the darkness, the heart of the lion, the woman of the hour.”

Leyna rolled her eyes. “Where are you going with this?”

Jester let his chair fall forward with a bang and leant forward with his elbows on the table.

“I should warn you, Huskarl Leyna, that your reputation is becoming somewhat infamous.”

“You’re warning me, are you?” She gave a small smile to hide her annoyance. The subtle intimacy they had shared the other day by the fountain was gone. “I don’t see why I should be infamous—that implies I’ve done a bad deed.”

“Perhaps not a bad deed, per se,” he mused. “But you should know the arrests are somewhat controversial.”

She grimaced. “How did you come to that conclusion? Everyone supports our work. We’re holding the traitors accountable. In fact, some people feel we aren’t doing enough.”

“Indeed.” He stacked the tiles into neat little rows. “But I wouldn’t be so sure that everyone approves of the Arrest Unit’s methods.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Well, while you were throwing every Tom, Dick, and Joe into the dungeons, did you ever stop to consider that you’re making enemies along the way? Surely, you realise that these people have friends and families? Some of whom live in the castle?”

It was becoming steadily harder to mask her impatience. “As I said, the greater majority are supportive of the arrests.”

“Yes…and that’s all that really matters, isn’t it?”

He finished dealing out the game tiles, propping his up so she wouldn’t see the numbers painted on them. She followed suit, arranging her tiles so the coloured numbers etched into the surfaces faced her. One tile held a circular face that winked at her: a joker tile. She resisted the urge to smile—it could come in handy later.

“My point is this…” continued Jester, “have you even stopped to consider whether these people are actually guilty?”

He placed his first tile on the table between them, where the ceramic clacked against the wooden surface satisfyingly.

“Of course I have,” she said “What kind of question is that?

“I am merely asking as a concerned citizen…”

He was in full swing acting as the jester tonight, and there was hardly a hint that he had ever been anyone else. And yet, his questions were hinting at something more serious than a simple jest.

“We have evidence of their crimes,” said Leyna.

“Which is?”

This caught her off guard for a moment—she didn’t have an answer prepared.

What was the evidence? Her mind had gone blank. Mostly, she had simply been following her orders—that was what a good soldier did. The chain of command would fall apart if soldiers questioned their orders. Rules and structure were necessary to maintain peace. The responsibility that Jester seemed to refer to lay with Captain Marton, who, as her superior, she was duty-bound to follow.

“Well, there’s a list,” she offered.

“Ah yes, the steward’s infamous list of traitors! Well, that certainly does lay my fears to rest.”

“You sound sceptical.”

“Why, not at all. I was simply making sure that you’re doing your due diligence—dotting the I’s and crossing the T’s, so to speak.”

Leyna changed the subject.

“Let’s talk about Seth.”

The small tilt of his head revealed her directness surprised him. She was learning to read him.

“Seth who?” he tried. “Surely, not the baker’s boy on Hart’s Lane?”

“You saved him,” she whispered, ignoring his attempt at humour. “Using magic. Some sort of levitation spell.”

And with that, the jester was gone, the shift almost as obvious as if he’d removed his multicoloured mask.

“It wasn’t a levitation spell,” he said.

“What was it, then?”

“A pressure spell.”

She frowned. It had occurred to her that the invisible, pulsing force that had kept the prince suspended in the air was like a pressure spell, but she’d dismissed the theory because she’d seen nothing like it before. Pressure spells were her forte. She had even received recognition from the Guild for her skills in casting them—but she’d only ever pushed them outward from her person, creating a shock wave to repel away foes and deflect projectiles. It had never occurred to her that a pressure spell could be cast so it appeared somewhere else. “How did you make the spell appear next to the balcony?”

Jester leant forward with a secretive smile and whispered, “Magic.”

She snorted. “Funny. So, does that mean you’re a wizard?”

He inclined his head. “Yes. And now you know.”

“And now I know,” she repeated back, even though this was surely only one of many of his secrets. But perhaps this had been the key to unlocking the rest—one of the last pieces of information that she needed to be absolutely sure of her suspicions.

An interesting silence stretched between them as she openly looked him up and down, trying to see beyond the distracting costume. She took in his lean, athletic frame; the narrow face; the dark brown hair; and the shape of his jaw and neckline beneath the painted diamonds. The blue eyes were all too familiar, and she tried to keep her face emotionless even as her heart raced.

It couldn’t be…could it?

“Like what you see?” the jester asked, but she didn’t smile, and she didn’t lower her gaze as she sat, thinking.

They were interrupted by Floofy, who scurried down her sleeve and fell dramatically into the gravy boat with a splash.

“Get out of it!” Leyna rebuked, but she laughed as she fished him out. Floofy’s fur was soaked and dripping with fat drops of thick brown sauce as she set him on the table.

“Yah!” he cried in protest as she towelled him off with a napkin.

“Cute,” murmured Jester.

“Yah?” queried Floofy, turning to face the man. The creature sniffed the air, then waddled across the table uncertainly.

“Why, hello there,” said Jester, dipping a slender finger into the gravy sauce and offering it to Floofy.

Floofy continued to sniff the air, and Leyna waited to see how he would react to the jester. Generally, Floofy was disinterested in meeting new people; he was accommodating of pats and attention, but unless food was on offer, he would quickly lose interest and return to Leyna.

Although this was not the first time Floofy had been with her when she’d been around the jester, the two had never been in close proximity before.

Floofy approached Jester’s outstretched hand. Out of character, the creature ignored the offered gravy sauce and emitted a high-pitched, joyful cry before scurrying up the jester’s arm. Reaching his shoulder, Floofy licked his ear enthusiastically before nuzzling against the side of his neck.

It made Leyna more than a little jealous to see Floofy greet the jester so readily. Her surprise must have shown on her face because the jester chuckled and said:

“Let me guess…he doesn’t normally take to strangers?”

Leyna frowned and looked back down at her Ruffles tiles. “Oh, no, he loves meeting new people,” she lied, determined not to give Jester the satisfaction of thinking he was special. “Nothing he likes better.”

The interchange begged the question of why Floofy was so excited by the jester—as if he recognised him. Had Grace been right about the jester being her secret admirer? Another piece of the puzzle slotted into place.

Leyna cleared her throat and gestured at the game tiles. “Shall we get on with it?”

They continued to play, taking turns to set down tiles with a clack. She tried to focus on the game but peeked at Jester through her lashes. The third time she did this, he caught her eye, and a jolt ran through her. She hurriedly dropped her gaze and placed another tile.

Click.

Then it was his turn.

Click.

Finally, she broke the silence. “Show me.”

The jester wetted his lips in a way that disarmed her. “Oh, gladly. But you’ll need to be more specific. There are many things I could show you.”

She felt a blush warm her cheeks. “The spell,” she clarified. “Show me the pressure spell you used to save the prince.”

“Oh, that? Well, I suppose I could give you a little demonstration.” His lips drew to one side in a smirk. “I don’t suppose there’s anything else you’d like me to show you while we’re at it?”

“There isn’t,” said Leyna coolly.

“Very well.”

They both rose and moved to the rear of the kitchen, leaving Floofy unattended near the gravy boat.

“Ready?” he asked, picking an imaginary speck of dust from his doublet.

“Yes.”

The jester licked a finger, then used it to smooth a strand of hair back behind his ear. This was a pointless motion as his dark brown hair was already slicked back with oil, but it still didn’t seem to sit right.

Leyna crossed her arms as she waited. He was wasting time, amusing himself by letting the anticipation grow.

“I’m waiting,” she said.

But the jester was still savouring the moment and proceeded to breathe into his hands and rub them together. “Are you sure?”

“Get on with it.”

He chuckled. “Alright, but before I do—how about we make things a little more interesting?”

“How’s that?”

“Well, why don’t you cast a spell at me? Perhaps one of your charming little fireballs—”

Leyna didn’t need to be told twice. Her casting hand flew up, and she’d muttered an incantation before he’d even finished speaking. A small, scorching ball of flame shot out from her hand at the jester.

He yelped and leapt out of the way, but the fireball caught his cape and set it alight, the fiery flame burning a hole through it.

He seized a nearby jug and doused the flame with beer, and the smouldering cape fizzled out with a small wisp of smoke. He sighed and turned to Leyna. Even through his mask, she could tell that he was unimpressed.

“Really? Did you have to do that?” He held out one side of his cloak to inspect it; a charred hole interrupted the baroque pattern of his bright purple cape. He clucked his tongue. “Shame, I rather liked this one.”

She gave an innocent smile. “Oops.”

Jester released the flowing fabric, and it fell to his side.

“Now,” he said, “let’s try this again—”

Leyna raised her hand to cast another fireball, but the jester leapt forward and seized her wrist.

“But this time, how about you use a pressure spell instead, hmm?”

Their eyes locked, and she narrowed hers in a glare. He didn’t look away.

“Let go of my hand,” she growled, trying to wrench it free, but the jester didn’t release it. Instead, he kept a firm grip on her wrist as he stared down at her. She squirmed where she stood, trying to summon the words to reproach him, but she couldn’t concentrate with those blue eyes piercing into hers. Why did they look so familiar?

“As much as I delight in your tendency to set me on fire, Huskarl Leyna, why don’t we avoid spells that could destroy the kitchen, shall we? I don’t fancy going on an empty stomach tomorrow when the cook finds his kitchen razed to the ground.”

“Fine,” she snapped, yanking her hand back at the same time that he released it. She stumbled backwards, rubbing her wrist. He hadn’t hurt her, but the sensation of the jester’s touch lingered on her skin. “A pressure spell, then.”

He gestured towards her with a smile. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Her nostrils flared, and when she cast her pressure spell, she didn’t hold back. Raising her hand, she spoke the incantation, and a nearly invisible sphere of energy blasted out in front of her. It wasn’t anywhere near the intensity of the one she had cast against the beasts in the woods—she was mindful that they were indoors and at close quarters—but the spell still packed a punch, and the impact should have been enough to shove him against the brick wall.

Except he was prepared. His hand shot out, and a pressure spell of equal magnitude appeared between them. The two spells collided uncomfortably, like two shields clashing, and they whirred and sizzled against each other with a loud, steady hum.

She gasped as she held the pressure spell in place and a bead of sweat trickled down the side of her face. It was like an arm wrestle between wizards, except using magic.

Gritting her teeth, Leyna fed more energy into the spell, which pulsed in response, forcing Jester to take a half-step back. She felt a flicker of triumph.

I’m the more powerful wizard, she realised, and with that knowledge, she forced the jester to back up against the brick wall behind him. She walked the spell forward several steps, and though she couldn’t read his expression, she had put him in his place.

But then, something unusual happened. Something she had never experienced before. As the spells crackled against each other, a strange sensation latched onto her, connecting her awareness with Jester’s powers, and it awoke an ability she did not know she had.

Suddenly, she could sense the jester’s powers as if they were her own.

It was as visceral as if she’d reached out to feel his pulse, and she was startled by how much energy he had left—more than her, at any rate.

She gasped and lifted her head to see if he’d felt the connection too, but if he did, he gave no sign. And yet, an invisible cord was pulsing between them by which she could gauge the full extent of his powers.

It was like opening a door and exploring a house. His magical abilities were laid out before her like a table covered in weapons. There was no time to take a full inventory of his powers—his arsenal was impressive. There were the bread-and-butter spells, of course, like fireballs and shield spells, but where her own repertoire was limited to less than fifty spells, the jester boasted what must have been close to a hundred. Some were spells she already knew—charms to enchant objects, wards to protect entire buildings, and spells of illusion. Then there were those that could soften his footsteps—shame he’d never bothered to silence the bells—, morph him into an animal, or inspire fear in his enemies.

The morphing spell came as a surprise. He had used it only recently, and of all the creatures she might have pictured him as, she was a little vexed to realise that he had transformed into a sleek, white cat with a bushy, flamboyant tail.

Continuing her search, she moved to the back corner of the room, she sensed something forbidden, something that felt like…

Shame.

Curiosity got the better of her. Tucked away, she found a small, dark spell, out of sight as if he’d tried to hide it from himself. But she found it and could see it for what it was. It was a terrible spell that could kill—and he had used it before. She left it there, undisturbed.

The entire experience had only taken seconds. Leyna glanced up to search Jester’s face, but he seemed oblivious to the fact that she was rifling through his abilities like a thief.

As she probed further along the link, she could see far more than simply his magical abilities—she could also see his stores of energy.

And they were brimming, as if he had hardly expended any energy at all in their duel. Shock rippled through her as she beheld his powers, and she nearly fumbled her pressure spell, only just managing to hold on to it.

I’m going to lose.

A measure of a wizard’s power had less to do with the number of spells he knew and more to do with the amount of energy he had. There was no point in knowing hundreds of spells if one only had the energy to cast a handful. Part of their training at the Guild, therefore, had been to increase the size of their reserves and to learn to use their energy more efficiently.

The jester seemed to have no shortage of either abilities or energy, and it dawned on her that he wasn’t losing this ‘arm wrestle’ at all. Instead, he was holding back, allowing her the illusion of victory, when really, he was quite comfortable in holding her assault at bay.

“You’re letting me win,” she complained, but Jester only cocked his head at her.

She licked her lips as she focused on maintaining the spell—she still had plenty of energy left, but he had far more.

I can’t win against him. Not in a battle of stamina.

Defeat was inevitable, but she had too much pride to end the duel, and the Rutherford motto—We fight, even without hope—spurred her on.

They had reached an impasse.

An outside observer might have assumed she had the upper hand, especially with the jester backed into a wall. But like most things with the jester, appearances were deceiving.

All of a sudden, something solid pushed against her back. She gasped and turned her head, expecting to see someone behind her.

But there was no one there. Instead, the strange distortion of air betrayed the real cause of the force: it was another pressure spell, and it was suspended behind her, trapping her body between her own spell and it.

She whipped her head back to face the jester, whose lips were now drawn in a sly smile.

“How are you doing that?” she demanded.

“I’ve had practice,” he said. “And practice makes—”

“Let me guess,” she snapped, growing uncomfortable as the two powerful forces squashed her. “Practice makes perfect?”

The jester tilted his head. “Actually, I was going to say that practice makes better.”

She hated how smug he looked, but before she could reply, he gestured fluidly in the air, and the pressure spell behind her pushed forward again, pressing her into the tight space between the two forces. This time, she was completely stuck—their two opposing spells raged against each other in front, and the third formed a barrier behind. There was nowhere she could go.

If the jester’s spell tried to push her forward again, she would be crushed.

Her eyes widened with alarm, and she shot the jester a desperate look, dropping any pretence that she was in control.

“Stop,” she said, and though her voice wasn’t loud, the jester immediately dismissed both of his spells. In the instant the pressure spells vanished, two things happened:

First, her own spell, which no longer faced any opposition, blasted towards him. It was only by his readiness to duck beneath the powerful force that he avoided the brunt of it. The shelves behind him exploded with mason jars and hung dried meat, and strings of garlic flew off their hooks, filling the air with shreds of dry, papery layers.

Second, Leyna fell. Having concentrated all her might on leaning away from the spell that had pushed against her back, she tumbled forwards, arms clutching at the air.

How the jester managed to catch her as he himself dropped to the ground, she didn’t know, but her body crash against his, and instead of hitting the cobblestones hard, his arms held her, and they fell together, his body cushioning hers. Jester gave a grunt as they landed together, his body taking the worst of the impact. Despite how much the fall must have hurt, he didn’t let go of her. She kept her eyes squinted shut, her face pressed against his chest as shattered glass rained down around them.

A moment later, all was still again. The only sound was her heavy breathing and the pounding of her chest. Or was that Jester’s heart that was racing?

After a few seconds, she dared open her eyes. Jester gave his head a quick shake, the bells jingling as fragments of glass tumbled off his mask.

“Well, I think that demonstrates the basic idea, anyway,” he said smoothly, his words as carefree as if they’d been making small talk at a party.

“Aren’t you hurt?” she asked in awe.

“I’ve had worse falls.”

She was about to reply, but became uncomfortably aware of lying on top of him. The warmth of his body radiated through his opulent clothes, and the musky, smoky scent of his cologne was tantalising, but dangerous.

She wished he would stop smiling at her like that.

I need to get up. This is completely inappropriate.

If anyone were to see her like this, sprawled on top of a man, then huskarl or not, her reputation as a lady would be ruined.

Gripping Jester’s shoulder, she prepared to roll off him, but his arms wrapped around her tightly, one across her back, the other slipping to her waist. Before she could protest, he said, “Hold on. There’s glass everywhere. Just…just be careful getting up.”

She drew a sharp breath, and when she spoke, her voice was huskier than she’d intended. “I will.”

His hold loosened so she could get up, his fingers barely grazing her back…barely grazing, but graze they did, and the soft touch almost tickled through the layers of clothes.

The seconds ticked by, but she still hadn’t shifted off him. She couldn’t stay like this. She needed to move.

Get up, screamed a voice inside her head. You idiot—get off him!

She was possessed by an impulse she did not understand, an unwillingness to move, a wish to stay.

Jester’s arms were loose around her—he seemed in no hurry for her to leave, but he wasn’t stopping her either. Neither of them breathed as they stared at each other. How long had they been like this, intertwined on the floor? A minute? Two minutes? Mere seconds?

Leyna’s head was buzzing with a frenzy of emotions as she compelled herself to stand up, or to stay, or to…

“Well, this is nice…” Jester murmured.

“I’m getting off,” she announced.

“Oh, my…are you really?”

She ignored the innuendo and reached for the brick wall for support, hoisting herself up. Glass crunched under her boots, and once she was on her feet, she quickly backed away from the jester. Blood rushed to her head.

It was too much to process. It was too much.

Avoiding eye contact with Jester, she treaded over the glass-covered floor and, knowing the kitchen staff would be alarmed to find the mess of broken glass in the morning, located a dustpan and broom. But as she began to sweep, Jester cast a series of simple charms that made quick work of the mess, levitating the broken glass away and cleaning the floor of vinegar and jam. He even reshelled the garlic, wrapping the papery layers around the bulbs—he was showing off.

“I told you cleaning spells are handy,” he winked.

She crossed her arms. “I remember. Didn’t you also call me out in front of Seth for using magic for mundane tasks? Like curling my hair?”

“Indeed, I did. We can both share the title of hypocrisy, what do you say?”

She didn’t say anything as she made her way back to the dining area. She heard him follow, his footsteps barely audible over the pounding of her heart. Was he using a charm to soften his footsteps? She couldn’t tell—the magical link between them was gone.

Back at the table, Floofy was entertaining himself, either unaware or unbothered by the duel. Squealing and panting with delight, he tottered around the gravy boat, jumping in the brown sauce puddles with a splish, splosh, splash.

Leyna felt shaky as she lowered herself back into her chair, trying to block the wild surge of emotions from her mind. She couldn’t deal with these new feelings—not on top of everything else.

Jester paused next to his chair.

“Do you wish to finish the game?” he asked. “Or would you prefer to call it a night?”

She took a deep breath, unable to meet his eyes. “We may as well finish it.”

He returned to his place at the head of the table, just across the corner from her.

“Well, that was fun,” he said lightly, but his jaw was tense.

“Let’s try sitting in silence,” she suggested and placed a small tile between them with a click.

Jester nodded, and they resumed their game.

The game of Ruffles felt intimate. She tried to be indifferent, but couldn’t help the shiver that ran through her when their legs briefly touched beneath the table. She kept her leg still, half-hoping their legs would touch again.

I shouldn’t be feeling this…

Only a few hours ago, she’d been planning to search his room, but now, a cloudy exhilaration had taken over, overriding whatever logic had governed her earlier motives. Hot, shivery and breathless, the only thing she cared about now was the proximity of his leg to hers…

She licked her lips. Could he feel the energy crackling between them? Was his skin tingling like hers, sensitive to the brush of air and the fabric of clothes? She was tuned in to every movement, every shallow breath, and she placed each tile with purpose, the click of porcelain against porcelain exquisite and satisfying.

It was difficult to concentrate when he tipped his head back, exposing his neck…and why did he have to rub the porcelain tile like that between his fingers?

Focus.

As the game progressed, she mulled over the secret of the jester’s identity. There were too many clues to ignore: his blue eyes; his scent; his various voices; his superb dancing at the king’s feast; his magical abilities; including the advanced healing spells that she’d uncovered in his inventory; and the way Floofy had seemingly recognised him a few minutes ago. With every second that passed, she became surer of who he was.

Her heart was dancing in her chest, but she tried to remain calm. If her suspicions were correct, then she had already seen Jester without the mask on several occasions.

But how could she be sure?

He shifted as he placed another tile, and perhaps it was an accident, but his knee bumped her left thigh and stayed there, the touch lingering.

The contact sparked an idea of how she could trick him into revealing his identity. He knew about her injured leg, but surely, he had no way of knowing about the leg-strengthening exercises that Cornelius had assigned her?

Hiding the smile that threatened to creep across her face, she broke the silence.

“I’ve been doing the leg exercises,” she said casually, setting down the joker tile.

The jester hesitated before answering, visibly distracted by the trump tile she had played.

“Oh, have you really?” he asked before catching himself.

“Yes, to strengthen my leg.” She pretended she hadn’t noticed the slip. “Your turn.”

The mistake was brief and almost undetectable, but she caught it. Jester had responded as if he already knew about the exercises. But how would a jester know a detail so intimate? Even a spy was unlikely to know that about her.

But that wasn’t the only giveaway. In his slip-up, Jester’s usual sing-song voice had been completely absent, and he had used the same refined manner of speaking as none other than Lord Cornelius Brighton. She peered at him through her eyelashes. As if to confirm her suspicions, his Adam’s apple moved as he swallowed nervously, as if he, too, was aware of his blunder.

So now she knew.

The jester and Cornelius were the same person. He was a nobleman disguised as a court jester. He was also a powerful wizard and the king’s trusted spy.

It took all of Leyna’s restraint not to call him out on it. She had envisioned this moment to be a dramatic one, and she wanted to leap out of her chair, point an accusing finger at him, and laugh triumphantly as she revealed she had discovered who he really was. At the very least, she wanted to lean forward, tear the mask from his face and demand answers.

So for her to sit quietly, as if she hadn’t noticed his slip-up, was anticlimactic, and it was killing her.

But if there was one thing she had learnt from the jester, it was that playing the long game was usually the smartest strategy. It involved cunning and quiet patience.

Tension filled the air. Cornelius was watching her every move, waiting to see if she had put two and two together.

She pretended she hadn’t and finished the game without saying another word before wishing him goodnight.

Later, when Cornelius left the kitchens, she waited a full minute before following him. She was cutting it fine with her night shift about to begin, but she had to be absolutely certain of her hunch.

Trailing a spy undetected wouldn’t be easy, but she had to try. Taking care to move silently and peer around corners, she tip-toed after him. She followed at a distance, and several times, she thought she’d lost him, but then she would glimpse him again, disappearing around a corner or moving up a flight of stairs. Finally, they reached an elegant wing of the castle that was reserved for aristocrats and distinguished guests. Emerging slowly on the landing, she peered through the balusters in time to see him disappear inside a guest suite.

The door clicked shut. She waited a moment, ears straining for sound, but all was still in the torch-lit corridors. Checking to ensure no one was coming, she padded across the carpet runners towards the door that Cornelius had gone through. The rose-pink carpet masked her footsteps as she drew near.

The nameplate on the door read:

Lord C. Brighton.

It was strange to see it written so plainly, as if a vital piece of the puzzle had been here in the castle the entire time, waiting to be discovered by her.

Several clues had tipped her off, including his bright-blue eyes and voice. But most of all, it was his considerate nature that had led her to unearth his identity.

As Leyna hurried back downstairs to join the Arrest Unit in the yards, she replayed all her previous interactions with Cornelius in her head—including the ones where he’d been masquerading as the jester. Early in their acquaintance, he had healed her broken jaw. Then, when her leg was maimed, he fought to save it. He had convinced the headmaster to let her take the viva voce and had even helped her thwart Professor Fry’s unfair viva question by hinting at the answers beforehand. He had healed Floofy when he was injured, and based on the creature’s reaction to him tonight, Cornelius was almost certainly her secret admirer. Most significantly, he had used his magic to save Seth.

It was an impressive list of kind deeds that painted him in a positive light.

Which begged the question—why? Why had he gone to so much trouble to help her at the Guild? Why had he given her Floofy? Why make the offer of courtship? Was it simply because he was smitten with her?

Leyna’s heart fluttered.

What of my own feelings?

Memories flashed in her mind: Cornelius patiently helping her take her first steps on her newly healed leg…Jester mocking her during the journey to Rutherford Castle…Jester rescuing her from Sir Waldorf’s advances by dancing with her…the many flirtatious remarks that had followed…Cornelius’ indifference when her mother had tried to introduce them…Jester’s offer of courtship as he admitted his feelings to her…the way he always seemed to seek her out.

Did he truly enjoy her company?

The revelation that Cornelius and Jester were the same person made her head spin. What did it mean? One was a spy for the king, disguised as a flirtatious court fool. The other was a nobleman who, while attentive when they first met, had been distant and aloof each time she’d seen him at the castle.

So which one of him was real? And had either ever been genuinely interested in her romantically?

She would need more time to reconcile the two personas. Hurrying across the yards, she took her place amongst the assembled unit just in time. A moment later, Captain Marton emerged from his office, his discerning eyes scanning the unit as they stood at attention. He began his address, but Leyna could not focus on his words as her mind whirled.

Cornelius’ acts of kindness seemed to dispel her theory that he—or the jester, at any rate—might be involved in the Court Massacre.

The other facts still held true. Cornelius was a powerful wizard who had been at the Guild at the time of the Demon Book’s disappearance. He had arrived at the castle as the jester around the same time that the book had been stolen. As the jester, he had spiked the king’s drink—although apparently, this was only to test the alertness of the guards. When speaking with Patrick, he had alluded to being part of an organisation. Finally, after witnessing his magical powers tonight, Leyna was in no doubt that Cornelius was capable of murder or that he could summon a demon army.

But he saved the prince—he saved Seth.

And while she’d suspected Cornelius of stealing the Demon Book, hadn’t he—as the jester—sounded upset when he discussed the stolen book with Patrick?

Leyna bit her lip. She was going in circles, like a dog chasing its own tail but never quite catching it.

Was Cornelius involved in the Court Massacre? And if so, to what extent? Had he spiked the wine, perhaps performing someone else’s dirty work? Or was he himself the real mastermind behind the attack, leaving Quinn to take the blame?

But the king trusted him. King Rutherford had trusted the jester and valued his role as critical enough that he made Leyna swear an Oath of Secrecy to protect his identity. That had to count for something.

But the king is dead. He had died because someone betrayed him—someone he trusted.

Logic and emotion were warring inside her head, and she clenched her fists. Why was she making allowances for Cornelius? Why was she willing to give him the benefit of the doubt?

It’s because I like him. Because he’s given me so many reasons to believe he cares for me. And because if he was only staying in the Guild’s hospital bay to await an opportunity to steal the book, then why did he fight so hard to save my leg when it would have been easier just to amputate it? Why didn’t he question me more about the Demon Book instead of helping me pass the viva exam?

Leyna rubbed her face.

No. Cornelius couldn’t be involved in the Court Massacre. But that didn’t mean she was ready to trust him yet.

And yet, she was falling for him.

And yet, she still had a duty to investigate any connection he might have to the Massacre.

I need to be careful.

She wanted nothing more than to run back to Cornelius’ room and knock on his door. But thanks to the jester, she was learning to bide her time. She would take a leaf out of his book, and instead of being impatient, she would hold her cards close, at least for now. As long as he remained unaware that she knew who he was, she had the upper hand.

The tables had finally turned, and tomorrow, she would make return to the guest wing and search his room.

There would be time to remove the mask later.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The Market

THE SKY HAD PALED by the time Leyna returned to her room. Several arrests were made, and although the missions were successful, she was mentally and physically exhausted.

Grace was already gone—she’d been waking early each morning to visit the steward in the hope of obtaining permission to visit Quinn. As they were unrelated and unmarried, she did not have the automatic right to visit him—and even if she did, it would have been supervised by Captain Marton. So far, Grace had been unsuccessful.

It had taken a lot to convince Grace not to charge down to the dungeon to see her beau. Historically, desperate people were usually the ones who died in the Demon Door, and each time, it became harder for Leyna to talk Grace out of it.

“A door isn’t going to stop me,” Grace had huffed one rainy afternoon, grabbing her cloak and heading for the door.

“You’re right. It won’t,” Leyna retorted, jerking her back into the room. “It’ll open for you just as it would for anyone else. But you don’t have permission to pass through it—you’ll be dead the minute you try to step through.”

“Well, why don’t you go then? You’re in the Arrest Unit! Take him a message from me.”

“Like I said, I can only go when I’m with the captain. And he always removes our access when we leave the dungeon.”

“Then go with the captain! Ask him.”

“I have,” Leyna said patiently. “He says no, but I’ll keep trying.”

Each time she’d asked, the captain had grumbled and explained that the steward had barred ‘any nonessential visitors’, but Leyna suspected that the main reason for his refusal was his fatigue. The steward was still relying on him to personally supervise all personnel entering and leaving the dungeon, and his jowly face had grown pale from lack of sun, his cheeks often flushed red after returning from another long trek up the dungeon steps.

“I’m sorry, Grace,” said Leyna, and her friend’s shoulders slumped.

“No, I’m sorry.” Grace’s anger had fizzled out, and it was like watching the petals of a flower wilting as she’d sunk into a chair by the window. “I just want to see him,” she’d whispered to the window, where the rain droplets on the glass panes mirrored the tears streaming down her face. “I miss him.”

“Promise me you won’t go to the dungeon. Please.”

Grace had promised.

Perhaps it was selfish, but it was good to have the room to herself this morning. Without removing her boots, Leyna flopped down on the bed, her fingers caressing the fabric of the floral covers. Adjusting to the night shift was proving difficult, and she hadn’t had a proper night’s sleep since joining the Arrest Unit. She dreaded the arrests as much as she dreaded the Demon Door, and she hated locking the prisoners in the dungeon.

Hugging a pillow to her face and chest, she focused on taking slow, deep breaths. Her mind and body needed rest. She needed to think of something that didn’t involve dungeons and demons and death.

As if sensing her unease, Floofy hopped up and settled in the crook of her arm, the warmth of his small fluffy body a comfort. She stroked his fur, and it wasn’t long before her fingers stilled, and she drifted to sleep.

She was in the dungeon deep beneath the castle, where the deranged cackle of the Demon Door followed her everywhere she went, echoing off the dank walls and penetrating into its most far-reaching corners.

Hating the dungeon and feeling sorry for the prisoners, she began to unlock the cells. As each door swung open, the sight of the gaunt prisoners frightened her. She tried to talk to them through the barred windows, but her magic was gone and she couldn’t lift the silencing charm, no matter how hard she tried. She wanted to help them, to release them from their cells, but feared what the captain would do when he found out.

She wouldn’t be the first huskarl to be executed for treason, but she would be the first in a long time; there hadn’t been such a case for over a century. Jester would be right—she would be infamous…

Infamous for doing the right thing and freeing the prisoners.

Infamous for doing the right thing and arresting them in the first place.

Which was correct? There was no correct answer, only duty to guide her—that and the public backlash she would face for helping the traitors escape.

No matter the situation, the Royal Council always had an answer, and the court always agreed, repeating what they were told with increasing confidence. This time, they would say: Leyna the traitor.

“I was just following my orders”, she would plead, before realising she was on trial for not releasing the prisoners when she’d had the chance.

“I’ll release them,” she promised. “Please, give me another chance. I’ll release the prisoners.”

Duty. Honour. Justice. These were the words that swirled in her mind as she moved from door to door, unlocking each cell.

It was simple. She just had to obey.

Except the world was not black-and-white, and the law was only as clear-cut as a freshly harvested ice block that slowly melted, its sharp edges softening from the lapping water before it was even pulled from the lake.

As she unlocked each door, demons followed. They were going to kill her. She knew this in her heart—but they would wait until all the cells were open.

Finally, Leyna reached the last cell door. It had a dozen locks in a vertical line extending from the top of the door down to the bottom. Instead of using magic, she had to unlock them with a key. She began with the highest lock, standing on her tiptoes, and made her way down until she’d reached the lowest one. She had to kneel to reach it, and as the metal key scraped inside the lock, she could feel the demons breathing down her neck. They would kill her the moment the door was open—but it didn’t matter because Grace and her little sister, Alice, were locked inside. Thanks to her, they would be free.

No sooner had the cell door swung open than the demons descended upon her, pushing her to the ground and tearing at her clothes and skin. Through the blinding pain, she glimpsed Grace standing in the doorway, calm and still as she held the little girl’s hand.

“Leyna, where can we go?” she asked. “The guards are coming. We need somewhere safe to hide.”

But Leyna didn’t know. She hadn’t thought that far ahead, had only been focused on freeing them. The mountain woods? Some place far away?

There was so much pain. She was face-down on the stone floor and couldn’t see. Helpless, dying.

Grace and the little girl stood watching, waiting for Leyna to take them somewhere safe. But it was too late; the guards were coming to lock them back up, and she was dead, and it had all been for nothing.

Before the life left her body, one guard informed her she was a traitor—found guilty of releasing the Crown’s enemies, and she realised too late that she’d been foolish to set them all free.

Leyna woke with a gasp, sitting up so fast that Floofy tumbled onto the mattress beside her.

“Sorry,” she murmured to the creature.

Floofy wrinkled his nose at her, sneezed in protest, and then tottered to the far side of the bed, where he made a show of finding a more suitable place to sleep, circling his chosen spot several times before finally plopping down.

Judging by the light brightening the room, she’d only slept a couple of hours. In theory, it was better than no sleep at all, but she felt worse than when she’d lain down on the bed. She shut her eyes again, only to be met with distorted images of the prisoners. Groaning, she threw the covers off and climbed out of bed.

It was no use. Sleep was impossible.

A knock sounded on the adjoining door.

“Who is it?”

Sophie entered.

“Leyna? Is everything alright? I thought I heard you yell?”

“Nightmare,” Leyna muttered, wrenching off her boots.

“Oh you poor thing!”

“It’s fine,” she said, feeling foolish even as the Demon Door’s cackle echoed faintly in her mind.

“Why don’t you come see your parents? They’re having tea on the balcony.”

“May as well.” Barefoot, Leyna followed Sophie into her parent’s suite.

“Oh, but I should warn you,” Sophie added, “I think your mother wants to talk to you about something.”

“Ah. Fantastic.”

There was only one reason Lady Saunders would wish to speak with her, and by the time she sat at the wrought-iron table, her theory was confirmed.

“I’ve invited a gentleman to meet with you,” said her mother. “Or rather, he invited himself. So I’m hosting a private tea party for the two of you this afternoon here in the suite, chaperoned of course, and I won’t take no for an answer!”

Leyna groaned. “Which one is it?”

Her mother drew herself up as if prepared for a fight. “It’s one your mother approves of, and that’s all you need to know!”

“Fine.” She reached for a biscuit, then slumped in her chair.

Her mother froze. “Fine? Do you mean you’ll come?”

“Yes,” said Leyna, resigning herself to the rendezvous. It was important to her mother, and in any case, some of her recent rejections of the suitors had bordered on rudeness, which wasn’t fair to either her mother or the men on the receiving end. How could she be annoyed at Cornelius’ polite disinterest when she herself had rejected many others with so little consideration? “I’ll come to the tea party. Thank you, Mamma.”

Her father raised his bushy eyebrows over the top of his book, exchanging a surprised look with his wife.

“That’s wonderful,” beamed Lady Saunders, swatting her husband playfully with her fan. “Didn’t I tell you, my dear, that she would come round?”

“You’ve certainly said a great many things,” he replied, disappearing behind the book again.

“Oh, Leyna, I’m so pleased. We will order tea, and cakes, and custards, and figs, and ooh!” She clapped her hands together. “And I even have your dress picked out!”

Leyna groaned, and as if echoing her pessimism, the biscuit she’d been dunking gave up and fell into the tea.

She joined Grace and Seth in the Great Hall for breakfast.

Her stomach growled, but as she scooped scrambled eggs into her mouth, the sight of her glum friends made the taste of it turn to ash. Desperate to cheer them up, she convinced them to visit the Royad Market.

Less than a quarter of an hour later, they rode out of the front gatehouse and into the city.

The weather was pleasant, and it was just the three of them—along with a dozen castle guards armed to the teeth, the Rutherford banner flags fluttering above. Thankfully, Fry had not joined them today.

Spectators littered the skies, their dragon-like wings nearly transparent as they circled the castle and city.

“Why are there so many?” asked Seth, squinting in the morning sun.

It was a good question. On an ordinary day like this, Leyna expected to see only a handful of spectators in the sky, but today there were many—perhaps even a hundred—of the flying creatures.

“The steward summoned them,” said Grace, her voice strained. “Using the Demon Book. He told me this morning when I saw it in his office.”

Leyna whipped her head round to stare at Grace.

“The steward has the Demon Book? Since when?”

“I don’t know,” Grace said, “but he said the spectators are to keep an eye out for traitors…and that he’s been summoning demon hounds to protect the castle.”

Leyna was still trying to register the first thing Grace had said.

“The steward has the Demon Book? How? And why not give it back to Headmaster Emsworth?”

“The steward says the headmaster should never have had it in the first place,” Grace said. “And that he’s confiscated it as evidence linked to the Court Massacre.”

“Confiscate it from who?”

Grace rubbed her arms in a self-soothing motion, and when she spoke, her voice was barely audible: “Quinn. Apparently, they searched his room after his arrest and found it. Now they’re saying that, on top of everything else, he stole the Demon Book from the headmaster’s office.”

Leyna shook her head. “No, that can’t be right.”

Even Seth found it strange. “Why would Quinn steal the book?”

“He wouldn’t,” said Grace indignantly. Then, as if to convince herself, she added: “I know he wouldn’t.”

A thousand questions were circling Leyna’s mind, more numerous than the spectator demons flying above.

“Grace, what did you mean when you said the steward was summoning demon hounds?” Until the chase in the woods, Leyna had only ever seen the bulldog-like creatures in the form of an illustration in a textbook. Utilised in the wars by wizards, they were considered to be one of the safest demons to summon, but were simultaneously rated as ‘extremely dangerous’. The section in the textbook outlining the safest type of demons had only been a single page, with two entries, one of which was for the small, flying spectators—and even that was accompanied by a capitalised warning of ‘moderately dangerous’. The other entry had been for the demon worm, and reading the entry’s description of what it could do in the nighttime had convinced her there was no such thing as a safe demon summoning.

“Yes, the captain told us at the morning meeting,” said Grace. “Sorry, I should have told you sooner.”

Like most guards on the night shift, Leyna attended the evening meetings—and there had been mention of demons last night.

“But I also spoke to the steward,” Grace continued. “He said the summonings are starting today. He wants at least a dozen to protect the castle. To ‘supplement the kingdom’s security.’”

Seth laughed at Grace’s poor impression of the steward’s accent, but Leyna tapped the pommel of the saddle and glanced around warily. Despite the happy hum of the townspeople, she half-expected to see demons running through the streets. But the only demons she saw were the spectators that flew above. Who was watching through their eyes?

Seth tugged on Grace’s cloak to get her attention. “I thought he wasn’t a wizard?”

“Oh, he’s not summoning them himself. He’s just taking all the credit,” said Grace, rolling her eyes. “He’s making Percy do it.”

“Percy?” gasped Leyna, clutching at the saddle for balance as a feeling of light-headedness swept over her. “Chamberlain Percy?”

“Yes. Poor man. I don’t think the steward’s given him much of a choice.”

“Wow,” said Seth. “And he always gave me long lectures about how demons were dangerous!”

“And rightly so,” said Leyna. “Magic is dangerous. Demons moreso.”

Grace threw her hands up. “I know, and I told the steward that! But he said the demon attacks the other day only proved that we need our own demons to protect us.”

“Well, don’t we?” asked Seth. “If the traitors attack again, then we’ll need all the help we can get.”

“It’s not worth the risk,” Grace huffed. “Right, Leyna?”

Leyna hesitated. The steward’s plan, however well-intentioned, could have disastrous consequences, especially if Percy lacked the competence to perform the summons safely.

“Our magical spears are a safer alternative,” she said. “Did Marek say anything about them?”

“He acted like he didn’t know what I was talking about,” Grace said.

Leyna frowned. “But the captain put in a formal request to have them approved.”

“Well, he either didn’t receive it, or he didn’t bother looking at it.”

The streets grew busier as they neared the market and the clopping of horse hooves punctuated the surrounding babble.

“What’s wrong with having our own demons?” asked Seth. “I mean, I know they can be dangerous, but…why wouldn’t our own ones be safe?”

Leyna did not want to alarm Seth by describing the worst-case scenario. That a mistake in a contract could unleash a blood-thirsty demon on the castle and city.

“Demons nearly destroyed our world in the wars, and they’re the reason the fighting ended between us and Kormend,” she said. “In the lead-up to the last battle between the kingdoms, the Kormendian army’s wizards violated a sacred, ancient law—a law that had transcended all the wars, designed to protect the world of men from the evils of the Other Side. A law that prohibited the use of demons in warfare.” She rubbed her forehead, trying to condense the history of the wars. “But the Kormendians were desperate to end the fighting, and their wizards summoned a great number of demons—an entire demon army—to slaughter our troops. That’s why there were so many casualties. In the space of a few days, a year-long war reduced our forces and took many of our wizards with it. It appeared Kormend had won.”

“But then we summoned demons of our own, right?” asked Seth.

“Yes. And even that would have been too little, too late—except that the Kormendian wizards had lost control of their own demons. Once the demons were done slaughtering our soldiers, they turned on the Kormendians. It was a bloodbath.”

“What stopped them?” Seth was wide-eyed, hanging onto every word, even though he would have heard learnt all of this in his history lessons.

“Both Kormend and Rosaria stopped fighting. The wizards of both sides worked together to stop the demons—to kill or banish them.”

“And then the treaty was formed,” Seth said. “Forbidding the summoning of demons?”

“Exactly.” As they reached the market square, she wondered what the Kingdom of Kormend would think of the steward violating the treaty after thirty years—or did they know?

The Royad market was a large, expansive area that roughly divided the middle-class and lower-class neighbourhoods. It was buzzing with energy, and Leyna’s reservations were soon forgotten. She and Grace dismissed Budsworth and Starlight, and once the guards had tied up their horses, they followed Seth into the throngs of the crowd

It was bustling with people, and the happy murmur made them hasten towards the stalls eagerly.

In the centre of the busy square was a large stone fountain boasting tall copper statues of rearing horses. Time had long caused the statues to discolour, and they were coated in an even patina of bright turquoise. Jets of water sprayed into a large stone basin, around which children played gleefully. Over the commotion, a lively flute played.

People weaved between the rows of stalls, selecting fruit and admiring the trinkets that glittered in the sunlight. One merchant had bolts of fabric lined in a row, each one partially unrolled to display a short length stretched tight, creating a wall of colourful patterns. The outskirts of the market were reserved for livestock, tools, armour, and weaponry, and though these drew her interest, Seth was full of boyish excitement, and she allowed him to draw her into the busiest part of the square. Here, the stalls were crammed close, and the scent of food made her mouth water.

Grace squealed loudly. “Leyna, Seth, over here! Come quickly!”

“What is it?” asked Leyna in alarm. She readied her casting hand and strode over to where Grace was standing, clutching her chest as she bent over a large woven basket.

What had Grace seen? A snake? A demon?

Oh no, what if she’s been bitten?

Peering over Grace’s shoulder, Leyna gasped, and her hands flew to cover her mouth.

Puppy-like mewing was coming from within the basket. As she leant closer, a litter of a dozen little gombotchs came into view, their round bodies no larger than a grape.

“Naw,” sighed Leyna and Grace together, holding each other as they knelt down before the basket.

The little creatures had barely any fur, and their eyes were closed as they tottered around the basket, climbing over each other. The mother was a little smaller than Floofy, who could fit in her palm, but was even fluffier with longer fur, part of which had been cinched back with a pink bow atop her head. She followed her pups around, nudging the ones who fell to help them stand up again.

“Yah?” Floofy appeared at her shoulder, wide-eyed as he watched the pups stumble around the basket’s interior.

“Oh, I want one!” fawned Grace. A tawny pup with a short bristle of fur was climbing over her hands happily.

“They won’t open their eyes for another three weeks,” said the breeder. “But we’re accepting expressions of interest. The two yellow ones have been spoken for, and I have a lady who’s gonna get back to me about the albino and the grey. But the blacks, tawnies, pintos, and chestnuts are all still available.”

“I’ll think about it,” Grace promised, unable to tear her eyes away.

“I’m here every day,” said the merchant.

“Leyna, Grace, come this way!” cried Seth, grabbing their arms and pulling them in such haste that they nearly knocked over a rack of clothes. The other guards struggled to clear a path ahead of them.

“What is it?” asked Leyna, but a moment later, she could smell it too: the alluring scent of hot pies filled with meat and gravy.

After washing down the pies with cool cider, they browsed the stalls more methodically, leaving no treasure undiscovered. Clothes, trinkets, nuts, spices, jewellery, and candles were amongst the wares that caught their eye.

Leyna tried to focus on Seth, but there was a stall where she lowered her guard. The display had a variety of musical instruments, elaborate hats, masquerade masks and board games—including Ruffles sets in both card and tile varieties. She spent several minutes considering the wares, wondering what Jester would have liked, and lingered by the musical instruments for far longer than she should have. She would have liked to hear him play again.

“That one is our finest cake rosin,” said the merchant as she examined a small tin case filled with a sticky, amber-coloured substance. “It’s the mark of a professional violinist! And essential for a high-quality sound. Simply rub some on your violin’s bow hair. And this one is perfect for the summer—not too sticky. I guarantee you will not be disappointed! And, if you buy two, I can even throw in a—”

“No, that’s alright, but thank you,” said Leyna hastily, dropping the tin of rosin back onto the table.

What am I doing? I can’t buy the jester a gift. What am I going to do with it—leave it in his room after I’ve broken in to search it? Accompanied by a note asking if he had a hand in stealing the Demon Book? Idiot.

She had to stop thinking of Jester—and Cornelius.

Seth and Grace were sitting on the fountain’s edge, hands dangling in the water as the turquoise-coloured horses sprayed elegant trumpet-shaped patterns of droplets into the air. Cupping her hands, she lowered Floofy to the water to drink and smiled as his pink tongue came out to lap up water.

The gentle pitter-patter of the fountain was soothing, and she took a deep breath of the misty air before exhaling again. Too much had happened in a short space of time, and Grace and Seth were both struggling with their own troubles.

As if on cue, Grace gave a sad sigh.

“Thinking about Quinn?” asked Leyna.

“Always. I miss him.”

“I wish I could help,” she said—and meant it. “Perhaps I could come with you the next time you speak to the steward?”

But Grace’s shoulders slumped. “Thanks, Leyna. But it’s no use. There’s nothing you can say that will sway him.”

“The steward is stubborn,” said Seth sullenly.

“He is,” Grace agreed. “But I also don’t think he had much of a choice. There’s too much evidence against Quinn—including his own confession.”

Leyna and Seth exchanged a look, but it was the prince who dared ask what they were thinking:

“Do you really think Quinn is innocent?”

Grace rounded on him. “Of course, he’s innocent! How can you even ask that?”

“Because…he confessed…” Seth faltered, and Leyna felt sorry for the boy because, in this moment, the sweet-natured Grace was almost fearsome, the newly formed circles under her eyes giving her a haunted quality.

Leyna touched Grace’s arm. “What about the Demon Book?”

Grace sat back down in a huff. “What about it?”

“They found it in his room—”

“That doesn’t mean he stole it.”

“Then how do you explain it was there?”

Grace raised her hands helplessly. “I don’t know. Someone must have put it there. Just think about it—why would he steal it? What would he do with it?”

“To give to his father,” Seth said, which earned him a reproachful look from Grace. “Everyone in court says the steward ordered Quinn to kill the king so he could be lord regent. So maybe the demon book was part of the plan?”

Grace looked like she’d been slapped in the face. “Poppycock. That’s absolute nonsense. Say what you will about Marek—yes, he’s not the easiest person to like, and I absolutely loathe that he won’t let me see Quinn—but he loves his son. He wouldn’t use him like that.”

Leyna earnestly hoped that Steward Marek was not behind the Court Massacres—but if there even a grain of truth to it, and Quinn was the intended scapegoat, then surely his father wouldn’t allow him to be executed? Did that mean he had a plan for his son to be released? The dungeon’s tightened security measures seemed to suggest otherwise.

Seeing Grace upset distressed her. Determined to comfort her, she offered to speak to both the steward and chamberlain. Surely, it was worth trying?

Grace perked up. “Oh, Leyna, that would be incredible! And you’re on good terms with the chamberlain, aren’t you?”

Leyna still hadn’t told her about her new role as an investigator.

“I’ve known him from afar since before he was the chamberlain.”

“Is it true he always had white hair?” asked Seth, half paying attention as he gathered coins from the bottom of the fountain.

“Yes—and don’t do that,” Leyna added, watching the prince reach for more coins, but he poked his tongue out at her in a very un-prince-like manner.

“I’m only looking,” he said. “I’ll put them back.”

“Will you go this afternoon?” asked Grace.

“This afternoon?” asked Leyna, confused.

“Yes, to see the steward and the chamberlain!”

“I, err, can’t. Not this afternoon.”

“Why not?”

Leyna shifted uncomfortably. “I have a prior engagement with my parents.”

“Oh. Well, can’t you get out of it?” The intensity of Grace’s request was a measure of how important this was to her.

“I would, but I promised my mother.” She loosened her collar, hoping she wasn’t blushing.

Grace’s demeanour shifted, and a hint of her old cheerfulness returned.

“Leyna, don’t tell me your mother is playing matchmaker again?”

Leyna licked her lips. “She is, actually. She’s hosting a tea party.”

“Ooh!” Grace gasped. “Who’s the gentleman?”

“I don’t know.”

Grace frowned. “You don’t know? How can you not know? Didn’t you ask?”

Leyna couldn’t remember. Had she asked? It hardly mattered.

“What’s this?” asked Seth, pulling a discoloured coin from the fountain.

“It’s a fitying.”

“A what?”

“A Kormendian coin.”

“Really? Can I keep it?”

Leyna smiled and shook her head. “It’s bad luck to take coins from a fountain. And it’s illegal.”

The day was heating, and Leyna did not envy the guards in their full plate armour. On the ride back to the castle, Leyna was so occupied with dodging Grace’s questions about the tea party that she didn’t even notice the two statues that guarded the gatehouse entrance until she’d drawn much closer.

Only, they weren’t statues. They were demon hounds.

It was Budsworth’s snort of alarm that alerted her to the danger, and she shrieked as the mare reared, lifting her high. She scrambled to stay in the saddle as she fell backwards, clutching at the air. She missed the reins but somehow seized a handful of mane, and gripping tightly with her hands and knees, she managed to stay on the horse. After what felt like an eternity, Budsworth fell forward again, her hooves hitting the earth with a loud thump. Budsworth was still agitated, rolling her eyes back and forth frantically as Leyna spun to look at the gruesome creatures.

The demons were perfectly still, with one on either side of the gatehouse entrance, their expressions frozen in a wide-toothed smile. The only signs of life were their unblinking eyes, where the pupils darted erratically, spinning and circling crazily.

Budsworth pawed the ground, trying to back away, but Leyna encouraged the mare to stand her ground. She couldn’t run—she had to defend Seth. She raised her casting hand out of instinct, but Grace lunged between their horses and caught her hand.

“No, Leyna! You can’t. They’re protecting the castle.”

Leyna didn’t cast the spell, but she didn’t lower her hand either. The recent battle, combined with the memory of the demon that had decimated her leg at the Guild, was paralysing. Without the adrenalin that had coursed through her the other day, she felt vulnerable. Her hand trembled.

“Leyna, put your hand down,” said Grace softly. “The steward’s demons are contract-bound to protect the prince. I don’t know what they would do if you attacked…so please, please lower your hand.”

It took a while longer for Grace’s words to sink in. The lunatic pupils of the creatures’ eyes had fixed on her, still jittering but never blinking. They could smell her fear, and they relished it—their contracts clearly did not deny them that pleasure.

Finally, she dropped her arm, letting it fall uselessly to her side. One demon made a series of clicking noises, and she had the strange sense it was disappointed. Behind her, the sound of a dozen swords being sheathed made her glance behind, startled. She hadn’t noticed the guards draw their swords.

“Everything in order, your huskarlship?” one of them asked.

“Everything’s fine!” called Grace.

The demons did not follow as they rode through the gatehouse, but their snickering echoed after her.

She needed to be more careful. Had she attacked, the guards would have followed her lead—and the demons might have retaliated.

“They’ll keep us safe, right?” asked Seth timidly. “The demons?”

“That’s the idea,” she muttered, bidding Seth and Grace farewell as she entered the castle.

Was it possible to summon a demon reliably enough to keep people safe? The chamberlain wasn’t a qualified wizard, so was he capable of such a feat? The whole thing seemed reckless, and it was only her confidence in his book smarts and attention to detail that gave her any reassurance—because his bumbling nature did not.

It was difficult to argue with the steward’s rationale. With the constant threat of attack hanging over Rutherford Castle and Royad, they needed every advantage they could get. It seemed ironic that a creature so terrible and wicked could be the key to keeping them safe.

Still, her own near-fatal experience with the Demon Book made her appreciate the dangers. She had hoped to never see another demon in her lifetime—and now, here they were at the castle, in her home.

Leyna tensed as a demon loped past, pressing herself against the narrow side corridor’s wall. It hardly spared her a glance, but the predator-like roll of its fleshy muscles made her stomach coil, and she wondered how long it would take before their presence made her feel safe.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The Tea Party

INSIDE THE CASTLE, MORE bad news awaited her.

Damian stopped her in the Foyer, and at first, she was relieved at the news he shared—less than an hour ago, Huskarl Beatrice had arrived at the city gates and been escorted to the castle. As Damian told it, Beatrice had been injured, but alive—a survivor of the Court Massacre.

At first, Leyna was overjoyed; that even one person had survived—besides Maurice, Firmin and Quinn—was good news indeed and a cause for celebration.

“Where is she?” asked Leyna, looking over Damian’s shoulder as if expecting to see Beatrice crossing the Foyer. “Where’s Huskarl Beatrice?”

“In the dungeon,” said Damian shortly, his face ashen.

Something unpleasant twisted in her stomach. “What’s she doing there?”

Damian pulled her aside. “The steward had Beatrice arrested upon arrival. It turns out she’s one of the traitors.”

Leyna felt her smile slip. “She’s a what?”

“A traitor. Hard to believe, innit?” Damian sagged back against the bannister. “I’ve known Beatrice a long time. Never thought she’d become a turncloak.”

“But why was she arrested? What has she done?”

“She’s accused of killing the queen, that’s what. Poor Queen Claire was slain by her hands.”

Leyna’s mouth slackened with disbelief.

“But…but I thought Quinn had killed the queen,” she stammered.

“I guess the rumours were wrong. It was never said officially, was it? The steward’s going to release an official statement, but I heard from the captain that apparently, Maurice and Firmin’s testimony stated that Beatrice was the one who killed Queen Claire.”

She chewed her fingernail. “But Firmin said that it was Quinn. I heard him! He said it in front of our entire unit!”

Damian shrugged. “What can I say? He’s always been a scumbag. Anyway, suppose it’s for the best. We can hardly throw a welcome party for a traitor, can we?”

Leyna trudged up the stairs in a daze. Could Beatrice have committed an act so heinous as killing the queen? She was gruff, moody, and borderline rude, but to commit treason after years of faithful service seemed unlikely.

The revelation nagged at her all the way up the stairs.

Beatrice was a skilled blade. Over the years, she would have had plenty of opportunities to assassinate the queen. So why now?

Was it even true? What if she was innocent?

Frustrated, Leyna continued up the stairs at a brisk pace, forcing her left leg to keep up with the right, the muscles protesting.

Before she reached the first landing, she halted again, fingers tapping on the smooth polished bannister. Hadn’t Bancroft said he trusted Beatrice? His words floated back to her.

…she’s loyal to a fault, our Beatrice.

Was his judgement wrong? She would have trusted Bancroft with her life, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t placed his faith in the wrong person.

Her fingers stilled on the bannister. The weight of responsibility on her shoulders was constantly increasing, and it made her miss him keenly. If he were alive, she would have asked him what to do, what to believe, who to trust.

But he wasn’t alive, and possibly, he had died because he’d trusted Beatrice. She would need to make her own judgements, and to do that, she needed more information. It was time she visited the lord regent.

“Come in,” barked Steward Marek when she knocked on his office door.

Steeling her nerves, she pushed on the black iron handle, and the door creaked open. She halted in the doorway as a dank chill slapped her face and penetrated through her clothes. Despite the roaring fire in the hearth, the steward’s office was as cold as an icebox, and the bitter air stung her eyes. She gasped, and her breath appeared as white puffy fog.

“It’s freezing!” she said.

The steward looked unimpressed. “I’m a busy man, Saunders. Did you come here just to tell me that? Come in and shut the door, or get out.”

She stepped into the room and shut the door. Her fingers were stuck to the frosty iron surface of the inner door handle, and she had to tear her fingers away.

Rubbing her hands together, Leyna peered around the room, which was dark and elegant and not dissimilar to Chamberlain Percy’s office, except it was larger, with an adjoining room that she couldn’t see into from her vantage point. Near the desk was a blue and gold shield bearing the Rutherford coat of arms mounted above the stone fireplace, and a single arch window allowed light to filter in. Why was the room so cold?

The steward was standing over the desk with his back to her when she entered, his hands braced on the edge and his head bent down as if he were reading.

“Sir?”

He turned and looked her up and down. The flickering shadows of the fire accentuated his prominent curved nose and hollow cheeks, and the orange glow did little to soften his features.

“Well?” he asked, his thick Kormendian accent making the word sound like vell.

As she opened her mouth to speak, the steward moved aside to walk around his desk, giving her a clear view of the dark object that lay on its surface. The words caught in her throat.

It was the Demon Book.

A crawling sensation scurried down her back as she recognised the plain black cover of the heavy book.

“I’m waiting,” the steward prompted, taking his place in a tall-backed chair. He indicated the chair opposite him. “Sit.”

But Leyna was unable to sit. She could neither move nor speak and could only stare, transfixed, at the book.

She waited, fearful it would speak to her inside her head, even as a part of her hoped it would—that it would deem her worthy. But the ancient book simply lay there, and if she hadn’t been aware of what it was or the deathly cold that emanated from it, drawing her in, it might have been an ordinary book.

But it was not.

“You wizards and your magic,” said the steward dismissively, picking up the forbidden tome as if it were no more interesting than a ledger. “Like children in a lolly shop.”

He disappeared into the backroom.

She craned her neck after him, feeling disappointed now that the book was gone. When the steward returned a minute later, the desperate longing pulling at her had faded, as had the icy chill in the room.

By the time the steward reseated himself, the room was warm, and relief seeped into her. This time, when Marek commanded her to sit, she could obey.

“Now, what did you want?” The steward’s voice was marginally less stern than it had been a minute ago.

Leyna hardly knew where to begin.

“Sir, I heard that Huskarl Beatrice was arrested today.” She waited to see how the steward would respond.

“And?”

It was clear where Quinn got his wordiness from.

“I, er, was wondering why she was arrested?”

“The full details are in my report, which will be available for public viewing later today once the Council has reviewed it.”

“Oh, right. Of course…” Leyna wrung her hands. “It’s just that I’m concerned as to why she’s been arrested. Is there much evidence against her?”

Marek raised an eyebrow. “Evidence?”

“Y-yes,” she stammered. “It’s just that I heard she’s been accused of killing the queen. And that seems out of character for her, doesn’t it?”

“Does it?”

“Er, yes, I think so. I mean, I know Beatrice is quite, um…” She hesitated, her eyes lingering on the steward’s gruff features. “Gruff,” she managed.

The steward’s eyebrows lowered further.

“The evidence is damning against Huskarl Beatrice,” he said, “or she wouldn’t be in the dungeon right now.”

“O-of course.” She stared at her hands. “Will there be a trial?”

“Yes,” said the steward. “Captain Marton will see to it. Now, was that everything?”

Leyna took a steady breath.

“Sir, I’m not sure if you’re aware, but I’m investigating the Court Massacre on behalf of the lord chamberlain.” It was a gamble to tell the steward this, given that he was a suspect as well—but she needed his help. “And Firmin has said some contradictory things to what he apparently said in his report. It would be helpful in my investigation if I had access to the original testimony that Maurice and Firmin made.”

She clenched her hands, bracing herself for what the steward would say. He glowered at her for several seconds before inclining his head.

“Fine. You shall have it. Guards!”

Leyna flinched as a guard entered the office, but the steward only instructed him to request the files from the chamberlain.

“And instruct the lord chamberlain to deliver a copy to Saunders himself. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” said the guard before closing the door.

“Fine,” muttered the steward, returning his gaze to Leyna. “Anything else?”

“Yes, sir, I also wanted to ask you about the Demon Book.” She eyed the empty place on the desk in front of her where the tome had sat only minutes ago.

“Yes?” The steward drummed his large fingers on the desk impatiently.

“I heard from Huskarl Grace that Quinn might have stolen it.”

“Hmm.” The steward made a noncommittal sound, but then said: “It was discovered in his room.”

“But that doesn’t make sense,” she said quickly, hoping she wasn’t overstepping. “According to Headmaster Emsworth, the wards protecting the Demon Book were advanced, and Quinn dropped enchantments class after third year to focus on morphing, so I really don’t think he could have done it.”

The steward grunted—but whether he agreed with her wasn’t clear. She struggled to pick up the thread of conversation.

“Is there anything else you can tell me about the Demon Book, sir?”

“No.”

Leyna pinched her lips, opting for a different tack.

“Sir, I also wanted to ask you about Quinn.”

The steward raised his chin, alert. “Quinn?”

She sensed the danger but continued, choosing her words carefully.

“Yes. Actually, I’m also here on behalf of Huskarl Grace.”

Marek nodded. “Grace Wakefield. My son’s belle.”

“Yes, she believes Quinn is innocent. And she misses him badly. I know it would mean a lot to her if she could visit him.”

“She cannot.”

“Why not?”

“She is not family. They are not married or related. I have made this clear to her.”

“I understand,” Leyna said, “but surely, an exception could be made?”

“No.”

“Sir, with all due respect…you’re Quinn’s father. You can visit him, can’t you?”

“I do visit him. Every day.”

“Oh.” That took her by surprise; Quinn’s relationship with his father had always been rocky. “How is he?”

“Fine. He has time to rest and think.”

Come on, Leyna, one more try, she urged herself. For Grace.

“And isn’t there any possibility of Grace going with you on one of these visits? It would mean the world to her if–”

“No. Absolutely not.”

Leyna’s eyes widened. While she hadn’t been expecting the steward to say yes, she was taken aback by how quickly he denied the request. As if sensing her discomfort, the steward sighed and began rummaging on the sideboard behind him.

“The only person besides myself with the ability to allow others to enter the dungeon is Captain Marton.”

Leyna sat straighter, straining to hear the steward’s low voice amongst the sound of china clinking. “And I don’t know magic, so I will not risk taking a wizard with me who might break him out.”

She opened her mouth to protest, then closed it again. The steward was right. Grace probably would try to free Quinn, even if it meant breaking the law and potentially endangering others—Quinn would never make it out alive, not without someone to grant him permission to pass through the Demon Door.

Leyna cleared her throat, steeling herself for a tough conversation. “So, regarding Quinn…”

“Coffee?” barked the steward.

Leyna jumped. “I beg your pardon, sir?”

The steward turned back to her and set a platter of cups onto the desk before him.

“Coffee,” he said again, gesturing to a quaint coffee pot that was painted in the Kormendian folk style with red and green flowers.

“Er, no, that’s alright—” she began, but the steward was already pouring the brew into a tiny porcelain cup. She blinked as he pushed it across the dark-grained table at her.

“It’s gone cold,” he apologised. “The damn book makes it impossible to keep anything warm. Drink.”

The floral cup seemed out of place amidst the dark furniture and grey stone. As she lifted the cup to her lips, the faint scent of coffee filled her senses. She hesitated. What if the steward had put something in the drink? What if he’d poisoned it because she was asking too many questions?

She lowered the cup.

“Drink!” barked the steward, his tone so sharp that she nearly dropped the cup. “It’s impolite in my birth kingdom to refuse.”

Leyna had no choice but to drink.

“Well?” he asked.

“It’s good,” she said immediately, even though she didn’t care for the flavour. “Thank you.”

“Coffee beans from southern Kormend—the very best.”

“That’s…great,” she said. “But…back to Quinn, if I may…? If not Grace, then perhaps you would consider letting me visit him, sir?”

“Not possible.” He sipped from his cup, which was teensy in his broad hands, and he held the curved handle between thumb and forefinger with the rest of his fingers splayed out.

She tried not to let her frustration show.

“I only wish to speak to him.” She searched for a reason. Bringing up her investigation again wouldn’t help, not if there was anything crooked surrounding Quinn’s imprisonment. Her eyes scanned the room, hoping for any personal possessions or hints that could guide her, anything that might hint at the love between father and son, but there was not.

And it was this that gave her an idea, and she presented it in the most neutral way she could:

“Sir, I think that regardless of whatever Quinn may or may not have done, it can’t be easy for him in the dungeon. He must be lonely.”

The steward’s shoulders stiffened. “He’s fine. I visit him every day.”

“Yes, but, I think he could use a friend.”

“I’m his father,” he sniffed, but then his face softened, and he lowered his cup. “Let me think about it. You are a relative of King Rutherford, are you not?”

“Yes sir,” she said, wondering why it mattered.

He nodded, as if to himself. “I have put a lot of pressure on the captain. And the chamberlain has vouched for you several times already, although…”

He eyed her critically.

“Sir?” she asked weakly, wilting beneath his stare.

He finally broke eye contact. “I will think about it. Are we done?”

She rose to leave, but there were more questions she needed to ask.

“There’s a rumour that you and Quinn orchestrated the Court Massacre.”

“There are many rumours,” he snapped, “and many of them are untrue.”

“Is this one untrue?” she prompted.

“This question is an insult.” He stood, straightening the front of his navy doublet. “I was His Majesty’s most faithful servant. I would have given my life for him—or for the queen and her son.”

He hadn’t answered her question, but she felt moved by his response. It emboldened her to ask another:

“Then…do you think Quinn is innocent?”

The steward’s eyes bulged in shock, as if no one else had asked him that before, and he suddenly looked sad. “I think he is innocent at heart.”

It was not a straight answer. “But do you think he is guilty?”

“I think that…given the circumstances, the dungeon is the best place for him.”

Leyna frowned. “But sir—”

“Enough!” Marek slapped the desk with his palm, the impact making the china rattle. “I do not wish to discuss my son.”

The danger was gone in an instant, and an awkward silence stretched as the steward seized his cup and drained his coffee in one swig.

“Is that everything?”

“Just a few more questions, please,” she pressed, throwing caution to the wind. “What of Kormend’s involvement?”

It was the wrong thing to ask.

Marek’s face darkened, as if he was more offended by being asked about his homeland than whether he had committed treason. He set the teacup down with a clatter. “Kormend’s involvement in what, precisely?”

Leyna fell silent.

“What is it you mean to say?”

“N-nothing,” she said, setting her own cup down and rising hastily. “Th-thank you for the coffee—”

“No, tell me,” he said, remaining seated. “I am interested to hear what you have to say.”

She swallowed. “It’s just—and it’s only a rumour, of course—but I heard the Court Massacre might be Kormend trying to start a war with us.”

There. She had said it. If she’d known that she would dare suggest to Marek that his motherland had launched an attack on Rosaria, she might never have entered his office.

As Marek glowered at her, the room grew as cold as it had when the book had been here.

“You are mistaken.”

“Right,” said Leyna. “Of course—” She hurried to change the subject. “What about the Brotherhood?” It was another risky topic.

“The Brotherhood? What is that?”

“Err, it’s not important,” she said, noting the blank look on Marek’s face. It seemed that if the Brotherhood truly did serve the kings of Rosaria, they had not extended that courtesy to the lord regent. She scrambled to remember her last question, aware that the steward’s patience was wearing thin.

“What about the demon summonings? I saw the demons outside today. As I’m sure you’re aware, sir, demon summonings are extremely dangerous. And I heard that Percy—I mean, the lord chamberlain—is summoning them. And I just worry that he’ll lose control—”

“He won’t.”

Leyna licked her lips. “How do you know?”

“I have asked him to be careful.”

Her eyes widened. How in the world was that a safety measure?

“But the risks, sir,” she implored. “Should a contract not be airtight—”

“They are airtight.”

“Right, but should something happen—”

“It won’t.”

“But—”

Before she could say another word, something rubbed up against her leg, and she leapt aside with a small scream.

The creature that had brushed against her calf was the size of a cat, but it had scales instead of fur, its legs were abnormally spindly, and while its yellow eyes and black slit pupils were vaguely cat-like, the fact that it had five sets of eyes was not.

“What is that?” she yelled, backing away from the minor demon. Ten yellow eyes followed her, and the demon grinned at her so widely that its thin lips reached its earlobes.

“This is Ernie, a gift from the chamberlain.” The steward rounded the table and reached down to pat the demon cat’s long, furless tail. It gave a cursory bat of its tail. “This one stays by my side at all times for my safety and protection. We are looking into something similar for the prince.”

Holy shit, thought Leyna. Shit, shit, shit.

She fumbled for the door handle behind her but couldn’t find it.

Meanwhile, Ernie the demon cat strolled towards her, emitting a sinister purr as its lamp-like eyes fixed on her.

“I’d best be going,” she said, tearing her eyes away from the demon long enough to find the door handle.

“Shut the door on your way out,” said the steward, barely audible over the demon cat’s yowling as it herded her out.

Leyna didn’t stop running until she’d reached her room, out of breath as she shut the door behind her. She was just about to sink to the floor when an ear-piercing voice made her freeze.

“You’re late!” Lady Saunders chided, snatching Leyna’s arm and dragging her into the centre of the bedroom. “He’s already here!”

“Here?” asked Leyna, between gulps of breath. “Who’s here?”

Lady Saunders’s eyes flashed dangerously. “Silly girl. Lord Brighton, of course!”

Leyna’s stomach dropped.

“Lord Brighton?” she stammered. “What’s he doing here?”

But then it hit her. She’d forgotten all about the tea party she’d promised to attend.

“Lord Cornelius Brighton, your suitor!” said her mother impatiently. “He arrived ten minutes ago and has been waiting on our balcony. We’ve even had to serve tea without you! Goodness, what are we to do with you, Leyna? Sophie, get her dressed this very minute. I won’t have her ruining this by showing up in that soldier’s uniform.”

Leyna glanced at the adjoining door that led to her parents’ suite. It was closed.

“You invited Lord Brighton?” she managed.

Her mother put her hands on her hips. “He invited himself. It seems he’s interested in getting to know you after all.”

Leyna’s jaw dropped. “What?”

“Hurry now, get dressed! You’ve kept everyone waiting long enough!”

No sooner had Sophie selected a dress from the wardrobe than Lady Saunders’s shrill voice rang out: “No, no, no! Not the green dress, for goodness’ sake! She always wears green. Let her wear the red! It’s new.”

Mortified, Leyna had no choice but to let Sophie dress her, too flustered to think of an excuse as the red silks were pulled over her head. For a moment, she was hidden inside a glowing red tent of smooth fabric, safe from the world—and then her head emerged, and Sophie was frantically tugging at the sleeves and pulling the laces tight, spurred on by Lady Saunders’s instructions.

“Perfect,” her mother said, eyeing the long bouffant skirts of silk and tulle. “It’s come up quite well if I do say so myself. It’s the new Renaissance style that all the ladies are wearing. I had it made for you in town by Blanchet & Lavigne.”

“Mamma, could you perhaps wait in the other room?” pleaded Leyna, distressed by the whole affair. She felt self-conscious in the striking dress—which, unlike the one she had worn at the ball, had an even lower-cut décolletage, as well as an off-the-shoulder style that made her wonder how it stayed up at all. Perhaps, if this one had not had so many trimmings—which had no doubt added at her mother’s request—then it would have been quite flattering. But the lavishly designed layers of swags and puffs were heavily laden with lace, ribbons, rosettes, and artificial flowers.

Her mother ignored her objections to the dress. “This is very ‘in’ and very ‘now.’”

Leyna would have liked for more of herself to be ‘in’ it—there was far too much skin exposed, and she blushed at her own reflection, a red patch appearing near her collarbone that rivalled the shade of the dress.

“Come now, you’ve kept Lord Brighton waiting long enough—”

Leyna shook her head. She would be mortified if Cornelius saw her like this.

“Mamma. Please, just give me a few minutes. I…” She tried to think of an excuse. “I just need to use the ladies’ room—and then I’ll be right over.”

Her mother was not pleased but left, shutting the door behind her with a firm snap.

“Are you alright, m’lady?” asked Sophie, hands clasped together in concern.

“Yes, thank you, Sophie,” said Leyna, putting on a brave smile. “I just need a moment. Why don’t you go on ahead?”

Sophie hesitated, dropping her title. “Leyna, are you sure?”

“Yes.”

The maid took a step closer. “If I may be so bold…you look as if you’re about ready to flee.”

Leyna choked back a laugh. “You know me too well.”

“And…are you? Planning on fleeing, that is.”

Leyna gritted her teeth. “I’m not sure. But it’s best you’re not here so you don’t get into trouble.”

Sophie nodded slowly, then gave her a warm smile. “Well, whatever you decide…you look so beautiful.” She curtsied and retreated.

When she was alone, Leyna took one look in the full-length mirror and froze, horrified, at the sight of herself gift-wrapped like a doll, her face covered with too much blush and rouge.

She went straight to the bathroom, but instead of entering, she muttered a spell to lock the bathroom door, hoping it would buy her time if anyone came to check on her.

Gathering up the generous skirts, she went into the hallway and shut the door as quietly as she could. Mercifully, the other doors lining the walls remained closed, and there was no one in sight. Even by court standards, she was overdressed—no one would ever wear a ballgown so opulent during the day when there was no special occasion. Tiptoeing a few feet along the passageway, Leyna pressed her ear against the door to her parents’ suite.

She could hear faint laughter.

What should I do?

There was still time to fix her appearance—remove some of the makeup her mother had generously applied and perhaps tear the extra rosettes and trimmings from the dress—but deep down, that was not the main reason for her nervousness.

Beyond the door to her parents’ suite was Cornelius. How on earth could she face him when she knew he was also the jester?

She couldn’t do it. Her Leyna’s breathing grew shallow. She had to choose.

Choose between what?

Without realising it, she’d been contemplating an alternate plan to attend the tea party. Sophie had sensed it before she’d even registered it herself. The idea took form. With Cornelius on the other side of the door, she would never have a better opportunity to search his room. How long would he wait when she didn’t show up? Ten minutes? Twenty? An hour?

The sound of two men laughing merrily reached her ears.

That was Cornelius and her father. Her father was laughing, and he rarely laughed. It was a pleasant sound.

Looking down at the provocative outfit, which on top of everything else, was competing with sparkling jewellery and a chiffon shawl, she made up her mind. She would not attend the tea party.

The last thing she wanted was for anyone to see her like this, least of all Cornelius. Unable to face him, she would continue her investigation and continue down her list of suspects—starting with him.

Leyna slipped off her heels and left them outside her door before padding down the corridor, the carpet prickling her feet through her stockings.

On the way to his room, she patted her face with a handkerchief, leaving pink and red smudges on the white cotton square. Several times, she considered turning back, but curiosity pulled her feet forward, and as she reached the guest wing, her heart beat faster.

It was time to see what the jester was hiding.

Chapter Thirty

Jester’s Room

CHECKING TO ENSURE THE corridor was deserted, Leyna muttered a standard charm to unlock the door. She didn’t hear the click she expected, and when she tried the doorknob, it rattled stubbornly in her hand. It was further proof that this room belonged to a wizard.

Batting the tulle skirt out of her way, she knelt by the door and began the spell again, this time working not only the tumbler but the counterspell as well.

Click. She smiled and entered the room, shutting it carefully beside her.

She felt a rustling movement on her dress, and she yelped in fright as something brown scurried down her skirts—but it was only Floofy, who had hitched a ride without her noticing. She didn’t mind the little stowaway—the dress was large enough to accommodate hundreds of Floofies, like a festive tree adorned with mewing, furry baubles.

It was the sort of accommodation usually reserved for the most esteemed guests of the Rutherfords—great nobles of Rosaria or foreign monarchs and diplomats. What did that say about Lord Brighton?

The room was also strangely lacking; besides the grandiose furnishings that were regularly found in such rooms, it was neat and bare and missing the flair she had come to associate with the jester. It was also missing the lived-in warmth she would have expected from an aristocrat—even if he was a bachelor—such as the personal touches of books, letters, or portraits. The bareness of it suggested that this room was used as nothing more than a place to sleep.

There were many costumes in the large wardrobe—and fewer could have been said to belong to a nobleman like Lord Cornelius Brighton than she would have expected. The colourful jester outfits drew her attention first, and these made up at least a third of the vast collection that had been squeezed in. Amongst them was the vibrant red-and-gold doublet he’d worn on the night of the feast. She ran a hand across the velvet, remembering how her fingers had traced patterns across the soft fabric as she searched him in front of the king. That had been before the Massacre, and the memory of the feast was a bittersweet reminder of a happier time.

She dismissed the thought. Focus.

She did a quick inventory of the wardrobe. Only a small portion of the other clothes could have been Cornelius’—the remainder were more befitting a castle servant or a commoner, with even a castle guard uniform making the cut. The latter made her question every guard she’d ever interacted with at the castle. Have I met him in another disguise without realising it?

Her eyes were drawn to the gigantic bed, and she forced herself to look away—it felt too intimate to see where Cornelius slept, especially with the duvet wrinkled and pulled back.

Although the room was neat, there were small signs that it wasn’t serviced by maids at all, such as the unmade bed, the spots on the windowpanes, and an empty wineglass on the windowsill.

Inside the bathroom, a familiar navy night-robe with gold piping hung on a hook, the same as what he had worn in the Great Hall several weeks ago. She slipped her fingers into the pockets, half expecting to find a secret note, or poison, or even a small weapon—anything she imagined a spy might have—but the pockets were empty.

The hooks beside the night-robe held an assortment of wigs. One was a large, white wig with elaborate, shoulder-length curls that were decorated with ribbons, and she shook her head disapprovingly as she recognised it. But another caught her attention with its shaggy, dark-brown hair that didn’t quite sit straight, the ends flicking out. She reached to touch it. The fine hair was slick with oil.

The jester’s wig.

It was the cherry on top of the jester’s disguise, masking Cornelius’ wavy, caramel hair with the cooler, darker browns.

She glanced down. A travel bag on the floor looked out of place, and a quick search inside revealed several sets of clothes of plain but fair quality, including tunics, trousers, and thick cloaks. Wrapped in a thin cloth beside the bag was a pair of hunting boots caked with dried mud, and tucked inside one of them was a woollen forester’s hat, which she couldn’t imagine either the jester or Cornelius wearing. The smell of wood-fire smoke hit her nostrils, and as she held the hat up to her face, she realised that the scent clung to the clothes.

Movement caught her eye, and she jumped in shock, but it was only her reflection in the vanity mirror, made more mysterious by the darkness. She considered drawing the tall, thick curtains blocking the sunlight but thought better of it—she needed to hurry her search, and she didn’t want to risk forgetting to close them again when she left.

How much time did she have? Was Cornelius still waiting patiently for her at the tea party? Her mother would almost certainly have realised by now that she wasn’t locked in her bathroom. How long would it be until Cornelius returned to his room? Would he return immediately, or would he stay and talk to her parents, hoping she would show up?

I could have minutes left…or hours. With no way to know, she would have to hurry.

She guided the blue light orb towards a vanity table. It was hand-carved and highly decorative, with pale blue and cream paint, an elegant three-piece mirror, five drawers and turned legs. Cornelius was a neat man. The crystal glass overlay covering the wooden surface was bare, and the only items of interest were inside the vanity’s centre drawer. Amongst the items were a pumice brush, a copper shaving blade upon a small towel, a tin of pomade, and a large array of cosmetics.

Aha, she thought triumphantly, picking up an open jar and dabbing a finger inside. It was the white powder the jester used for his makeup. It wasn’t the sort of evidence she was looking for, but she found it intriguing all the same. She sniffed the jar—it didn’t smell like anything, but the fine powder made her nose tickle.

The sneeze came on so suddenly that Leyna didn’t hear the door creak open behind her. She barely got a glimpse of a figure in the vanity mirror as quick footsteps rushed towards her.

Thud-thud-thud-thud-thud.

She spun around just in time to see the jester as he leapt at her and seized her wrists tightly. The jar of powder fell to her feet, a white cloud of dust exploding into the air. She cried out in alarm as Jester pushed her against the vanity roughly, pinning her hands before she could cast a spell.

“Naughty, sneaky little fox,” he said.

“Let go of me!” she gasped, trying to push him off, but his weight was too heavy as he pressed against her, his grip tight on her wrists, his masked face close to hers.

“Sh-sh, stay still now,” he warned. “I don’t want to hurt you. But I won’t have you casting any of your fireballs either. I rather like this room the way it is—uncharred.”

“How did you know I was here?” she asked, trying to buy time. She looked around wildly, searching desperately for potential weapons.

But he didn’t answer at first, only held her in place while she struggled. Finally, she went still.

Exhaling through her nose, she raised her chin to glare at Jester—only to realise that it wasn’t the jester at all.

He had come as Cornelius but was wearing a masquerade mask—a more simple design than the elaborate, bell-laden styles the jester always wore. It only covered his eyes, with the rest of his face exposed and free of makeup. In such close proximity, she could smell the oily pomade of his wavy caramel hair and feel the warmth of his body against hers, even through his rich clothes.

“Now,” he said, “what are you doing in my room?”

But Leyna answered with a question of her own. “Shouldn’t you be at tea with my parents?”

He snorted. “Shouldn’t you?”

She’d hoped her comment would be enough to make Cornelius drop his guard, but his grip remained firm on her wrists. She wetted her lips nervously.

“Why wear a mask if you went as Lord Brighton?” She tried to make her tone lighthearted, but it was difficult in her awkward position; she was half seated on the vanity and half straddling Cornelius.

“I was worried you might not recognise me without one,” he said, and she realised he was teasing her.

So he knew! He knew I figured out his identity. Had he noticed her following him back to his room the other night? Or had he known even back in the kitchens that she’d worked it out?

Cornelius tilted his head, which brought his face a fraction closer.

“In any case, it’s a court custom to wear a mask when one woos a fair maiden—which you would know if you’ve ever had suitors at court.”

Leyna could only give her head a small shake—she was fifteen when she was last living at the castle, and her only romantic relationships had been at the Guild, which had been fleeting affairs.

“Ah,” he said, interpreting her silence. “Well, there’s a first time for everything. Now, what are you doing in my room? Because you can’t pretend you were hoping to find me here, given that you conveniently arranged for me to be elsewhere.”

“The tea party was your idea.”

“But you accepted the invitation,” he quipped back.

She narrowed her eyes. “Why did you want to meet with me?”

“I thought I might finally tell you who I was—now that you’ve more-or-less figured it out.”

She snorted. “By courting me? At a tea party in front of my parents? You thought that would be a good time to tell me you’ve been lying all this time?”

He grinned. “I thought you’d find it charming.”

“I’d find you more charming if you weren’t restraining me. Let go of my hands, will you? And we can talk civilly?”

And, she thought to herself, if I can just get my hand free, I can cast a pressure spell to knock you on your ass.

Jester seemed to read her mind because he clucked his tongue disapprovingly and tightened his grip on her wrists. “Or, we can talk like this.” Something serious flashed across his face, and the humour disappeared from his voice. “Who sent you?”

“No one sent me,” she spluttered, wondering for the first time if she was in danger. What would the king’s spy do if she got on his wrong side? “I was just looking.”

“Oh, just looking, were you?” He laughed, but there was no warmth in the sound. “For what, exactly? Because if you’re looking for the Demon Book, you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

“No, I already know the book isn’t here.”

“Well then?”

“I…I don’t know what I was searching for,” she admitted. “I just know you’re hiding something.”

He pressed closer still. “I’m hiding many things. But you won’t find the answers here.”

Leyna tried moving her wrists again, but it was no use. Lifting her chin defiantly, she asked, “Are you a member of the Brotherhood?”

His lips parted in surprise. “The Brotherhood?”

“Yes,” said Leyna, trying to sound dignified even while jammed between the vanity table and the wizard’s lean body, all while wearing the ridiculous red dress. “It’s a secret society. Have you heard of it?”

Cornelius’s thin lips pressed together in a smile. “I may have.”

“And?” she prompted. “What can you tell me about it?”

“Well,” said Cornelius, squinting at her in a way that was beguiling. “It’s hard to say. It is a secret society, after all. Why do you ask?”

She wasn’t surprised he’d dodged her question. “I…I have a list of suspects who may be involved in the Court Massacre. And I’m starting to think that the Brotherhood may have had something to do with it.”

His smile slipped.

“Oh, did they now? And who told you that?”

“No one,” she said. The chamberlain had only warned her to be careful, but she was testing her theories out loud to see how Cornelius reacted—hoping he might let something slip. “And I thought that since you have a history of spiking drinks that aren’t yours, you might have had a hand in drugging the wine that the court drank at the Baxton Estate.”

Cornelius’ smile disappeared completely.

“Such interesting theories you have, Huskarl Leyna…and you seem awfully intent on pinning them on me. First, you suspected me of stealing the Demon Book from the Guild—and now this?”

“Just answer me,” she snapped. “Did you do any of it?”

Cornelius’ eyes bore into hers. He looked pensive…and sad.

“No,” he said, a note of anguish edging his voice. “I didn’t drug the wine. I didn’t steal the book. I did nothing that would endanger the king or the court. I would never.”

Leyna let out a sigh of relief. She couldn’t explain why, but she believed him. Even though he was holding her down against the vanity, restraining her by her wrists, she believed he was a good man. She was either a fool or…Or perhaps things aren’t always as black and white as they appear.

“Leyna?”

She snapped her gaze to him. “Yes?”

“Do you believe me?” He sounded earnest. “Because it would mean an awful lot to me if you did.”

“Yes.” Her own answer surprised her, but it was true. “I do believe you, actually.”

The stiffness of his jaw relaxed, and some of the smile lines returned.

“Now, are you going to let go of my hands?” she said. “Or were you planning on holding them all night?”

Cornelius chuckled, and the timbre of his voice grew low. “Perhaps I’ll keep a hold of them anyway—if you would like me to.”

Leyna stopped breathing as fire ignited within her. She looked away, trying desperately to think of another question to ask—anything to change the subject, to make him not look at her like that—as if she were a sweet dessert he fancied relishing.

Before she could speak, however, she became distracted by a firm hardness pressing against the apex of her thighs through the fabrics of the dress. Realisation dawned as she became aware of his arousal, and she froze, heart beating furiously, feeling as shocked as if struck by lightning.

What do I do? What do I say?

Air was suddenly scarce, and her breathing turned shallow and rapid, the tightness of the red bodice causing her chest to rise and fall in an exaggerated manner. Slowly, ever so slowly, she raised her eyes back up to meet his.

Cornelius seemed to notice the bulge as well because he inhaled sharply and, releasing her hands, shifted his weight off her.

But as he did, she surprised them both by leaning up to kiss him.

The kiss was brief, hardly more than a soft peck, but her lips remained an inch from his as she peered up through her eyelashes.

Cornelius went still. She waited, but disappointingly, he did nothing.

And then he leant down slowly, and after what felt like an eternity, his lips met hers, first carefully, and then passionately. Bursts of heat pulsed through her body, revealing the earlier fire she’d felt was just a taste of what awaited her.

A hand slipped round her waist to draw her close, and then the other caressed her neck as it travelled up to cup her cheek. The kiss deepened. She explored his back and arms, tracing the hard muscles carefully…and then she seized his shoulders.

This was it.

This was her chance to escape—to cast a spell now and free herself.

But she didn’t want to be free. Or to be anywhere else. Against all logic and reason, she wanted to stay and cling to him. His kisses moved to her neck, his lips trailing up to explore her jawline. When they grazed her ear, a soft moan escaped her lips as her head tilted back. This seemed to excite him, because he drew her closer, lifting her hips as he pressed against the vanity. She tried to wrap her legs around him—but they were entangled in the twisted skirts.

“Cornelius, my dress…” she began.

Without warning, he leapt back as if she’d stung him. Leyna watched in confusion as he backed away, his chest rising heavily.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, hesitating before sliding off the vanity. It was as if the wind in her sails had vanished. “Why did you stop?”

He rubbed his face tiredly.

“Because this is not right.”

“What do you mean? What isn’t right?”

But Cornelius only shook his head and paced the room. His restlessness was infectious, and doubt tinged her thoughts as she smoothed her skirts.

Was I wrong to kiss him? He was kissing me back…wasn’t he? So, what changed?

The warmth she’d felt only a moment ago dissolved, leaving a mixture of uncertainty and embarrassment. She wanted him back in her arms. She wanted a lot of things. But she at least wanted him to want her. And if she couldn’t have that, then she wanted to pretend like none of it had happened at all, and to flee somewhere private so he wouldn’t see her pain.

Finally, after several long moments, Cornelius pulled a chair close with a scrape and sat down astride it, resting his arms over the back as he appraised her.

“We should talk.”

“Talk? About what?”

“It’s not too late for you to leave—to change your mind. But if we’re to be involved, there are things you should know about me.”

Leyna frowned. Now he wants to talk? It felt like something that should have come up earlier—perhaps before he’d made his offer of courtship, or before he’d kissed her back.

When she didn’t respond straight away, he added, “That’s assuming that courtship is a prospect that interests you?”

She swallowed nervously. It was a simple enough question, but finding the courage to answer it was more daunting than kissing him had been. She skirted the question. “What ‘things’ should I know?”

He gave an apologetic, lopsided smile. “Well, for starters, my name isn’t Cornelius.”

Her jaw dropped. “It’s not?”

“No, it’s not.”

She felt somewhat cheated. It had taken this long to uncover his identity…only to discover another false persona. It was like removing a mask to find another one underneath.

“So, what’s your real name?” she asked.

“It’s Finnigan O’Connell.”

“Oh. That’s a nice name.”

He inclined his head.

“But,” she continued, “I have to wonder, how can I even begin to trust anything you say? How do I know that your name really is Finnigan? That’s the third name you’ve given me—Jester, Lord Cornelius Brighton, and now this. How do I know this one is real?”

Finnigan pressed his lips together, his eyebrows knitting. “I wish I had a convincing answer for you. And I’m sorry I couldn’t be more truthful. My occupation prohibits it. But please know—I always tried to be honest with you.”

“So, are you really a spy for the king, then?”

“Yes. Although, more accurately, I was the king’s spy, but now, with the king gone? I’m not so sure. I’ve continued in my duties, but I’m not confident about whom to serve anymore.”

“Does this have anything to do with the Brotherhood?”

“Possibly.”

She sighed. For a moment, she had dared believe he would finally answer her questions.

“So, why tell me now?” she asked. “You’ve kept your name secret for this long.”

“Because I’m considering walking away from being a spy for good.”

“Because the king is gone?”

He scratched his cheek. “That’s one reason.”

“And the other?”

He met her eyes. The bright blue irises were enticing and hinted at a vulnerability that she hadn’t seen before. “The other reason is you.”

“Me?” Her knees felt weak, and she sank onto a nearby ottoman.

“Yes—you. I realised after you rejected my first offer of courtship that you were right to do so—there is nothing I can offer you as a spy. Officially, ‘Finnigan’ doesn’t even exist anymore.”

“How can a person not exist?”

“When I first began to serve the king, I left that part of my life behind to protect those I loved. As far as anyone knows, he went missing and was never seen again. Few people know me by that name now.” He gave her a meaningful look. “And you are one of them.”

She understood what he was asking. “I promise I won’t tell anyone your name.”

“Good.” He rested his head on his arms, which were folded across the back of the chair.

She chewed a nail as she considered the weight of his secret. “Did you really just disappear? What about your family?”

“I have very little left in the way of family,” he said simply. “But for those who remain—they know everything.”

“That sounds sad, Finnigan.” It was strange using his name. “I can’t imagine disappearing and leaving my life behind.”

He looked thoughtful. “You know, somehow, I can’t imagine you leaving your life behind, either. You seem quite invested in Rutherford Castle.”

“It’s my home,” Leyna said simply. She had always yearned for a place of love, safety and warmth far more than adventure. “So, why a spy? Was becoming a spy worth starting a new life?”

“I could ask you the same thing about your own sacrifices.”

“What do you mean?”

“Was becoming a huskarl worth leaving a life of leisure behind? You were a lady of the court. There was no need for you to become a soldier.”

“That’s not how I see it. I wanted more than a life of leisure.”

Finnigan raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess…you were tempted by the prestige of becoming a glorified bodyguard?”

Her eyes narrowed. “More than that. I wanted to do some good. To make Rosaria a safer place than what it was.”

“Ah, yes. I remember you saying so.”

“And I wanted to become a wizard,” she added sheepishly.

Finnigan chuckled. “Everyone wants to be a wizard. Anyway, as long as it’s what you want, and it makes you happy—why not?”

She bit her lip. Not for the first time, she wondered if being a huskarl made her happy.

“Did you ever regret being a spy?” she asked.

“Yes and no. I’ve had many adventures—I’ve travelled as part of my work, and not just within Rosaria, but to faraway lands. And I’ve met some rather interesting people.”

“Interesting people?”

“Dangerous people,” he corrected. “Besides, playing different roles has kept me on my toes—and having multiple identities has its advantages.”

“And its disadvantages,” she pointed out. “You’re always pretending to be someone else. When are you actually just you?”

He shrugged. “I suppose I’m being me right now. Do you remember when I asked you about your goals and dreams?”

She nodded. While sitting in a sunny alcove, the jester had asked her whether she had any dreams apart from being a huskarl.

“Well,” he continued, “I realised I was wrong to judge you. I don’t have any dreams of my own, you see—at least, I didn’t, until I met you. And while I’ve led an exciting life, you were right when you pointed out that I don’t know who I am. All I can offer you is a name and a promise that I will find out. But I would like to share that journey with you…if you would have me.”

Her heart stopped. Is this a marriage proposal?

Apparently, it wasn’t, or perhaps he had read the terror on her face because he quickly added, “that is, I would like to court you. I like you very much, you see…and I hope, if you get to know me, that you might grow fond of me, too.”

Fidgeting with a rosette on her dress, she said, “I’m already fond of you.”

That made his eyes flit back to her, and his come-hither expression sent tingles down her back.

“Please, go on,” he said, his face amused as he gave her his full attention.

Leyna laughed and glanced up at the ceiling as she considered what to say. She already had proof of his temperament; whether it had been as the cunning jester, the dashing nobleman, or the king’s spy, Finnigan had showed more kindness than she could count. “I think you’re a considerate person.”

“Oh really?”

She clucked her tongue at him in a mock reprimand. He was fishing for compliments—but she humoured him.

“Well, for starters, you healed my leg when no one else would have.” She ticked the items off on her fingers. “And you risked compromising your cover to save the prince. And according to the Guild’s headmaster, you convinced him to let me take the viva. For which I’m thankful…”

“You’re most welcome.” Finnigan smiled. “I wanted to see you succeed. I had to be quite persuasive—Emsworth can be a stubborn old mule.”

Her eyes widened at his description of the headmaster.

“The Guild never makes exceptions,” she said. “What did you say to convince him?”

“I reminded him he’s partly responsible for what happened in his office. You would never have found the book had it been stored properly. That was partly his fault…and partly mine.”

“How was it your fault?”

“I was the one who recovered the book from Kormend. It’s a dangerous artefact, and I had to go to great lengths to smuggle it back. But I arrived at the Guild during the Maze Exam. The headmaster was understandably distracted with everything and everyone that goes with an important event like that. As for myself, if I’m being honest, I was relieved to be home, and not as vigilant as I ought to have been. I took the book straight to his office and hid it in his side room, and secured the door with magic, but I didn’t bother with wards. I assumed the headmaster would come look at it soon. But he got a little too caught up in elbow-rubbing, I think…”

“Home,” she said, mulling over the word. “You called the Guild your home. Did you study there?”

His eyes twinkled. “I did, although somewhat erratically—I wasn’t quite a full-time student.” She wanted to ask him about this, but he continued: “As for your leg, I felt responsible. Had I spent the extra time to safeguard it, you might never have discovered it. And seeing you injured again, first your jaw, then your leg, knowing that this time, it was my fault…”

“It wasn’t your fault,” she said. “You fought hard to save my leg.”

“It was the least I could do. I was anxious to make amends.”

“All that healing must have drained you.”

He gave a hoarse chuckle. “It did. It’s one of the reasons I slept in the medical bay. I was too sapped to do much else…and I felt like I ought to stay by your side.”

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Their eyes met. “You’re welcome.”

“Oh, and the viva,” she remembered. “You told me the answer to Professor Fry’s question.”

“I wanted you to have a fair chance—and I didn’t want Maisy Fry to get her way. She’s always been a ray of sunshine.”

“How did you know what question she would ask?”

“Simple. She was boasting about it in the staff room—she’s not as subtle as she thinks she is. I know her of old—we studied at the Guild together. But that was a long time ago.”

Her shoulders tensed and she searched his face. A long time ago? “How old are you, Finnigan?”

He pressed his fingertips together. “How old would you like me to be?”

“What I’d like is to get an honest answer,” she laughed with exasperation.

“Very well.” He stretched his arms out in front of him. “I’m thirty years old. Had my birthday recently on the way back to Rosaria aboard a Kormendian vessel. Say what you like about Kormendians, but they do their cake well. The frosting was coffee-flavoured, in case you were wondering.”

She was not thinking about cake.

Thirty years old. And she was twenty-two. Her gaze roved over his features, taking in the long face, prominent cheekbones, narrow chin, and the lively spark in his eyes.

He licked his lips nervously. “Is that young enough for you?”

“Yes,” she smiled, as a pleasant shudder coursed through her. Thirty was attractive. Thirty was perfect.

Finnigan placed his head in his hands in a jester-like manner. “I’d dearly love to know what you’re thinking right now.”

She was saved from answering by the sharp sound of yips and barks, which made them jump as Floofy appeared, pattering across the rug towards them. He had evidently been playing in the make-up tin, and he was little more than a snowy fluff ball covered in white powder, leaving chalky paw prints in his wake.

“Floofy!” she exclaimed, snatching him up and cradling him, not caring that powder fell onto her dress. “What are you doing? Speaking of which…" She look up at Finnigan who was watching them with amusement. "I’ve been dying to ask…are you my secret admirer?”

He inclined his head. “Indeed, I am.”

“Why keep it a secret?”

“Because then I wouldn’t be your secret admirer, would I?”

Leyna shot him a warning look. “Funny.”

“Yes, I thought so. And I wasn’t sure how to sign it—From Jester? From Lord Brighton?”

“Speaking of Lord Brighton,” she said, casting her eyes down. “Why did you act so distant around me? Like when my mother tried to introduce us?”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ll admit I was trying to avoid you. I knew that eventually, you would discover that Lord Brighton and Jester were the same person—you’re too sharp not to. And as I was still getting to know you…”

“You didn’t know if you could trust me,” she finished.

“Yes. Exactly. And, admittedly, being the jester was easier. More like make-believe. But when I play Lord Brighton, it’s as close as I come to being myself, if I’m being honest. And once I started to fall for you, I’ll admit you made me nervous.”

He’s falling for me? She swallowed. What do I say back? Panicking, she said: “the jester was never nervous.”

“Yes, well…the jester wasn’t real.”

“And Lord Brighton is?”

“Well,” said Finnigan, biting his lip in thought. “As I said, it’s as close as I’ve ever come to being me…had I chosen a different path.”

“What sort of path would you have chosen? A life of leisure?” She smirked, repeating his earlier words.

“Not quite. Lord Brighton spends far too much time sitting on his hands for my liking. No, I’d prefer a simpler life of some sort. Perhaps I might have married.”

“Oh.” It was a lot to take in—to sort the new information with the old. Finnigan’s false personas of spy, wizard, jester, aristocrat, had fallen away to reveal…just a man sitting across the room from her.

Meanwhile, Floofy rubbed his powdery fur against her dress.

“You were right,” she said. “Floofy did bring me joy. Thank you. It’s the nicest gift I’ve ever received.”

Finnigan bowed his head. “I’m glad.”

A comfortable silence stretched between them, and Leyna drew a deep breath before slowly letting it out. Her shoulders and chest rose, and the low cut of the dress must have made this obvious, because Finnigan cleared his throat and glanced away.

He looked elegant with his long arms draped over the chair’s back, and as her eyes travelled past his silk collar, she decided that there was something inviting about his jawline. She longed to be close to him again, to inhale his smoky scent.

“You’re still wearing the mask,” she pointed out. “Why don’t you remove it?

Finnigan raised his chin in challenge. “Why don’t you?”

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Why don’t you come remove it?”

He was serious. He expected her to cross the room and take off his mask herself. It was a challenge…and an invitation.

She rose uncertainly and took a step forward before hesitating. “Will you stop me if I try?”

“Why would I stop you?”

Because you stopped me in my dream. Because you wouldn’t let me remove it. But that had been a dream, and she could hardly say so out loud.

“There’s no need to be shy,” he purred, his come-hither voice sending a shiver down her back. He crooked a slender finger, beckoning her to come nearer.

Her feet felt heavy as she crossed the room to where he was sitting. Every step she took made the tension that stretched between them grow stronger until it was radiating with as much intensity as a magical spell might have.

Leyna stopped before the chair. Finnigan sat dutifully as she reached around his head and took hold of the satin bow that kept the masquerade mask in place. The ribbon resisted at first, and she had to tug before it slid free, the mask falling away in her hands.

Although the mask had not covered as much as the jester one had, his face looked different without it. He was handsome, and his blue eyes were bright with mischief, as if they held a secret just for her.

“Well?” he asked, his smile pleasant and alluring.

“Better,” she said, tossing the mask onto the nearby bed. The sheets weren’t black like they had been in her dream—they weren’t even satin—but she longed for him to pick her up and take her there all the same.

“Perhaps it’s my turn to take a piece of clothing off you?” he ventured.

His words sent a ripple of delight through her, unsure if he was joking. Besides the jewellery, the only item of clothing she was wearing was the dress—the shawl had fallen away long ago, and she'd left the heels outside her room.

Unsure what possessed her to do it, but feeling bold, she reached to touch his hair. The caramel waves were soft despite the pomade that swept it aside. Finnigan closed his eyes, and as she combed her fingers through his hair, he gave a murmur of approval.

His hair was soft, and she was pleased to find it was not another wig. Still standing, she ran both her hands through his hair. His head lolled back, a contented smile gracing his face. It warmed her heart to see him relax like this around her. As she continued massaging his scalp, she searched for the mysterious link that had connected them in the kitchens, the one that had allowed her to sense his magic, but there was nothing.

He gave a low moan.

“Shall I keep going?” she asked, her voice guttural.

“Yes,” he whispered, but a moment later, his eyes flew open, and he said, “No.”

“No?” she hesitated, fingers still tangled in the wavy locks. “You want me to stop?”

He shook his head as if to say, No, but out loud, he said, “Yes.”

“Why? I thought—?”

“Because,” said Finnigan, taking her hand as he rose from his chair before leaning down to kiss it, “you deserve to be courted properly.”

Leyna couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed as she walked back to her room—and more than a little confused. An hour ago, she'd entered Finnigan’s room, intending to search it. She'd been trying to find answers, all the while hoping to uncover evidence to rule out his involvement in the king’s death. Yet, somewhere between now and then, amidst the mystery of the evening, she had kissed him. And he had kissed her back. It was the last thing she had expected to happen. Why had she kissed him? And what would have happened if he hadn’t stopped them?

Leyna respected his insistence to court her ‘properly’. He was trying to be chivalrous, and yet…she still couldn’t help but feel snubbed. She would not have been able to stop herself had he allowed himself to be any less of a gentleman.

Sophie was waiting for her when she arrived back in her room.

“Your mother is furious,” moaned Sophie. “You’ve been gone a long time. And Lord Brighton left half an hour ago. Where were you?”

“I’ll explain later,” Leyna said, wondering if she could; Finnigan had asked her to only refer to him as Lord Cornelius Brighton and to be careful with what details she shared with others. How much would she be able to share with Sophie? Or Grace?

Almost nothing, she realised.

“You may as well tell my mother I’m back,” she said resignedly to Sophie, who gave her a look of pity before leaving to fetch her mother.

Meanwhile, a soft knock sounded behind her from the door to the corridor.

“Come in,” she said. There was a draft, and a moment later, a hand slipped into hers and squeezed it before releasing it again.

A few seconds later, Lady Saunders could be heard shouting from beyond the adjoining door.

“Leyna! Oh, you foolish girl, how could you do this to your father and I! I could not have been more embarrassed! And to jilt a great man like Lord Brighton!” Leyna stood bravely in the centre of her room, taking a steadying breath as her mother’s voice drew nearer. The door banged opened, and Lady Saunders appeared, her face alight with fury as she swatted at the tangled gauze of her shawl. “And when he realised you had left, the gentleman left in such a hurry!”

Her wide eyes flashed at Leyna. “There you are, girl. My goodness, you’ll lead yourself to ruin if you carry on like—”

Her mother’s words cut off, her jaw dropping as she noticed Lord Cornelius Brighton, who was standing beside Leyna, looking exceedingly pleased with himself—like a cat who got the cream. It took only a moment for the anger to be wiped from Lady Saunders’ face, and soon she was embracing both of them, going so far as to pinch Leyna’s cheeks in delight.

“Oh, Leyna, my sweet girl—I knew you would charm him back if you set your heart on it!” Her eyes flickered downward. “Although, I daresay the dress had something to do with it, wouldn’t you say?”

“It’s certainly very pretty, ma’am,” said Cornelius agreeably, giving Leyna a secret wink before adding in a low voice that only she could hear, “although I must admit, I do have a weakness for a lady in uniform.”

Maintaining a smile through gritted teeth, Leyna tried to subtly stomp on his foot—but she still hadn’t retrieved her heels from the corridor, and the effect was lost, causing Cornelius to grin more widely.

Her father was also pleased at Cornelius’ return, although for reasons of his own. Apparently, Cornelius had made a good impression on him earlier when they had discussed poetry at great length.

“Is that Cornelius?” he asked when they entered the suite, lowering his book and raising his eyebrows.

Leyna raised hers as well, surprised that he was already on a first-name basis with Cornelius.

“Yes, sir,” said Cornelius politely, but Lady Saunders hit her husband’s shoulder briskly with her fan.

“He’s not here for you, my dear—he’s here for our Leyna! So no discussing poetry, I forbid it!” She ushered Leyna and Cornelius out onto the balcony, promising to join them with tea soon.

Leyna knew her mother would take her time in joining them so they could be alone together. As she leant on the balcony rail, she thought of the moment she and Finnigan had kissed. She was trying hard to think of him as Cornelius, the wizard she had met at the Guild, but all she could think of was Finnigan’s lips and the way he had pulled her closer, his hands kneading her arms and waist as if he couldn’t get close enough. A rush of heat pulsed through her body, and she couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across her face.

“I think I know what you’re thinking,” said Finnigan, standing close enough that their arms touched.

“Oh?” she asked, flustered. Had it been that obvious?

“I think you’re thinking of how beautiful the gardens look this time of day.”

Leyna opened her mouth, then closed it again. The gardens were certainly beautiful, with the green of it touched with gold as the sun sank low, but it was not at all what she'd been thinking. “Yes, indeed, they are beautiful.”

“Well, I’m thinking of how much I enjoyed kissing you earlier.”

She shook her head at the cheeky smile spreading across his face. “Shameless!” she chastised him, stifling a laugh. “My parents will be here any moment.”

“I know, you’re right. I’ll behave.” Finnigan looked down at his hands, and as he examined his fingers, she blurted out the question she’d been holding back.

“Why me?”

He shot her a look of puzzlement, and she hurried to clarify.

“Why are you attracted to me? Is it just the flirting? Or…”

She was making a mess of the words.

“I’ll admit, I do enjoy teasing you,” he chuckled, “and I like that you give as good as you get. But it’s more than that.”

“Go on.”

He straightened. “Alright. Well, for starters, I know these weeks have been difficult for us all. But seeing you thrive under the pressure of it, seeing you at your best, following your dreams as a huskarl, knowing what you want and pursuing it…that I can respect.”

“You don’t always agree with my choices, though,” she pointed out. “The jester didn’t, at any rate. If I recall, he said something about me having an infamous reputation.”

“Yes, well, it’s easy to preach. How does one choose between duty and morals?”

“It should be easy,” she replied. “There shouldn’t be a need to choose. Not if one is doing the right thing.”

“Ah,” he smiled, waggling a finger. “But what happens when the two do not coincide, hm?”

Leyna shrugged. “I don’t know, but…without rules, society would fall apart. We don’t have a choice except to follow them, do we?”

Finnigan smiled down at his hands. “If only life truly was that simple. But things tend to get complicated, at least in my experience.” He lifted his head suddenly, the bright smile returning to his face. “But, do you know…” he took her hand. “I must admit, I’ve been falling for you ever since the feast.”

Leyna swallowed. “Oh?”

“Yes, indeed, I think I’ve loved you from the moment you knocked that goblet from the king’s hands. I liked your moxie.”

“Oh,” she said again, speechless as her face grew warm.

“Tea!” announced Lady Saunders, and Finnigan quickly released her hand.

Her mother bustled onto the balcony with Sophie, who was overloaded with a tray of biscuits, cakes, teapots, and cups.

Finnigan leant down to Leyna’s ear so that only she would hear him and, murmuring under his breath, said, “You know, I really do like that dress on you.” His gaze trailed up and down her so intently that her skin tingled and her bare shoulders lifted as she quivered.

Chapter Thirty-One

The Boy

AFTER THE TEA PARTY, Leyna’s spirits were high, and not even the stress of making more arrests that evening could detract from her newfound happiness.

The night shift was long, and it was already dawn when she finally lumbered up the stairs to her room. Her body was tired, but she felt lighter than air, and smiled to find a single red rose waiting outside her room. A small white card was tied to the stem with a ribbon and simply read:

Fancy a stroll in the gardens tomorrow before dinner?

The card wasn’t signed.

She scribbled a reply at her desk and sent it via a messenger to Lord Brighton’s room.

There was another rose waiting for her the following morning and another the morning after that. In the week that followed, barely a day passed that she didn’t see Finnigan in the form of Lord Brighton. They usually met in a public setting like the gardens or the Hall of Statues, but there was one afternoon where his cryptic note led her into a hedge maze.

The maze was relatively simple compared to the one at the Wizarding Guild. It had straight, immaculate walls and lacking any dangerous traps—but in her attempts to find Finnigan, she managed to get lost.

Leyna shrieked when a masked figure leapt out in front of her, his cloak billowing fiercely as he lunged forward, trying to seize her. She bolted, and even though she knew it was Jester in pursuit, her heart thundered as he chased her through the maze. She didn’t get far, and cried out when he caught her and hauled her off her feet. She was laughing as he spun her round, and then he pushed her against a hedge, grinning mischievously as his body pressed close.

Their lips met, and the kiss was sweet and hot, his touch agonisingly gentle and restrained as her yearning built. Hidden in the maze’s shadowy depths and cocooned between him and the leafy bushes, their hands roamed. She explored much of him, finally summoning the courage to trail her hand up along his trousers and stroke the hard rod that pressed against her. Several hoarse moans escaped Jester’s mouth, and his head lolled back, but to her disappointment, he didn’t allow her to undo the fastenings of his clothes.

“We should stop,” Jester panted, and she marvelled at his self-restraint as he disentangled himself from her and bid her goodbye, arms crossed as he leant against the hedge. “You go on ahead. I need a moment.”

Leyna walked back to the castle alone, her body aching with a wild, untamed fire she could not control, and the feeling was tantalising and addictive. It was the first time Finnigan had kissed her since he’d caught her in his room, and she needed more.

“Your rouge has smudged,” a straight-faced Grace pointed out at dinner.

Leyna hadn't been wearing makeup. Mortified, she reached for her napkin to remove the evidence.

Life at the castle was wonderful again. The courtship gave her something else to focus on besides the Massacre, and the anticipation of seeing Finnigan each day made her entire body tingle. She went about her duties with a permanent smile, never knowing when she might bump into him, nor what disguise he would wear.

Even the presence of the demons, which were now a common sight in both Royad and the castle, did not frighten her as they once had.

The only dampener on her days was the unusual tension between her and Grace. At first, Grace had been all-enthusiasm when Leyna told her about the courtship, pressing her for details and swooning over the roses. It had reminded Leyna of how things had been before the Court Massacre.

After the first week of courtship, however, Grace grew quiet and withdrawn, and Leyna quickly realised that her relationship with Finnigan served as an uncomfortable reminder of Quinn’s imprisonment and what Grace had lost. Feeling guilty, Leyna asked Finnigan to stop sending her roses and did her best to avoid discussing him altogether, even though she wanted nothing more than to confide in her friend.

Meanwhile, Grace was able to talk of little else but Quinn.

“Oh, Leyna, I just wish I could see him,” she said, sitting on the edge of the bed in a night robe. “Everyone keeps talking about how he’s guilty, and the more I hear them say it, the more I’m starting to believe it too.” She clapped her hands to her mouth as if horrified at her own words. “Gosh, Leyna, I shouldn’t have said that.”

“It’s alright.”

“I know he’s innocent. He has to be, right?”

“I hope so. But Grace, you should really rest.” She ushered Grace into bed and tucked her in. “I’m sure the truth will come out in the trial.”

“But when Leyna? I’ve been waiting, and it’s been weeks. How much longer must he stay in there? It must be so dark and cold…what if he thinks I’ve given up on him?”

“He won’t. I’ll keep trying for a visit.”

Captain Marton had continued to deny their repeated requests to visit Quinn. His loyalty to the lord regent was unwavering, if only because he held the chain of command in such high reverence.

Bidding Grace goodnight, she went downstairs to the training yards, mindful of how she placed her feet so her leg didn’t give out. As long as she didn’t stand on it a certain way, it was fine. To her dismay, the limp had not improved, and now everyone at court knew her as ‘the huskarl with the limp’. Finnigan had noticed and offered to look at it, but she’d declined. Despite her growing intimacy with him—or perhaps because of it—she’d grown afraid to show him her leg, not wanting to risk putting him off. This wasn’t a rational decision, but as time went by, her feelings for him grew, and she was reluctant to do anything to jeopardise their budding relationship.

As the captain briefed the assembled guards on the mission ahead, she struggled not to smile. Her mind kept wandering upstairs to Finnigan’s bedroom, and an impish part of her wanted nothing more than to seek him out.

The captain must have misinterpreted her daydreaming for enthusiasm because he assigned her to lead the arrest that night.

“Good to see you finally stepping up, Saunders. There are far too many traitor sympathisers around here. The chamberlain has long recommended you for a leadership position, and I can see that you’re hungry to prove yourself—here’s your chance.”

Leyna was pleased that Percy had vouched for her—but less than pleased to lead the Arrest Unit. But the captain’s order was not optional.

“I won’t let you down, sir.”

The captain scrutinised her. “See that you don’t.”

That night’s arrest was for a woman named Jill Dobay residing in Royad. Even in light of Huskarl Beatrice’s treachery, Leyna had never expected to have to arrest a woman. According to Captain Marton, Jill was a spy for the Brotherhood, accused of passing on key information that had enabled the Court Massacre.

They rode through the dark streets of Royad, where the main road glowed blue from the magical flames of ancient torches that lined it on either side. Tonight was the first time that Leyna felt eager to make an arrest. The thought of Jill Dobay, a female spy, working directly against Finnigan and endangering him made her blood boil. It was a happy coincidence that she could lead this arrest. It would allow her to prove herself to the captain, and finally achieve what she had set out to do by becoming a huskarl: to protect the ones she loved. Lately, doubt had crept in whenever she contemplated her huskarlship, but the prospect of safeguarding Finnigan breathed new hope into her career aspirations.

She drew herself up taller as she rode beside the captain, cold determination driving her forward as they led the cavalry into the night.

Arriving outside the picturesque cottage, no one would ever have suspected that a traitor resided on the quiet, respectful street of Royad, where every house was framed by a low fence and garnished with grass. Jill’s home even had a tree, and although the cottage was small, the fact that it had a yard was—at least by city standards—impressive. The tall roof was triangular, and two chimneys sat at the side of the house. It was a peaceful night, and the faint murmur of an owl suggested all was well.

Leyna’s jaw stiffened. Like so many other arrests, the cottage’s appearance was misleading. The cavalry halted by the gate, awaiting her instructions. She dismounted and led the way up the curved path to the front door, nervous to be the one to go first, and her arm felt foreign as she reached forward to knock.

There was no answer, but she heard footsteps inside. Gradually, the footsteps faded, as if the person inside the house was moving further away.

She knocked again, her gaze darting back at Captain Marton, who shifted on his horse impatiently.

There was still no answer. She knocked a third time, dreading she might have to break the door down. Just when it seemed like she had no other choice, the footsteps inside the house grew louder again, moving closer, and the glow of a candle appeared at the window. A few moments later, the sound of a latch grating could be heard, and then the door creaked open.

“Yes?” asked the woman. “Can I help you…my lady?”

Leyna summoned her most authoritative voice. “Are you Jill Dobay?”

“Yes, I am, but—“

“I’m Huskarl Leyna Saunders of His Majesty’s Royal Guard. I am here to place you under arrest for your involvement in the Court Massacre. You have been found guilty of colluding with traitors, and you are hereby—”

Before she had even finished speaking, the woman leapt backwards and made to close the door, but Leyna managed to wedge her boot in to stop it from closing. She tried to open the door, but Jill was pushing against it from the other side.

Leyna cried out as her boot was crushed in the door, and she raised her hand in reflex and cast a pressure spell, the force of which blasted the door open with a bang. She stepped over the threshold, where the woman was lying sprawled on the ground.

“I’m not a traitor, my lady!” gasped the woman, scrambling to stand before backing into a kitchen.

“Are you, or are you not, a spy for the Brotherhood?” asked Leyna, taking slow, steady steps towards Jill as the other guards entered the house behind her.

“I…I…” The woman pinched her lips in worry, crease lines appearing on her forehead. How old was she? Thirty? Possibly forty?

She looks so scared. And so frail.

She had expected a strong, haughty woman—someone who would pose a challenge and put up a fight. Someone like Beatrice with a hidden blade at the ready.

Do not underestimate her.

But then why did this feel so wrong?

“Leyna?” prompted a guard beside her—it was Patrick. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” she bit back, hands balling into fists.

“I can see that,” he murmured. “But you have to arrest her.”

He was right. She had no choice. The order had been given, the arrest warrant drawn up. She had no authority to negotiate. Still, it was hard to look past the woman’s obvious frailty. She was wearing a simple woollen dress, and her legs were shaking as if they barely supported her.

Leyna took a deep breath. She had to check. She had to be sure she had the right person.

“Jill Dobay, you stand accused of high treason for betraying your monarch— “

“Please, my lady…”

“…and the Kingdom of Rosaria by collecting and passing on sensitive information as a spy—“

“No, please, wait—“

“Do you deny it?“

The woman bit her lip, and their eyes met. Finally, she bobbed her head.

It was all the answer Leyna needed.

“Seize her,” she said, pointing at Jill. Patrick and another guard, Rod, approached the woman, but she cried out.

“No! Please, wait—I had nothing to do with the king’s death!”

“If that is the case, you will have the opportunity to speak at the trial,” she said, half-turning away.

“Wait, wait,” she begged, backing further into the kitchen, the guards barely a foot away. “At least let me put the stove out!”

The guards hesitated as she turned to fumble near a blackened brick stove.

“No, stop!” yelled Leyna, spinning back to face Jill, but it was too late.

The woman had found her weapon and swung it at Rod. The meat tenderiser hit his face with a horrible crack and he yelped in pain, bending over to clutch his face.

For a split second, Jill froze, wide-eyed and horrified by what she had done. Dropping the mallet with a clatter, she ran for a nearby window, trying in vain to open it. But the guards were quick to seize her and bind her hands. Leyna wondered why the woman had even bothered to run and could only attribute it to the sheer panic written across her face.

“No! Please, I’m innocent!” wailed Jill, the pitch of her voice growing higher. “Please! I haven’t done anything wrong! I haven’t done anything wrong!”

“Can you make her shut up?” Rod grimaced, nursing a horrible welt near his eye where the heavy tenderiser had struck. “You know, do that thing you do…”

Leyna gestured at Jill, who immediately went silent as the charm gagged her. She felt guilty every time she used the spell, and avoided the woman’s gaze as the guards escorted her outside. Rubbing her face, she gave the order for the house to be searched.

Doing the right thing is hard. Some of the traitors they’d arrested were unmistakably criminals—two such men had been committing a crime the very night they were arrested, arriving home from robbing a jewellery shop with their pockets brimming, only to find the Arrest Unit waiting.

An empty feeling crept into the pit of her stomach, and she stopped to pick at the peeling paint of a doorframe.

What am I doing?

A clanging reached her ears, and entered the kitchen where Rod was pulling open drawers carelessly, letting them clatter onto the floor, and flinging open cabinets.

“How’s your head?” she asked.

“Fine,” he grumbled, sniffing a ceramic pot before dipping his fingers into it. They came away dripping with something syrupy, and he licked them clean.

“Try not to destroy this woman’s home,” she warned, and though Rod acknowledged her, she heard him swear under his breath once her back was turned.

Meanwhile, Calvin was in the bedroom, where she caught him pocketing a hairbrush.

“We’re not thieves,” she said sternly. “Look for anything that could lead us to the traitor’s hideout—maps, letters, trapdoors. Leave the rest.”

“Yes, m’lady,” said Calvin obediently, but the hairbrush remained in his pocket, at least until her glare prompted him to place it back on the bedside table.

Leyna walked through the cottage with a discerning eye, looking for any signs that the cottage could be a hideout for the traitors.

In the small washroom, she found a wooden step ladder leading up to a second landing. Climbing the steps cautiously, she found an upstairs room that was unlike the dusty attic she'd expected. Instead, the room was tidy, with a small bed, a closet, and a table stacked with books. A thick rug covered the floor, and a child’s drawing was pinned to a wall. Her blue orb was the only source of light and cast an eerie glow around the room.

As she stepped onto the carpet, her foot knocked into a small glass marble, which rolled off the rug and over the wooden floor noisily.

A meek voice broke the silence.

“Mummy?”

Leyna blanched as she turned and saw a closet door swing open, from which two little eyes were peeking out at her. She swept her hand through the air, and as the light orb floated closer, its blue glow illuminated a young boy. He couldn’t have been more than three or four years old with a mess of fair hair that was almost blond. He was gazing up at the magic orb with his mouth wide open.

“It’s just magic,” said Leyna hurriedly, keeping her voice low.

The boy tore his gaze away from the floating light and blinked at her instead.

“Can I come out now?”

“Sh, no,” she whispered, hurrying over as the boy stepped out of the closet. “No, don’t come out.” She reached the boy and gently pushed him back inside. “You need to hide. That is…you need to stay inside for a little longer.”

“Where’s Mummy?” he asked.

A hundred different scenarios flashed through Leyna’s mind. What was a boy doing in a traitor’s house? It was safe to assume that Jill Dobay was the boy’s mother, but what did that mean for the boy? Would the captain have him imprisoned, too? There was no time to deliberate.

“Mummy’s fine,” she said quickly. “She wants you to stay here and hide so no one can find you, alright?”

The boy stared at her blankly.

“You have to stay very, very quiet.”

“Very, very quiet,” he said, mimicking her whisper.

“Good. Now, what’s your name?”

“Toby.”

“Alright, Toby. Listen to me. You need to stay quiet. Alright? Not a sound. And you have to stay here.”

“But I want to come out.”

“Sh. Not yet. I’ll come back for you, alright? Tonight. I promise.”

The boy nodded, and Leyna encouraged him to sit on the floor of the closet.

“I’ll come back very soon. Just be very, very quiet.” She shut the door, hoping the boy would stay put.

“Leyna?” a voice interrupted. She flinched, but it was Rod’s voice coming from downstairs.

A second voice floated up. “Maybe she found loot.” That was Calvin. She hated that he looted the houses they visited, but the other guards weren’t much better.

Rod’s distant reply drifted up: “You better go see.”

Creak, creak.

It was the sound of the ladder, and it broke Leyna out of her daze. “Don’t bother, Calvin,” she called. “There’s nothing up here.”

The creaking of the ladder stopped, as if Calvin was hesitating.

Then Rod again: “Better check, mate. She probably wants to keep whatever she’s found to herself.”

Panic filled her as the creaking of the wooden ladder resumed.

Creak, creak, creak…

With no time to think, she cast a simple incantation to lock the closet. It wasn’t perfect, but it would make the doors difficult to open without force.

Would it be enough to keep Toby safely hidden?

Please be quiet, Toby. Please.

Perhaps she should have placed a silencing charm on the boy, but it was too late for that now. She was out of time.

Calvin’s head popped into sight, his large hands curled around the top of the ladder, and his beady eyes narrowed at her.

“Well? What’s taking so long? Find something good?”

“Not really,” she said, trying to assume a relaxed stance. “It’s just an attic.”

She tensed as Calvin’s gaze wandered the room. The evidence of the boy’s existence was plain to see: a large rug scattered with marbles, a wooden toy next to the child-sized bed, a small pair of shoes, the drawing on the wall, and a stack of fairy tale books upon a stool.

Calvin made a disgruntled noise, drumming his fingers on the ladder. “So, nothing valuable up here?”

“I’m afraid not,” she said, even as relief washed over her.

To Leyna, this was obviously a child’s bedroom and play area. Fortunately, Calvin was more interested in stealing valuables and had missed the significance of the other objects in the room.

“Waste of time climbing up here, then,” he grumbled.

“Yes,” she agreed readily but then made the mistake of glancing at the closet out of reflex. Calvin noticed her look.

“What’s in there?” he asked suspiciously.

“N-nothing,” she said, but her voice wavered.

Calvin hoisted himself up into the loft and strode towards her. “You hiding something in there?”

“No, of course not.” She kept her voice even and straightened. “I was just leaving.”

She took a step towards the ladder, hoping Calvin would follow her lead, but to her horror, he made a beeline for the closet. Her heart beat wildly, the thumping loud in her ears as she watched the guard’s fingers curl around the handle.

When he tried to open the door, however, it wouldn’t budge.

“Huh,” said Calvin, tugging on the handle again.

Her stomach twisted with the fear that Toby would make a sound. It would be frightening to sit inside the dark closet, hearing unfamiliar voices as the door rattled.

Miraculously, the boy remained quiet as a mouse.

Leyna cleared her throat. “We need to get going.”

“I want to look inside first.”

“It’s just a closet,” she tried.

“Oh yeah? Why’s it locked, then? Could be something good inside.”

Her heart lurched. She didn’t have an answer for that.

Calvin gestured at the door. “Why don’t you open it? Use your magic to unlock it.”

Fear spiked in her.

“Err, sure, I could do that. But…” She tried to think of an excuse, but her mind was blank.

“But what?” he demanded.

“I, err…” she swallowed. She felt like she might throw up. “I can’t. I tried that already,” she added, the words pathetic even to her.

Calvin huffed. “Some wizard you are.”

Leyna was too stressed to take offence.

“Well,” he continued, drawing his handaxe, “good thing I brought this.”

Leyna’s eyes widened as the guard tensed, preparing to swing.

“Wait!” she cried, and Calvin’s arm halted mid-swing.

“What?”

“Let me try again,” she said, stepping between the guard and the closet, feeling vulnerable with her back to the armed guard. “It’s a nice closet.”

“An antique?” His eyes narrowed as he appraised its value.

“No,” she said firmly. “Just…we don’t need to destroy it. Stand back and let me do this.”

“Fine. Have another crack at it, then. I want to see inside.”

Chewing the inside of her cheek, she turned to face the closet door. She had no choice—her charm only protected the lock, and there was nothing to stop the guard from smashing the closet open.

“Well?” asked Calvin, slapping the handaxe against his palm impatiently. “What’s the holdup?”

“Give me a moment,” she snapped, clenching and unclenching her fists. She couldn’t risk injury to Toby, nor could she allow the boy to experience the trauma of witnessing an axeman’s blade chop his place of refuge into splinters.

She raised her casting hand over the lock, preparing to undo the charm.

I’m sorry, Toby. I’m so sorry.

Suddenly, a loud banging sounded from below.

“Oi! Calvin! Get down here.”

Leyna and Calvin exchanged glances before moving in unison to the ladder and peering down. Standing by the foot of the ladder, Patrick was staring up at them with a stern expression. His bear-like frame was bulkier than usual thanks to his full plate armour, and his face was framed by his rough beard. His posture suggested he’d used his gauntleted fist to rap on the ladder, and Leyna was silently grateful for the interruption. “Time to go,” he said.

“But I’m not done yet,” complained Calvin. “There’s something up here—“

“Leave it,” said Patrick sharply. “The captain wants us to move out.” His eyes met Leyna’s. “Unless there’s a reason to delay, Huskarl Leyna?”

Leyna shook her head quickly. “No, I agree with the captain. Let’s go.”

Patrick’s gaze shifted back to Calvin, who looked as though he might protest. To his credit, Patrick did not break his stare, and Calvin finally looked away, accepting defeat, and began climbing down the ladder, a low grumbling accompanying each step.

The danger had passed, but Leyna stifled her sigh of relief as she followed him down.

Outside the cottage, the guards were preparing to move out. Leyna’s anxiety spiked when she heard Rod, who was still in a foul temper, urging the captain to burn the cottage down.

“The bitch hit me,” he sneered, jerking his head at Jill. “Burn the whole damn house down. That’s what I say.”

Wide-eyed, Jill thrashed against her bindings. She was visibly screaming, but because of the silencing charm, her screams went unheard.

“No!” cried Leyna. “You can’t.”

Everyone turned to face her, including the captain.

“Why not?” asked Rod. “She’s a traitor. It won’t be the first place we’ve burnt down.”

“Because,” she said, “it’s not right.”

Toby was still in the closet, but she was determined not to reveal his existence unless absolutely necessary. She wasn’t sure what the Crown would do—lock him up as well? Place him in an orphanage?

If the guards set fire to the building…

She winced as she pictured Toby trapped inside the closet as thick black smoke seeped in. Whatever crimes his mother had committed, Toby didn’t deserve to die.

Rod scoffed. “You’re soft. I say we burn the house down. Set an example for the other vermin.” He turned to face the captain, who, to Leyna’s horror, seemed to consider the idea, stroking his chin as he eyed the cottage.

“It could deter criminals…make them think twice…”

Leyna tried to make eye contact with Jill, but the woman was on her knees, tearfully pleading with the captain who was largely unaware of her presence.

This is it. I have to say something.

If it came to it, she would not hesitate to run into the fire and save the boy, but Jill would lose her home, with no chance to return to her cottage should the trial find her innocent, and she, Leyna, would risk punishment for hiding the boy. She finally summoned the courage to speak, but before she could utter a sound, Patrick piped up.

“Sir, with all due respect, isn’t that a fire hazard?”

“Fire hazard…” repeated Captain Marton as if mulling the words over, scanning the street. The row of houses sat snugly, and were back-to-back with the houses of the street behind.

“Yes, sir,” said Patrick, and drawing himself up, his large, bearish form overshadowed Rod. “The whole street would go up in flames—as might the city. We’d need the fire department to do it safely, especially at this time of night, and the surrounding households would need to be notified to prevent a panic. We might be here until morning…possibly even noon.”

Captain Marton gave a loud, weary sigh and rubbed his eyes with his large hands, where the bags underneath had deepened. He was still the only person supervising the tasks in the dungeon, and unable to delegate the role, it was beginning to take its toll.

Finally, he gave a loud sniff. “Leave the house. Back to the castle.”

Jill slumped in relief, and Leyna mouthed a silent ‘thank you’ to Patrick, and he gave her the smallest of nods.

On the way back, she insisted that Jill ride behind her, and she had the woman’s hands bound and secured to Budsworth’s saddle. It couldn’t have been comfortable, but it was kinder than having Jill run after the horses like most prisoners did, which was an informal ritual she hated with every fibre of her being.

In the far distance, the lit windows of Rutherford Castle blinked down at them. Behind the castle, the Maidstone Mountains were almost invisible in the darkness except for where the tall peaks were graced with moonlit clouds. The journey back felt impossibly long, and all she could think about was the boy. She was itching to turn around and go back for him—but she had to be patient.

“Can’t we go any faster?” complained Rod as Leyna slowly helped Jill down the stone steps of the dungeon.

“No.”

Jill was distraught and struggling to keep up, and Leyna couldn’t imagine the terror she felt for herself and the safety of her son.

The captain’s forehead glistened with sweat as he trudged down the long set of steps, and Leyna felt sorry for him each time he stopped to rest. He was a fit man for his age, but he had already climbed the steps countless times that day in his heavy armour.

When they reached the Demon Door, it cackled softly at them, and Jill fainted before it even opened its mouth to let them through. It was a common reaction from the prisoners; most had never seen magic before, and the ancient Demon Door was a terrifying introduction. They paused while the captain granted each of them safe access through the door, including Jill, his voice a drone. They paused again after stepping through, and the captain removed Jill’s permission—standard protocol to stop prisoners from escaping.

Deep underground, the dungeon was cold and expansive, full of endless corridors and mysterious noises that echoed, dripped, and gurgled. As part of her induction, Leyna had learnt that the complex layout was designed to confuse those trying to escape. In reality, however, the corridors held a lot of symmetry and were easy enough to navigate once one knew the layout.

They left Jill in a small, empty cell. There was no light source in either the cell or the corridor outside, and the stone walls were only illuminated by the guards’ torchlight and Leyna’s blue orb. When they left, the cell would be pitch black once more. Leyna took Jill inside the cell herself, and the captain seemed more than willing to wait outside, groaning as he stretched his legs.

Jill had regained consciousness and was shivering. As Leyna helped her sit down on the cold floor, she became aware of horrible things on the ground, the smell confirming there was excrement.

“Here,” Leyna said loudly, making a show of draping her huskarl’s cloak around the woman’s shoulders in case the captain was watching. It was only a thin cloak used for the summertime, but it was the best that she could do—and as she leant in, she released the silencing charm and whispered a promise that only Jill could hear.

“I’m going back for the boy.”

Startled, the woman snapped her head to look up at her with wide eyes and a face that was ghostly in the orb’s blue light.

“Where is a safe place for him?” she asked Jill, her voice barely a whisper.

The seconds dragged, and Leyna started to worry that Jill wasn’t going to answer. Just as she was about to straighten, Jill’s lips parted.

“The Brotherhood,” she whispered, so faintly that Leyna wasn’t sure if she’d heard it.

A few minutes later, she was relieved to be back outside in the yards and breathing fresh air again. Compared to the depths of the dungeon, the starry sky was bright and full of promise, the dawn still a few hours away.

Jill Dobay was the only arrest scheduled for that evening, and Leyna was impatient for the captain to dismiss them so she could return to rescue Toby.

To her dismay, Captain Marton decided that tonight was a good night to call her into his office.

Over a glass of red that he only poured for himself, he announced he was promoting her to head of the Arrest Unit permanently.

“I’m taking a step back from the unit. There’s enough for me to do around here as captain. From now on, you’ll be the head of the Arrest Unit.”

There was a time when she would have dreamt of such a moment, but she’d been involved in enough arrests by now to know that this was not a promotion she wanted. All she wanted to do was return to find Toby. What the captain said next, however, swayed her.

“You’ll have full access to the dungeon, with the ability to grant and withdraw privileges to pass through the Demon Door safely. Is that understood?”

She sat a little straighter. “Really? I thought only you and the lord regent had those powers.”

“The chamberlain and I were finally able to bring our lord regent around.” It was a sign of how tired the captain was that he added: “I’m getting too old for this.”

She swallowed.

“But sir, if I may…why me? There are others who are more experienced…like Patrick, for instance.”

The captain gave her a withering look. “As I said earlier, Saunders, the lord chamberlain sees potential in you. Think of this as a chance to prove yourself. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. You’re dismissed.”

Leyna left the office wondering how she’d become more entrenched in the Arrest Unit. If it hadn’t been for her promise to Seth, she would have requested a transfer out of the unit by now. She missed waking with the sun, and the daylight hours, and her magic lessons with Seth, but mostly, she hated the arrests.

Once she was out of sight of the castle’s gatehouse, she summoned Budsworth and hastened into the city.

As she rode, she mulled over Jill’s suggestion to take Toby to the Brotherhood. Was that really a safe place for a young boy? And how would she even find them?

There was still no telling whether the Brotherhood was an honourable society that served the king, or a corrupt body that had arranged the murder of the king, queen, and hundreds of innocent souls. If it was the latter, then it seemed like a bad idea to put Toby into the care of murderers.

She pushed the thoughts aside. I have to honour Jill’s wishes. She’s Toby’s mother, not me. I have to assume that she knows what’s best for Toby.

But even once found Toby, how would she find the Brotherhood? She had no way of getting in touch with the secret society—not unless Finnigan was a member, something he still hadn’t given her a straight answer about.

She urged Budsworth down the torch-lit main street, descending into the city with the mare’s hooves clopping loudly as they struck the cobblestones.

Budsworth’s reins and saddle had already been removed by someone in the Plane of Creatures when Leyna had summoned her, and she rode bareback, sitting further forward than usual with her fingers intertwined in the mane.

As they drew near the street where Jill and Toby lived, a horrible thought occurred to her:

The closet was thick. But how thick?

What if it was airtight?

What if…what if Toby had suffocated?

“Hold on, Toby,” she begged as Budsworth charged down the quiet street. “I’m nearly there.”

Budsworth vaulted the low gate of Jill’s cottage before grinding to a halt. Leyna leapt off the horse, wincing as she landed. Ignoring the pain, she threw the front door open, her boots thudding across the wooden floor as she ran to the back of the house to the wooden step ladder.

“Toby!” she yelled.

There was no answer.

She climbed the steep steps, hauling herself up with her hands, wishing she had the strength to go faster.

“Toby!” She pulled herself up into the loft and darted across the room, her footsteps loud on the floorboards.

She skidded to a stop.

The door to the closet was wide open. As she raised her blue orb high, illuminating the inside of the closet, a chill ran across her shoulders.

Toby was gone.

Chapter Thirty-Two

The Courtship

THE SKY HAD LIGHTENED when Leyna made it back to her room.

Grace was still sleeping with Floofy pressed up against her back. He was curled into a ball of fur and snoring softly, the sound barely audible over Grace’s much louder snores.

The bed felt inviting as Leyna slipped under the covers, but her heart was hammering and gave no signs of settling as the minutes passed. Sleep was not forthcoming, and she lay on her side with her eyes open, unbothered by the early sunlight as it filtered across her face through a chink in the curtains. Her chest was tight, her breathing strained, as if she couldn’t get enough air to fill her lungs.

Her thoughts were preoccupied with Toby. Who had taken him? An irrational part of her feared he’d gotten out on his own and was wandering the streets by himself, scared and alone. But that was impossible—she had locked the closet securely, and there were no signs of damage. Which meant that, with almost complete certainty, the door was unlocked by someone who knew magic. But who?

The boy had lost his mother and his home in a single night, and her own role in the whole affair troubled her. Joining the Arrest Unit had been an easy decision—one that earned her the approval and recognition of the castle folk. It was a chance to avenge the souls who had lost their lives in the Massacre. But was it justice to take a mother from her son?

Tears pricked Leyna’s eyes, and she squeezed them shut as she pressed her clenched fists against her forehead. She pushed hard, as if the pressure would banish the confusing mess that lurked inside her head. Identifying right from wrong was not as easy as she’d imagined, and the beliefs that had once been black and white had transformed into prismatic gemstones, where each facet revealed a spectrum of greyscale shades.

When had things become so complicated?

A high-pitched whine escaped her throat, and it caused Grace to jerk awake beside her with a loud snore.

“Leyna?” she asked, peeking through a raised eyelid. “Was that you? Are you alright?”

She took a shaky breath. “It’s nothing—you must have been dreaming.”

“What time is it?”

“Nearly seven.”

Grace gave a groan and pulled a pillow over her head. “Wake me in five minutes, will you? Floofy’s snoring has kept me up all night.”

“Sure.” A smile crept onto Leyna’s face. Floofy’s tiny body shared Grace’s pillow, and though his snorty wheezing was reminiscent of a piglet, Leyna didn’t mind—she found the sound reassuring, and it brought her joy to know that the little creature was happy and content. Everyone deserved a safe, warm bed and a peaceful slumber, didn’t they?

Her thoughts circled back to Jill’s son, and her momentary reprieve from her worries ended.

Where are you, Toby?

“You’ll go see the chamberlain today, won’t you?” Grace asked, pulling on her uniform. “Like you promised? After you’ve had some sleep.”

“Er, yes, I’ll go soon.”

Grace had learnt from the steward that he’d never received the captain's permit application for the magical spears. Apparently, the captain had given the papers to Percy, who was meant to pass it on to Steward Marek. By Grace’s reckoning, either Percy had neglected to lodge the application, or the steward was lying.

“And I don’t see why he’d lie,” Grace had said, arms crossed. “He never has any trouble saying ‘no’ to people.”

Grace had gone on to half-ask, half-instruct Leyna to go see Percy herself. “The chamberlain favours you, so it’s best if you’re the one who talks to him.”

The other reason Leyna had promised to speak to Percy was the testimony—which the steward had ordered when Leyna had been in his office, but she’d never received.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Leyna stifled a yawn, then buried her head in her hands. She’d been putting off seeing Percy because she hadn’t made any progress in her investigation. She was no closer to finding the culprit of the Court Massacre than she’d been over a week ago, and this was partly due to how little spare time she had. The night shift was long and gruelling, she still attended training sessions during the day, and on top of all that, she’d allowed herself to become distracted with Finnigan’s attentions. She was happier than she’d ever been…but as a huskarl, she was slipping.

She’d contemplated telling Grace about her promotion to head of the Arrest Unit and the special privileges to the Demon Door that came with it, but had held back. First, she would think of a plan. There were still guards on the ground-level door, and the training yards were crowded during the day, with guards on watch on the battlements at all times. It wouldn’t do to go charging down to the dungeon, which was exactly what Grace would insist on if she found out about Leyna’s powers. When it came to protecting her friends, Grace was a force to be reckoned with, and Leyna couldn’t hold a candle to her hot-headed stubbornness.

Like Grace, Leyna was anxious to see Quinn, partly to hear his side of the story, but also because she was worried about him. Regardless of whether he was guilty, the dungeon was a horrible place, and she couldn’t imagine spending even a minute there, let alone weeks. There hadn’t even been a trial date set yet.

The uncertainty must be killing him.

The bedroom was quiet after Grace left. The bright sun promised a hot day ahead, and as the room warmed up, Leyna grew sleepy. She wanted to dream of Finnigan, of riding through the mountain woods, of good food and laughter in the Great Hall, and of other pleasant things. She drifted, sleep-twitching several times before her mind finally let go.

The dream was warm and soft, and she embraced it. But then a hot, stifling darkness came, and it morphed into a twisted nightmare.

Leyna’s horse was dragging the prisoner along behind her, moving too quickly for him to keep up. The prisoner had stumbled and fallen, and though he’d tried desperately to stand, her horse wouldn’t slow down, and he couldn’t find his feet. Soon, his skin was torn and bloodied as he was dragged over the rocky mountain ground. She needed to ask Budsworth to ease up, or the prisoner would die.

But she didn’t ask. She had to reach the top of the mountain. There, at its peak, was the future she’d been promised—one that was full of glory. One that would make all the hardships worthwhile. But she would have to climb up over the backs and shoulders of the mountains to get there.

And then, she was outside her body, studying her own face, which stared down impassively at the injured man as he was dragged up the steep rocky trail.

Please stop, she thought, willing herself to slow down before it was too late. Stop, please. I don’t want this.

But the Leyna she was watching did not stop. She kept riding, face emotionless, her shoulders rigid like stone. After a while, the prisoner stopped screaming, and it was peaceful once more. All was quiet in the mountain woods but for the sound of the prisoner’s body being dragged along as Budsworth climbed steadily higher up the rocky mountainside. Not even the birds were singing.

Leyna was still in the foothills, her heart beating sickeningly as she watched herself ride away up the mountain trail, growing smaller and smaller in the distance until she was out of sight amongst the trees.

She could not see herself anymore, but knew in her heart that when she reached the top of the mountain, her body would turn to stone. And her statue would remain that way, rigid, hard and unwarmed by the sun, as a permanent monument, waiting to be toppled over.

There was a red stain on the mountain trail that should not have been there. She couldn’t breathe.

Leyna woke with a gasp. The room was too hot, and she kicked off the covers, swinging her legs over the side of the bed as she gulped for air. Her heart was racing as she poured a glass of water from the jug on the bedside table, spilling it in her haste to drink. She was consumed with thoughts of the prisoner, who had looked an awful lot like Finnigan. Even in the nightmare, she had known it wasn’t real, so why was she shaking?

I’m finally where I want to be, and who I want to be, and doing what I always said I’d do…so why do I feel like I’m losing?

“I don’t want to be a statue,” she whispered to her room.

Floofy came to nuzzle her hands, which was a comfort, but his wide eyes and insistent licking showed his ulterior motive—he was hungry, and it forced her to shake off her gloomy thoughts.

“Sophie will feed you, you know that,” she said in reprimand, but Floofy only shuffled closer, his large eyes glistening in hope. “Fine,” she said, fishing a biscuit out of the newly replaced tin on the mantle.

Floofy was delighted to be receiving a whole biscuit, and spun around impatiently several times before finally sitting down to wait. He watched her break the biscuit into pieces and spread it around the room, hiding the morsels for him to find.

“Okay, go!” she said, and Floofy hurried off, forgetting the crumbs closest to him and remembering only where the last one had been hidden.

With no interest in returning to bed, she donned her huskarl uniform and headed to the chamberlain’s office. Percy was not there, but his valet advised he had business on the ground floor.

Descending the rear stairs, she passed through the Hall of Statues and entered the Gallery, a long, narrow corridor that was lined with carpets, paintings, and tapestries. It was crowded with people, and whilst some were undoubtedly interested in the art displays, it was not the central focus. Instead, the Gallery was the castle’s main hub for court gossip, and beneath the facade of leisure, the nobles manoeuvred politically, the long hall echoing with polite laughter that masked the blossoming of schemes. The chamberlain was nowhere to be seen.

She paused to examine a tapestry, a large red square that was woven with blacks and golds. It reminded her of the secret nook the jester had once pulled her into. As if on cue, a familiar voice spoke her name.

“Huskarl Leyna, fancy seeing you here.”

It was Jester.

She jumped as if struck by lightning, and for a wild moment, she forgot it was Finnigan. “Jester! What are you doing here?”

“Just keeping my finger on the court’s pulse,” he said, leaning brazenly against the tapestry near her. He was wearing a snow-white cape over a doublet of moss green. His loose, cream pants tapered at the ankle with green embroidered cuffs. The mask and makeup glimmered white like frosted ice, and together with the sharply cut angles of the mask, and the intensity of his gaze, it was difficult not to squirm as feverish chills of hot and cold rippled through her. “How about yourself? Did you come to seek me out? Because I was hoping I might see you today.”

“No, actually.” She tore her eyes away from Jester and focused on the tapestry. “I’m trying to find the lord chamberlain. Have you seen him?”

“Perhaps I did. Why, what do you want with the chamberlain?”

She sighed. “Just tell me where I can find him.”

“Wouldn’t you rather stay and talk to me?”

“Not particularly.”

Jester laughed. “Why don’t we do a trade? You tell me why you wish to see the chamberlain, and I’ll see if I can remember where I saw him.”

Leyna crossed her arms. She was grateful that Finnigan only possessed an ounce of the jester’s personality—the former was charming, whilst Jester was just plain irritating.

“Well?” he prompted, lips pursed in a mock-smile, and even with the mask, she knew him well enough to know that his eyebrows were arched.

She contemplated telling him, but the surrounding nobles put her off. What would they make of a huskarl discussing weapon applications and Court Massacre evidence with a jester? It would raise at least a few eyebrows.

“I’ll tell you later,” she mumbled, glancing around them and hoping no one would take too much notice of their closeness—and Jester was indeed standing close. She shifted slightly away from him, intent on avoiding a scandal.

He smiled coyly. “Begging your pardon, Huskarl Leyna, but I didn’t catch that. Could you kindly repeat it? A little louder, if you please?”

She gritted her teeth. “I said…I’ll tell you later.”

“You’ll tell me later?” he repeated, raising his voice. “How wonderful! Well, I’m pleased we’ll be seeing more of each other today, Huskarl Leyna.”

To her chagrin, his statement drew the attention of several nobles standing nearby. She suspected they had already been listening in on their conversation, but now there were several people openly staring and whispering. For someone skilled in political intrigue, Jester was going out of his way to not be subtle—and was clearly enjoying her flustered reaction.

“Stop teasing.” She sniffed, lifting her chin and trying to fix her attention on the red tapestry as if the apple orchard depicted there was far more interesting than the masked man standing mere inches away.

“Stop teasing?” he gasped, his voice only a modicum quieter. “Well, I suppose I could have gone straight for the kiss, but I didn’t wish to be presumptuous.”

“Quit it,” she growled, then lowered her voice to a quiet plea. “Can’t you be more subtle? Please?”

A low chuckle rumbled in his throat, and she heard Finnigan’s voice near her ear. He was leaning far too close for a public setting, and his warm breath made her shiver.

“But I’m a jester, remember? It would only arouse suspicion if I didn’t…tease you.”

Swallowing, she forced herself to look at the tapestry. The brown threads of the apple-laden wheel barrow were a poor distraction from the jester, who hummed a playful tune.

Finally, he drew back, and she let out the breath she’d been holding. The tension between them was so thick she could have cut it with a knife, and soon her ears were burning. A part of her wanted to flee the crowded Gallery, but the other part wanted to stay.

Should I stay? Or should I go?

“I’m wondering how I should interpret your silence,” he said, peering down at her through the mask.

She should have made it clear to the onlookers that she had no interest in speaking with Jester—much less a desire to flirt with him—but she could not hide the smile that played on her lips.

What’s wrong with me? Just turn and leave.

“Why, Leyna, surely you aren’t embarrassed to be seen with a jester, are you?”

She didn’t respond.

“Or are you?” he pressed, a mischievous smile beginning to form.

“Jester,” she warned in a whisper, trying to avoid the lure of his piercing blue eyes. I’m definitely blushing, she realised, resisting the urge to touch her cheeks, which had grown as hot as her ears. “Last chance,” she said breathlessly. “Take me to the chamberlain. Now.”

“Hm, I suppose I could take you now,” he purred, slipping a hand around her arm. “Come with me.”

“Where are we going?” She made a half-hearted attempt to pull her arm back even as her disloyal feet followed Jester down the long hall.

“To where I saw the chamberlain earlier,” he said, pulling her into a deserted side room before shutting the door behind them.

Through the door, the sound of giggles erupted in the Gallery. The damage was done; her mother would be outraged when she heard the rumours of her daughter running around with a jester. Still holding her arm, Jester led her across the room, which she recognised by the enormous piano in the corner and the row of chairs alongside one wall. She hadn’t been here since the night of the feast, when she’d eavesdropped on Patrick and the jester.

“Are you sure he’s here?” she asked doubtfully.

He opened a familiar door, and gestured for her to go first. “He was in here.”

“The Trophy Room?”

The room was brightly lit, and contained hundreds if not thousands of trophies, plaques, and medals that gleamed proudly in glass cabinets and tall shelves. Dust particles floated gently through the silent aisles. The room was still. There was no one else here.

“Lord Chamberlain?” she called, tugging her arm free of the jester’s hold and peering down the aisles. “Percy?”

“He’s not here,” said Jester.

She rounded on him. “But you said he was here!”

“No, I said I’d take you to where I’d seen him earlier, and I did. But I also saw him leave, which I might have failed to mention. I’m so sorry for any confusion…”

“I’ll bet you are,” she snapped. “Why did you bring me here?”

“Why, Leyna, so we can converse more freely.”

She crossed her arms. “Can’t you drop the jester act? I’d rather speak to Finnigan, if it’s all the same to you. And take off the damn mask.”

“I could take it off,” said Jester, his voice growing silky. He reached up to touch the masquerade mask, tracing the edge with his long, slender fingers. She waited with bated breath, but instead of removing the mask, he took a step closer, his stride long enough that they were now standing only inches apart. He tilted his head and smiled down at her. “Although…”

“Al-although what?” she stammered. Her annoyance wavered as he brushed a strand of hair from her face. His fingers lingered, and she shut her eyes, her breathing still.

“Although, I don’t think you mind the jester half as much as you pretend.”

“Yes, I do,” she argued, but her eyes were still shut as she waited for him to touch her hair again. He repeated the motion, his fingers awaking a thousand pleasures as they swept across her brow.

“I don’t believe you. I think you like the jester, mask and all.”

“No,” she murmured, but then quickly forgot her objections as his hands slipped into her hair. As his fingers combed through, playing across her scalp, she became lost in the sensation of it, and her lips parted as she tilted her head upwards, waiting for his lips to meet hers.

But they didn’t.

She opened her eyes, only to find him smiling ear to ear. “What are you playing at—?” she began, but her question was cut short as his lips met hers. He had trapped her between annoyance and desire, but as he pulled her body closer, she surrendered to desire.

Jester’s costume was an elaborate design of silks and satin, but the expensive material was thin and did little to hide his growing excitement. As their kiss deepened, she was both startled and pleased to feel his stiff member pressing into her, and she made no secret of her awareness of it as she nudged her thigh forward.

“My sneaky little fox,” he said approvingly, kissing her neck. “Why didn’t you tell me you wanted it like this?”

“Like what?” she asked, her fingers halting where they had been rubbing his back.

“Like this, with the jester.”

Leyna was not prepared to admit anything of the sort, but despite all logic, a secret part of her was excited by him dressed like this. She scoffed and was about to say, ‘no, that’s ridiculous,’ but she became too distracted by his lips travelling up her neck. A soft moan escaped her lips.

“Well?” he asked, his breath warm against her neck. He caressed her waist, the light touch sending shivers through her. “Say it. Say you like the jester.”

She didn’t reply. Her eyes were half-closed as she enjoyed the wild sensations blossoming along her neck as his kissing resumed. But when his mouth reached her collarbone, instead of continuing downward as she hoped he would, the jester drew back with a sly smile.

Delirious with longing, she clutched at the cabinet behind her for support. The smooth wood and glass were cool beneath her clammy fingers. “Why are you stopping?”

Jester still had his hands on her waist, but he’d drawn back so there was nearly a foot of space between them—a distance too great for her liking.

“Because I’d like to hear you speak the words. Why not just admit it? Say that the jester excites you.”

She swallowed. His words were too close to truth, too close to the intimate dream she'd once had of him, the one she had tried to hide from herself.

“Well?” he prompted.

“Is that what this is?” she asked, summoning what she hoped was a disparaging look. “You’re trying to prove a point?”

“A little bit, yes. It makes no difference to me, of course—but it seems a rather touchy subject for you. So why not admit that you’ve imagined it like this?”

She could only vaguely make sense of his words as his hands slipped beneath the folds of her cloak. “What game are you playing at?” she demanded, even as his dextrous hands found their way beneath her shirt.

“The best kind,” he replied simply. “Want to play?” His fingers stroked the bare skin of her back, and she gave an involuntary gasp as the aching need inside her grew.

Did she want to play?

“Yes,” she whispered, and as her hands wandered, the flare of Jester’s nostrils showed her touch had a similar effect on him, and she was delighted to find that he wanted her as well. Despite his teasing, however, his hands did not advance beyond her waist and back. He was holding back.

It would not do. Leyna gripped the fabric of his jacket and tugged him closer. “More,” she said.

“More?” he asked incredulously. “What about us taking it slow? I was going to court you properly, remember?”

“Is that what you call this? Flirting in public? Bringing me here?”

“Ah well…I suppose I’m a fool for temptation.” He had the decency to look sheepish, and his hands withdrew. “But you’re right, of course. I’ll stop—”

“No, don’t,” she said. “Don’t stop.” She drew closer, melting against his chest, which was solid and warm even through their clothes.

Jester squinted at her, his voice dangerous and low: “Is that an order, Huskarl Leyna?”

He didn’t wait for her reply.

Half carrying, half steering her, he moved them deeper into the room where she ended up against the wall of a cabinet. The glass door rattled as he pushed her against it, the motion causing the bells of his mask to jingle overhead. She wondered if they would soon ring more erratically, and her racing heart sped up as wicked thoughts entered her mind. Her hands wandered downward, but before she could explore further, Jester cupped her face in his hands.

She stilled.

“Are you sure?” he asked, his gaze soft as his thumb stroked her cheek. The movement was tender and loving, and it gave her a glimpse of Finnigan, the man behind the mask.

“Yes,” she whispered.

He kissed her carefully, as though she were fragile.

The kiss was long and sweet, and she felt like she belonged there, in his arms. She was found. She was seen and wanted.

And she wanted him as well—she wanted Finnigan.

But not just Finnigan. As the kisses intensified, the mask grazed her skin, and she realised she wanted Jester as well. She wanted all of him.

He unlaced her doublet, his fingers swift and methodical, and she felt deliciously self-conscious as the fabric parted. His lips found her breasts, and she arched her back to get closer to his touch. His hands travelled lower, much lower, and then lower still, his fingers lingering dangerously close to the broken skin of her upper thigh. No amount of clothes would have made her comfortable with that advance.

“Stop,” she said, flinching.

“What’s wrong?”

She dreaded what he would think of the ruined appearance of her left leg. She had to remind herself that he’d already seen it, that he’d regenerated much of what had been missing while she lay unconscious.

But that had been clinical—this was different. He was touching her as a lover, and she felt vulnerable. What did he really think of her leg?

Time had improved many things, but it was still raw and wrinkled. She might have been proud had she earned the scars in battle, defying anyone who judged her for it, but instead, the injury only served as evidence of her past blunder. So she’d accepted it for what it was: her leg. A leg she was lucky to still have.

It didn’t matter what others thought…and yet, Finnigan’s opinion did matter to her.

His fingers had stilled, his touch still hovering near the top of her thigh where the rippled surface of the scarred skin began.

“Leyna? What’s wrong?”

“M-my leg,” she stammered.

“Which one?”

“You know perfectly well which one,” she snapped. “My left leg. The injured one.”

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry,” said Jester, but his tone was cheerful. “Did you have a preference? I was going to explore both, but I’m happy to focus on one or the other if you have a favourite.”

She inhaled sharply and pulled away. “Don’t joke.”

Finnigan gently pulled her closer again, his eyes soft. “I’m not. Leyna—” he brushed the curtain of hair from her face. “You’re beautiful. I love every part of you.”

The warmth of his words rushed over her.

He said ‘love.’ Not ‘I love you,’ but…but he used the word ‘love.’ ‘I love every part of you.’

Before she could analyse his words further, he leant forward and gave her a light kiss on the lips.

It was short and sweet and perfect. And it caused the fire to erupt again, the heat of it flushing her body with waves of heat.

When he drew back, there was a wolfish hunger in his expression. The jester was back. “Now,” he said, his hand stroking along her inner thigh—it no longer mattered which one, left of right, it didn’t matter, as long as he didn’t stop. “Tell me you want it like this…with the jester.”

“No,” she said immediately, even as a vixen-like smile grew across her face. Her body was saying yes.

All of her was saying yes—except her pride.

“Well, if that is truly the case,” said jester, “then how about you take off my mask? Go ahead. I won’t stop you.”

Their eyes met in challenge. Removing the mask would be easy. She had done it before, but that was different. This was the jester’s mask, and there was something thrilling about the tall, mysterious man whose face she couldn’t see, whose piercing eyes bore into hers, only flickering away briefly to rove down her half-naked body.

They teetered on a tipping point. He was fierce and ravenous, and so was she. He was waiting for her, waiting for her to end the charade. To deny the jester fantasy and return to safer territory.

A dangerous tension stretched between them.

As the seconds passed, she made no move to remove the jester's mask. Exhilaration pulsed through her as she lifted her chin defiantly, hoping her lack of action would speak for itself.

“Oh, I see,” said the jester, licking his lips. “My, my, Huskarl Leyna.” He drew her closer, and she did not stop him as he traced her waistline. “Look at me,” he said, and she did, tilting her head upward. He was staring at her intently, his eyes glazed and seductive. “Good,” he murmured. “Don’t look away.”

Without breaking eye contact, his hand slipped beneath her trousers. His touch was long overdue, and she gasped as his hand found the warm place there.

She tried to reach for him, to touch him the way he was touching her, but he shook his head. “No, not yet. Just you.”

There was no opportunity to protest as he stroked her, and her legs wobbled, barely supporting her own weight as her held her up, keeping her pinned against the cabinet with his hard, lean body.

“Ready?” he asked, but they both knew the question was rhetorical. Tightening his grip on her waist, his other hand advanced, and she felt wonderfully helpless in his arms as his fingers encroached, stroking the wetness between her legs before slipping inside. She gasped at the jolt of ecstasy shooting deep within to her core More. She needed more.

“Tell me you like it,” he prompted, his voice a husky whisper in her ear as his fingers eased into her.

“I…”

His fingers worked. “Say it, Leyna.”

She gave her head a small shake in refusal, but collapsed against him, letting him take her weight while she nibbled his neck. His arm moved more forcefully, his fingers driving deeper.

“Say it.”

They were both panting, and if it hadn’t been for Jester pinning her against the cabinet, she was sure her legs would have given out from underneath her.

“Because I could stop…” he suggested, the stroking slowing, the fingers withdrawing.

“Don’t you dare,” she growled, grabbing his forearm firmly. “Don’t stop. Please,” she added.

He chuckled. “Please? Oh, I like ‘please’ very much.”

And she was rewarded as his fingers plunged deep inside her again, pushing harder than they had before.

“Look over there,” he said, and she reluctantly followed his gaze. She caught sight of their reflection in a nearby glass cabinet. The reflection was surreal, as if the intertwined couple were strangers.

Was that her? Was she the woman that the jester was ravishing?

“Keep watching,” he commanded, and she obeyed, giddy with anticipation as he continued to tease her, pressing and sliding in tantalising ways that made her legs go weak.

Her head lolled back to look at the ceiling, and he gave her a look of warning.

“Eyes. Mirror. Now.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

Jester grunted in approval and kissed her neck as his fingers thrust harder.

Suddenly there was a destination, and the rhythm was steady and merciless as he propelled her across a boiling sea. There, on the horizon of a midnight sky, a storm was building in the distance. She sailed towards it, swept forward by the torrents of pleasure unleashed by his buried fingers.

“More,” she gasped, struggling to hold on as the waves rose, becoming faster and more powerful, and he continued to drive into her, again and again, in movements that were short, swift, and forceful.

“Say please,” he sang in her ear. “I like it when you say please.”

“Please,” she gasped, no longer caring about anything but the repeated thrusts of his fingers, which were demanding.

“Say it again,” he ordered as the waves of sensations threatened to crash and spill over.

“Please, Finnigan. Please.”

But as she neared the climax, she gripped his arm, steadying him.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“What about you?” she gasped. “I want you. I want…”

She didn’t know how else to ask, but she wanted Finnigan to feel what she was feeling—this thrilling, fulfilling sensation. She wanted to share this with him.

“Soon.” He smiled.

And then he pushed his fingers in again, sliding against her wetness—once, twice, three times, ten times—countless times, until her body was shuddering with pleasure, every inch of her alive with rapture as she collapsed against him.

The waves churned in the aftermath, but it was over. The storm had passed, and it was everything she had thought it could be.

She shuddered against Finnigan, her moans muffled against his chest as she rode the last gentle swell to shore.

When she finally opened her eyes, he helped support her as they sunk to the floor together. They were both sitting up, and she nuzzled against his chest. He held her patiently, kissing her forehead softly as her breathing calmed. “Well? How was it?” he probed.

“What happened to courting me properly?” she asked, laughing despite herself, the sound escaping as joy filled her.

“My mistake,” he said, but he was smiling, too. “Although, if that isn’t being courted properly, I don’t know what is.”

“Yes,” she agreed absently, her hands now wandering, tracing up and along his leg, slowly creeping to his inner thigh. He was rock hard. “You can court me properly tomorrow. But as for right now…”

He gave a murmur of appreciation as her fingers stroked him through the fabric of his pants.

It was her turn to undress him. Her fingers were less sure of how to work the leather tie closure, but after a moment of struggling, it came undone.

“Let me,” she whispered, and he went still as she reached inside his pants and stroked him. He groaned, his head falling back against the cabinet with a rattle.

Licking her lips, she pulled on the fabric so his cock sprang free, and as she gently caressed the shaft, he shuddered under her touch.

Without warning, he sat up, seizing her arms as he shifted to his knees.

“Enough playing,” he growled, trying to guide her to the floor. But she shoved him playfully, and he laughed in surprise and fell backwards to sit against the cabinet again. His look of wonderment was priceless as she stood, stripped off her pants, then climbed on top and lowered herself on top of him. She untied the mask and set it aside, then pushed the dark wig off, revealing a tousled mess of caramel waves that made his blue eyes stand out. He was adorable. And magnificent.

“Ready?” she teased.

He looked up at her and swallowed. “Yes.”

She kissed him, then drew back and flashed a seductive smile. Hovering over his groin, she positioned herself so the bulging head met her entrance.

“Careful,” he warned. His momentary nervousness was gone, replaced with wild carnality, his need obvious by the fire in his eyes and the way he gripped her arms. “I’ll give as good as I get.”

Her smile widened. “Good.”

And then she eased down, his thick member pushing into her, and her self-control was gone as he penetrated her fully. They were one.

A raspy, guttural sound escaped Finnigan’s throat as she slowly rode him, and their fingers interlaced as she rocked her hips. Her world grew hazy, as if she’d been drinking, and hot pleasure blazed with every stroke. His groans made fire roar inside her, and in those moments, they shared a secret world where no one else existed.

It was only them.

And then a polite cough made them flinch.

Chapter Thirty-Three

The Chamberlain

WHIPPING HER HEAD AROUND, Leyna was mortified to see the chamberlain standing in the doorway. He was adjusting his spectacles nervously while balancing a large, heavy-looking plaque.

“My apologies…” he mumbled, setting the plaque down on a low cabinet. “I, err…I came to put this up…from the Ruffles tournament…but…I’ll just leave it here? S-sorry to interrupt…”

He left abruptly, and she stared after him, her heart pounding unpleasantly.

“Oh no…” she whined, sliding off Finnigan and snatching at her pants. She hurried to pull them on. “Shit. Shit, shit, shit.”

But Finnigan did not seem to share her concern and was instead chortling to himself as he refastened his clothes.

“Poor Percy,” he said, shaking his head. “Not the best timing. I’ll bet he didn’t expect that.”

“He most certainly wouldn’t have,” she snapped. “This is completely inappropriate. I shouldn’t be here with you.”

Still sitting on the floor, Finnigan looked up at her questioningly. “Shouldn’t be here with me? Why, who else would you be here with?”

“Cut that out. You know what I mean.” She clutched her head, resisting the urge to bang it against the glass cabinet.

“I’m sorry,” he said, rising slowly, mask in hand.

She sighed. “It’s fine—it is what it is. But you know what the worst of it is? Now I need to go talk to him.”

He gave a surprised laugh. “Why? I don’t think he needs any clarification on what he just saw.”

She clucked her tongue. “No, because I promised Grace that I would talk to him.”

He rolled his shoulders, stretching. “Well, I can see how that would be a spot of bother for you.”

She didn’t respond, cringing with embarrassment as she smoothed her wrinkled clothes. Would Percy tell anyone what he’d seen?

“Leyna, are you alright?” asked Finnigan, stepping closer and placing a hand on her shoulder.

“No.” She pressed her lips tight. “I mean, yes, I’m fine. But I have to go.” She glanced up at him. “I’m sorry.”

He kissed her on the forehead. “Go.”

She hurried to the door, but paused with her hand on the knob, frowning down at the wooden plaque the chamberlain had set down. Over two feet wide, the shield-shaped plaque was made of highly polished wood, and bore a golden plate at the top titled Distinguished Service Award of His Majesty’s Soldiers. Below this were dozens upon dozens of small, gold plates, many of them engraved with the names of castle guards and huskarls. She traced the small metal plates with her finger. The awards went back as far as eighty years ago, and in recent decades, Bancroft’s name appeared more than once, and even Damian had once made the cut. Some of the plates from the last twenty years were missing entirely.

“Leyna?” Finnigan moved closer. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Yes,” she said distractedly, giving her head a quick shake. “I’m fine. I should go.”

She burst out of the waiting room.

“Did anyone see which way the chamberlain went?” she asked, addressing the surrounding nobles.

Everyone stopped talking to stare at her. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in a mirrored vase. Her cheeks were flushed red, and her hair was not nearly as neat as it had been earlier. She resisted the urge to smooth it down. Could they tell what had transpired between her and Jester?

A short elderly noblewoman who was wider than she was tall cleared her throat softly. “I think he’s gone to his office, dear.”

“Thank you,” said Leyna gratefully, and hurried back through the castle to the rear staircase.

If it wasn’t for her promise to Grace, nothing would have compelled her to seek out the chamberlain. But she had promised Grace, and she couldn’t turn back now.

Halfway up the stairs, she collided with a group of people coming down.

“Sorry,” she said, before looking up. She’d come face-to-face with Maisy Fry—the last person in the world she wanted to see, especially in her current state.

“Sweetheart!” Behind Fry’s dainty frame was a group of three guards blocking the stairwell, one of which was Firmin. “It’s so interesting to see you here…”

“Out of my way,” said Leyna shortly, her own abruptness at odds with the deference she was used to showing the Guild professors. But Fry was no longer her professor, and so long as she was working for the castle, Leyna outranked her.

“Why, of course, sweetheart. But…just one moment, if you will.”

Leyna hesitated. “What is it?”

Fry smirked. “I only wanted to see how you’re doing in these difficult times. As a huskarl, there must be so much pressure on you!”

“I’m managing fine,” said Leyna stiffly. She looked over Fry’s shoulder at Firmin. “It would help if you were consistent in your accusations. Why did you say Quinn was guilty of killing Queen Claire? Because last I heard, you’ve changed your story to accuse Beatrice of being the one responsible for the queen’s death.”

Firmin shrugged.

“It’s much of a muchness,” he rasped, his dark beady eyes narrowing at her. “They were both there. It’s the same difference, innit?”

“No,” said Leyna. “It’s not. It makes all the difference in the world.”

Fry tittered. “Splitting hairs again, are we? Listen, sweetie…there’s really no point comparing one traitor to another, not when they’ll both end up on the chopping block. You’re wasting your time.”

“You’re wasting my time,” Leyna said, trying to step past Fry.

But Fry didn’t move out of her way.

“I’m only trying to help,” said Fry sweetly. “Naturally, that’s why the Guild sent me—so that I can be of assistance. But with today’s announcement of the executions—”

“Executions?” Leyna interrupted. “What executions?”

“Oh, haven’t you heard?” Fry leant in conspiratorially. “Why, the execution of the traitors, of course! They are finally beginning.”

“When?” demanded Leyna.

“Tomorrow,” she purred. “And I am so looking forward to seeing justice served. And yet…” she trailed off with a dramatic sigh. “I can’t help but wonder how you’re coping. As the head of the Arrest Unit, the responsibility of carrying out the executions must be daunting—do you think you’ll have the stomach to execute your former huskarl friend, what was his name again…?”

“Huskarl Quinn,” Leyna answered, feeling lightheaded.

“Oh yes, that’s right,” simpered Fry. “The traitor Quinn. Yes. Do you think Quinn will be the first to die tomorrow? Or will there be a warm up?”

Without thinking, Leyna seized Fry by the ruff of her shirt.

“You’re lying. Quinn hasn’t been trialled yet.”

“Perhaps I misheard,” said Fry. “But if I’m right…it really is for the best, don’t you think? After bringing the Royal Guard into disrepute?”

Leyna shoved Fry against the wall and pushed past the guards, too angry for words as she stormed up the steps. She had to find the chamberlain and get confirmation—now.

The meeting with the chamberlain went better than Leyna could have hoped for. He was nothing but professional, giving no indication he had witnessed her compromising position only minutes ago, and she was grateful for his discretion.

She shared her concerns about what Professor Fry had said on the stairwell, and was relieved to learn that Fry had exaggerated much of what had officially been announced.

While there were indeed executions scheduled to begin the following day, neither Quinn nor Beatrice were scheduled.

“They are high-profile cases,” explained Percy. “Beatrice’s trial is later this week, and we have yet to set a trial date for Quinn. As for the other traitors, those who have already been trialled and found guilty will be executed publicly this week, beginning tomorrow morning.”

Amongst the morbid topic, she was further relieved to learn that Fry had exaggerated her role in the executions. Contrary to what the professor had implied, no one expected Leyna to carry out the executions herself. This relief was short-lived, however, as Percy expanded on her actual role.

“As head of the Arrest Unit, you will have the great honour of escorting the prisoners to the scaffold,” he said solemnly. “There, you will present them to the executioner. I know it is not an easy thing, but I trust you will be capable of carrying out your orders?”

“Yes, sir,” she mumbled, twisting the sleeves of her cloak.

How on earth was she going to lead the prisoners to the execution platform, knowing they would die there?

What if Quinn is found guilty? Will I have to walk him to the scaffold too? With Grace watching?

It would be the end of her friendship with Grace. It wouldn’t matter what Quinn had done. Even if he’d slain hundreds of innocent men, women and children in wolf form, it wouldn’t offset the damage to their friendship—Grace would never forgive her for facilitating his death, and even if she did, Leyna would not be able to look her in the eye.

Percy noticed her distress.

“There, there,” he said, letting out a long sigh. “No one can deny that these are difficult times. But try not to worry, it’s for the best. We must do the hard thing now so the kingdom can heal. Speaking of which, how goes your investigation?”

The change in topic startled her.

“It’s going well, sir,” she lied, and gave a progress report, listing the potential suspects: Quinn, his father the steward, the headmaster of the Wizarding Guild, Professor Fry, the Brotherhood, and a handful of others. She even listed Lord Brighton, but purposefully did not mention the jester, knowing it was the disguise that Finnigan preferred for its versatility across social circles. She hesitated before admitting to the chamberlain that he himself was a suspect—but this only made him smile.

“At least you’re being thorough,” Percy said, leaning back in his chair and adjusting his spectacles. “Although, I had hoped by now you would have narrowed it down somewhat. And what about the Brotherhood? Have you been able to identify any of its members?”

It was an objective Leyna was unaware of.

“Err, no, not yet.”

“Pity.” The chamberlain turned to stare out the window.

She hurried to recover. “But I do plan to question Maurice and Firmin.”

Percy’s gaze returned to her. “Maurice and Firmin?”

“I’m just waiting for the testimony from you, sir. I’d like to read it first before I approach either of the guards.”

The chamberlain blinked several times.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“The testimony,” she repeated. “The steward said you would give me a copy. He sent a guard to convey the request?”

Percy continued to blink.

“I’m afraid I never received such a request.”

“Oh.”

“However, I think that’s an excellent idea.” He clucked his tongue, then offered her a friendly smile. “Silly me. How can I possibly expect you to do your job without a copy of that report? You should have had it from the beginning. It’s like trying to do the job with your hands tied, isn’t it?”

He gave an awkward titter, and Leyna tried to return his smile.

“So, does that mean you’ll give me a copy?”

“Absolutely,” he nodded, but made no move to get up.

Leyna frowned. “When?”

“Well, I’ll need to create a copy. But I daresay I can have it to you by this evening.”

“Can’t I just see the original?”

The chamberlain shook his head. “I’m afraid that’s not how things are done. The Council simply cannot afford to lose the original, you see. But do not worry, you will receive a notarised document which will have been certified as a true copy by another court official. Now, is there anything else I can be of assistance with?”

There was. She asked about the application for the magical spears, and Percy assured her he’d forwarded it to the steward.

Her hands clenched under the table. What was going on? Was someone intercepting communication between the steward and the chamberlain?

“Is there anything else?” asked Percy, but his tone was calm and patient, as if he had all the time in the world for her. Through his window, she saw a spectator fly past in the far distance, rolling elegantly through the clouds.

“Actually, sir, I wanted to ask if you are alright.”

“Me? How kind of you to ask.”

“It’s just that I know the steward has you summoning demons for him,” she said in an undertone. “And I know the demon summonings are dangerous.”

“I just worry about the risks,” said Leyna. “And how it affects our treaty."

“Oh, as do I,” he said, rubbing his throat. “As you know, I’ve devoted a good portion of my career to improving foreign relations with Kormend. I have kept them informed of our circumstances and they are aware. I believe the important thing is to take tread carefully. In regards to the demon summonings, I am taking precautions and each contract is created with the utmost care. For instance, Prince Seth’s safety is central to every single contract. The demons cannot attack him, even if he were to strike them. And Seth has the final authority on the demons, which I felt was only fitting seeing as he is the Crown Prince.”

It was fitting for a Crown Prince. But was it fitting for a thirteen-year-old boy to be able to control a dozen demon hounds? The final authority clause meant that he could overrule even the lord regent’s command of the demons.

“It might reassure you to know,” Percy added, “that thus far, in terms of the demon hounds, there has only been one summoning. The Demon Book is a remarkable thing—it allowed me to summon an entire group in one sitting, all tied to a single contract. And as you can see, our demon program has been heralded a success.” He clasped his hands in satisfaction. “So, on the balance, I think the lord regent made the best decision. The demons are imperative to maintaining safety, especially when our enemies have an army of their own.”

Leyna was not entirely reassured, but she couldn’t help but agree. Over a week had passed without incident since the demon hounds were summoned, and so far, there was no evidence that they were anything but safe. They patrolled the grounds dutifully, and apart from their horrible appearance and sinister natures, they did nothing more untoward than to snicker at the gentry.

At risk of sounding impertinent, she asked: “Sir, why didn’t you tell me about the Demon Book sooner? When you made me an investigator, we discussed the book’s theft, but you never mentioned it was in the castle.”

“Oh. Didn’t I?” He rubbed his head, his silver hair standing on end as he did so. “It’s been a while since our last meeting, perhaps we should touch base more often? I’m afraid I can’t quite recall everything that was discussed—I know we covered a lot of information when I made you investigator. Oh, and speaking of promotions…” Percy’s face lit up as he appraised her. “Congratulations on your promotion to Head of the Arrest Unit.”

Despite the pride in his tone, Leyna shifted uncomfortably. Would she sound ungrateful if she admitted not wanting the position?

I may as well make use of my new status, she thought. For Quinn.

“I’m planning on visiting Quinn at the earliest opportunity,” she said.

Percy nodded sympathetically. “Excellent. It will be good for the investigation—and good for Huskarl Quinn as well. The poor boy…it breaks my heart to see him mixed up in all this, it must be so confusing for him.”

Leyna braced herself. “Ideally, I’d like to take Grace with me,” she ventured.

Percy’s reacted better than she’d hoped. “Oh, that sounds splendid! Yes, it’s sad to see a young couple separated so cruelly.”

“Yes, but it will be a little difficult to get past the guards.” Her eyes flickered to meet Percy’s. “They’ll know Grace isn’t supposed to be there.”

He scratched his small chin. “Hmm. That is certainly a challenge, isn’t it?”

He went quiet, lost in thought as he stared out the window. Leyna hoped he would offer a solution, but after a few awkward minutes, she felt compelled to break the silence.

“Sir, how did you convince the lord regent to give me access to the Demon Door?”

Percy’s brow furrowed. “Actually, I think it was you who convinced him.”

“Me?”

“Yes. Something about his son being lonely? That he could use a friendly face? Whatever you said, Huskarl Leyna, it seems our lord regent trusts you.” Percy tittered. “Moreover, I don’t think our lord regent had a choice. Poor Captain Marton could not cope by himself—he was at the end of his tether with the pressure of his new duties. But now, he can finally delegate some of those dungeon tasks to you.”

She tensed. She didn’t want to spend any more time in the dungeons than she already did.

As she was leaving his office, Chamberlain Percy called her back. He didn’t look up as he organised his desk, but his voice was clear: “Tomorrow evening may be an opportune time for you and Huskarl Grace to visit your friend.”

Leyna frowned as she halted in the doorway. “Sir?”

Percy looked up, his unblinking eyes locking on hers. “Tomorrow evening, you may find that there are no guards near the dungeon’s entrance. A small…lapse in security, if you will.”

“Sir?" she whispered, scarcely believing her ears. Was he really going to help them?

“While unintended, a slight hiccup with the guard roster has been known to happen from time to time. And as you’re aware, the Arrest Unit won’t be operating this week while the executions take place. So the courtyard will be rather quiet.” He paused. “I truly meant what I said to you the other week about freeing Quinn—and seeing his belle might be just what he needs to lift his spirits.”

Leyna’s eyes widened, and all she could do was stare at the chamberlain. Did he mean what she thought he meant?

He lowered his chin, his gaze piercing until the movement caused his spectacles to catch the light, and his lenses flashed blinding white.

“Tomorrow at midnight,” he said.

As Leyna left the chamberlain’s office, mulling over his words, she was startled to see Professor Fry in the corridor. Leyna stopped dead in her tracks, but strangely, without uttering a single word, the short slender woman turned on her heel and walked in the opposite direction.

Chapter Thirty-Four

The Executions

THE ARREST UNIT HAD the evening off to rest before the following morning’s executions. It was a welcome change to go to bed at a reasonable time, but her dreams were haunted by a small, blue-eyed boy. It was winter in the dream, and Toby was alone as he wandered the dark, windswept streets of Royad, bleating for his mother. Each time the shivering boy stumbled in the snow, Leyna’s heart broke a little more.

No child deserved to be without a mother.

When she woke, her pillow was wet with tears. She wished for Finnigan. She hadn’t seen him since the Trophy Room, and she longed for someone to hold her. How would he react if she told him she’d tried to shelter the son of a traitor? Would he be sympathetic? Or would he call her a traitor sympathiser?

She wanted to confide in him about Toby, but first, she needed to establish whether he worked for the Brotherhood. Until then, she couldn’t risk bringing more trouble upon Jill.

Her chest was tight as she waited for the dawn. The executions loomed nearer with every hour that passed, and the contentment she had felt wrapped in Finnigan’s arms yesterday was now a distant memory. Percy had shown her the engineer’s drawings of the scaffold that were being erected in the market square, and she couldn’t get the image of the sketches out of her head.

It was real—people were going to die. How in the world would she lead a living, breathing person to their death tomorrow morning?

No, not tomorrow morning. This morning.

The dawn was near.

She was amongst the first to arrive in the yards, and she paced uneasily as the early rays of light broke through the morning greyness. She felt as if she might throw up and had to clutch at the yard fencing several times to steady herself.

Captain Marton expressed sympathy in his own unique way. “Bring a bucket with you.”

“A bucket, sir?”

“For your sick. For your vomit, girl. It helps to get it all out. Think of it as a purging of the crimes wrought against us.”

She watched him stride away, speechless. One thing was for sure—she would not be riding into Royad with a bucket strapped to Budsworth.

I need to pull myself together.

The yards became busy as castle folk left for the market square, some on foot, others on horseback or in carriages. She was trying to collect her breath when the chamberlain pulled her aside for a word.

“Lord Chamberlain,” she greeted, “is everything alright?”

He was pale and dabbing at his forehead with a handkerchief.

“Yes, yes, fine, thank you Leyna. I don’t much like these messy affairs. I’ll be glad when this day is over.”

“Me too,” she admitted. “Also, I’m, err, still waiting on the testimony. It never arrived last night.”

Percy startled.

“Oh yes, my apologies for the delay. I was meaning to do that for you, but last night became rather busy. In fact, that’s why I need to speak with you. There’s been a development.”

He lowered his voice, and she leant in closer.

“Last night, the lord regent arranged an expedited trial for Huskarl Beatrice, and she was found guilty.”

Leyna’s stomach dropped. “Huskarl Beatrice was found guilty?”

“Yes. And it’s Traitor Beatrice now, actually. She was stripped of her titles, and she will be the first to be executed this morning—Captain Marton is already aware, but I felt I should let you know in person.”

She swallowed. “I appreciate that, sir. But…so soon? I thought there would be more time. I haven’t even had a chance to question her. And if the trial was only yesterday—”

“She is guilty beyond a reasonable doubt,” said Percy. “And it is the Council’s opinion that given the gravity of Traitor Beatrice’s crimes, it is prudent to expedite her execution.” He fidgeted anxiously. “You must understand, Huskarl Leyna: the public is growing impatient. What you and I know to be due care, attention, and diligence to our duties, the citizens of Rosaria unfortunately perceive as inaction. I have done all I can to temper the opinion of the court, but I’m but one man. Even the Council is divided, but we must provide a united front and consider the welfare of all Rosarians. All things considered, I think we are showing a generous amount of empathy for Traitor Beatrice.”

Leyna couldn't help but agree, but even so, words failed her. “Sir, I didn’t expect this. I…sir, she’s a huskarl. I don’t know if…” I don’t know if I can do it.

“I know it is a delicate matter,” Percy said soothingly, “especially given Traitor Beatrice was once a huskarl…but remember, she is not a huskarl anymore. Now, do you feel fit to see to your duty?”

He waited for her answer, his eyes watery beyond the fogged-up spectacles.

“I…I don’t know if I can.” She shifted, and felt her damp shirt cling to her arms and neck.

“There is another thing I will mention,” Percy said, “something I have been unsure about whether to tell you. The last thing I wish to do is add to your grief, but perhaps, you have a right to know…”

She hugged herself, unwilling to hear more bad news. “What is it?”

“Traitor Beatrice is responsible for Huskarl Bancroft’s death. He died by her hands.” His hand glided to rest on her shoulder. “I know you and Bancroft were close, and I know this must be a lot to take in…”

Leyna clutched at the wall behind her, reeling. Had Bancroft truly died at the hands of Beatrice? It couldn’t be… “Are you sure?”

“Yes, she confessed at the trial. Oh, and she laughed.”

Her fingernails bit into her palms.

“She…laughed?”

“Yes. Horrible, isn’t it?

It was horrible—especially since Beatrice was not known to laugh.

“Leyna…?” Percy prompted. “Are you alright?”

She nodded stiffly. “Yes. And you don’t have to worry about the executions, sir…I’ll do what has to be done.”

“Excellent.” He gave her an awkward pat on the back, then sighed as he surveyed the yards. “I think you and I can agree that these are unprecedented times.”

The rest of Percy’s words echoed until Leyna could no longer make them out, and she was only vaguely aware of taking her place in the yards as soldiers assembled. Captain Marton ascended the raised wooden platform to address them.

“I’d like to remind you all of your duties. Each and every one of you has lost someone to the Court Massacre. Each of you has suffered. But today is your day. It is a great day, a day in which we heal our kingdom. Now is not the time to grow faint-hearted. No. It is the time to honour your people and the office you serve. Today sets Rosaria on the path of healing. Today, we step into a brighter future, and we leave old pains behind. Today is our day.”

Leyna might have been inspired had the captain ended his speech there, but he continued:

“And the executions are integral to that future. The executioner’s axe is symbolic—it is our vengeance! And it is our righteous anger!”

He beat his chest with a gauntleted fist, making the armour plate clang to emphasise his words, and many of the surrounding soldiers echoed the motion amidst cries of ‘hear hear’.

Leyna inhaled through her nose, trying to contain the nausea that was lurking somewhere between her throat and stomach. She managed not to vomit, but when the captain dismissed them, her feet were like lead as she went down to the dungeon with a small unit of guards. The captain came with her, and at first, she thought it was because he wanted to talk to Beatrice, to look his former soldier in the eye. But he did no such thing. Instead, he reminded Leyna of the standard procedure for escorting prisoners, emphasising the importance of the silencing charm.

With the captain peering over her shoulder, and fearing what the foul-mouthed woman would have to say, Leyna silenced her before the cell door had even been unlocked.

Beatrice’s condition was horrifying to behold. She’d been given no opportunity to wash, and her scarred face was made all the more terrifying by the grime that caked it. The huskarl’s appearance made Leyna feel guilty about the silencing charm, at least for a few seconds. When the former huskarl was brought out of her cell by two burly guards, her face was contorted with rage. She thrashed and fought the guards, screaming all the while, screaming words that no one could hear.

Her spittle flecked Leyna’s face, and several times, she came close to striking Leyna.

“Bloody mad,” grunted one guard, after copping a backhand across his face.

“Get her under control,” Captain Marton barked.

As they began the long journey back up to the surface, any second thoughts Leyna may have had about the silencing charm vanished, and she led the way up the stairs, a task made dangerous by Beatrice, who constantly tried to knock her guards off balance. Even the growling demon hounds did not deter the former huskarl, and she kicked at one fiercely, her boot nearly connecting with the beast’s jaw.

Leyna drew a sharp breath. Had she not missed, the demon might have taken advantage of the opportunity to ‘protect’ the castle, and there might have been one less prisoner to execute.

Beatrice was one of three prisoners to be executed that day, but it was her punishment that attracted the most interest, and as they rode to Royad’s market square, the dense streets were packed with citizens vying to get a closer look at her. The prisoners were transported by cart, partly because they were too weak to make the short journey, but also to protect them from the angry crowd that threatened to press in, kept at bay only by their dreaded demon escorts. The demon hounds’ warped appearance commanded attention, and despite the congested streets, the sight of the gruesome creatures quickly cleared a path for the wagon as it trundled towards the execution site.

As if sensing her stare, one of the demon hounds turned its squat face back to look at her, never breaking stride as its neck swivelled more than was natural, its human-like eyes already fixed on hers. She shuddered, her knuckles turning white as she gripped the reins.

The demons, the angry crowd, the executions…it was too much.

No. I can do this. I have to do this. I’m a huskarl. This is my duty.

But then panic rose, overtaking logic, and she was ready to flee.

“Steady, girl,” she said out loud, as if she were speaking to Budsworth. “You’ve got this.”

Too soon, they arrived at the market square. The scaffold was new and seemed out of place. It had been hastily erected during the night, the sawn edges of timber splintered and unsanded.

Urged on by the jeering crowd, she led Beatrice, who was restrained by the two guards from earlier, towards the scaffold.

Wooden steps creaked. The executioner waited above.

Wobbly on the steps. And not because of her bad leg. How was it that Beatrice could manage the steps so well? She was fearless, and even with the grime on her face, she looked dignified.

The lord regent, Marek Volak, addressed the crowd, shouting to be heard over the warm, howling wind that blew through the square.

Leyna felt herself swaying on the tall wooden platform, hoping she wouldn’t fall into the mass of people below. The crowd’s collective noise was as loud as a storm.

And then, she heard nothing at all, as if someone had found a way to mute the noise. There was only silence.

A deafening, noisy silence.

Everything was still.

Blue skies.

Skies so blue, it could have been market day again.

Everything was a jumble, and time lost its meaning.

Nothing was happening in the right order, and the orange juice that had seemed sweet at breakfast now churned in her stomach.

How did she get here?

She had climbed the scaffold steps, putting one foot in front of the other.

…had arrived at the market square and dismounted.

…had ridden from the castle alongside the wagon.

…had unlocked Beatrice’s cell.

…had silenced her.

…had tossed and turned in her bed as nightmares of a lost boy plagued her—another sweat-soaked nightgown joined the basket.

Standing on the scaffold, Leyna took a shaky breath. At least it wasn’t Jill’s turn yet. She had reviewed the schedule in the captain’s office last night before dinner, her finger trailing down the list of dates and names until Mrs. Jill Dobay caught her eye. There wasn’t even an execution date yet, only a trial set for next week. Relief had washed over her knowing Jill still had time.

A flash of blue and gold caught Leyna’s eye—but it was only her banderole, the long strip of fabric picked up by the hot summer wind. The banner meant many things to her, but today, the Rutherford colours represented the king’s justice.

Is this justice?

She looked down at Beatrice who was shouting again. Shouting at her.

Shouting over and over again.

But shouting what?

With the silencing charm in place, there was no way to know.

Leyna clenched her fists tightly and searched the crowd of Rosarians below, hoping to spot Finnigan. She wished he was here now. Was he here as Lord Brighton, or as Jester? Or as someone else entirely?

She wanted Finnigan here. Just Finnigan. But would he say she was doing the right thing? Would he understand she had no other choice?

The guards forced Beatrice to her knees and pushed her head forward so it rested on the wooden block.

Leyna tried to console herself that none of this would be happening if Beatrice wasn’t guilty.

And, if by some chance Beatrice really is innocent, I’m sure someone will arrive at the last moment to rescue her.

Her heart fluttered as she glanced around hopefully.

Any minute now, someone would yell stop!, and the execution would be called off.

Beatrice lifted her chin. Her hard eyes were a soft brown, something Leyna had never noticed before, and they bore into hers, conveying so much emotion that it felt like a knife wound in her chest. In that moment, Leyna no longer saw the battle-hardened soldier with the scarred face. Instead, she only saw a woman. A proud, heartbroken woman.

Beatrice’s brown eyes pierced her, condemned her, beseeched her. For all she knew, those eyes could have contained a world, a life, a future, and in that instant, she knew she would never, ever be able to erase the soft brown eyes from her memory. Even though Beatrice had killed Bancroft, Leyna could not hate her now.

Like the turning of the wind, something changed in the air and Beatrice deflated, no longer fighting the bindings that held her.

That’s when the realisation hit: no one was coming to save Beatrice. No one would step forward to speak on her behalf.

If I don’t say something soon…

A naïve part of her thought of lifting the silencing charm to hear what Beatrice had to say, but the notion was only half-formed and difficult to pin down as her vision swam.

It’s not too late. I can say something.

But what was there to say? Beatrice was a traitor. She had killed Bancroft. She had killed the queen.

But then why did she return to the castle?

The question jolted her to life, and suddenly, the pieces clicked together in her mind, almost completing the puzzle.

But the executioner had raised his axe. The steel blade was large, curved, and viciously sharp.

Beatrice was out of time.

“Wait!” cried Leyna, stepping forward. The sound of her own voice surprised her, as if it was not her own. It was loud and pure, more authoritative than it had ever been before. The crowd gasped, the collective sound rushing around the square like a gust of wind.

The executioner hesitated at the peak of his swing, then slowly lowered his axe. With a wave of her hand, Leyna lifted the silencing charm, and lowered herself to one knee before Beatrice.

She was worried the woman would scream, but the fight had left her.

She’s scared. She’s been so brave, but she’s petrified.

“Beatrice, listen to me. I’ve lifted the spell so you can talk. I want to help. Tell me, did you kill Bancroft?”

The older huskarl looked dazed and did not respond.

“Beatrice, please, this is important. Answer my question so I can help you. So I can save you. Did you kill Bancroft?”

Beatrice licked her dry lips. “No, of course not.”

“What about the queen? They say you killed Queen Claire.”

“That’s bullshit.” Beatrice spat. “You should speak to Quinn Volak.”

“To Quinn?”

Beatrice bared her teeth in answer, a spark of fury in her eyes, as if daring Leyna to challenge her.

That spark of life in those soft brown eyes would haunt Leyna forever, because in the next instant, Beatrice was killed.

Someone must have given a signal, overriding her command.

The axe swung down, and she didn’t look away in time. She saw the beheading. She heard the thunk. Beatrice’s headless body fell away from the world, and the blade of the axe was the only thing left upon the stained wooden block.

“No,” she said, rising unsteadily as blood pooled towards her boots. “Who gave the order?” she demanded, but her voice was drowned out by the crowd. Were they upset? Or were they cheering? She found she didn’t care. “Wait,” she said to no one in particular, feeling dizzy.

Was that it? Was Beatrice gone?

It was a mercifully quick end for a traitor, but it had been so sudden, so fleeting, that it felt like a mistake—a mistake that could be undone. As if tomorrow, she could wake up, and try again. Maybe then, it would be different.

Except that it can’t be undone. She felt unsteady as a warm breeze enveloped her. The former huskarl was gone and, with her, an intangible dream that a young Leyna had once had of following in her footsteps.

The world spun as Leyna fell backwards, hitting the wooden scaffold steps with a bang. She lost all sense of attachment to the world, and her head hung over the edge of the steps. She looked up, blinking at the sky.

Blue skies.

It could have been market day.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Professor Maisy Fry

“I HAVE TO SEE Quinn.” Grace seemed so desperate that Leyna did not argue with her.

“Alright.”

“Alright?” Grace asked, whirled around to face her.

“Yes, I’ll take you. I’m head of the Arrest Unit now—I can grant you access through the Demon Door. But no one must know, I’ll be breaking the rules—”

“Oh, Leyna,” cried Grace, flinging her arms around her. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

“Wait,” she said as Grace leapt off the bed and donned her cloak. “Where are you going? We can’t go now.”

“Why not?” she asked, fastening the cloak.

“Because there are guards everywhere, especially during the day. We should wait until nightfall. Less chance of being caught.”

“But won’t there be guards in the evening as well?”

Leyna hesitated. “I’ve taken care of it.”

It was a few hours after Beatrice’s execution and Leyna’s fainting spell. An embarrassed captain had sent her back early, accompanied by Grace. Skipping lunch, they had returned to her room and rung the service bell, but strangely, Sophie didn’t appear.

“She might have gone to the executions,” Grace said. “She should be back soon.

Leyna rested on the bed, but Grace paced, gripping her arms so tight she left fingernail marks on her skin. “I don’t think I can wait, Leyna. I can’t just leave Quinn in the dungeon and wait for him to be executed! I can’t do it.”

It was a miracle Grace would stay put—upon their return, they’d learnt from Lord Saunders that Quinn’s trial was set to take place tomorrow. Considering his usual distractedness, it came as a surprise that her father knew anything about the goings-on in the castle.

“What if they find him guilty?” Grace said. “What if they execute him straight away, like they did with Beatrice? This could be my last chance to see him!”

Too distressed to keep it to herself, Leyna had told Grace what Beatrice had said about Quinn—and the implications that he had murdered the queen. It was not the first time Grace had felt scared while discussing Quinn, but it was the first time that doubt had flickered across her face, as if she was scared of him. But the moment had been fleeting, and Grace had seemingly pushed that fear aside.

“I have to see him,” she mumbled. “I have to hear him say it.”

“Shh, it’s alright,” Leyna promised, ringing the service bell again. “We’ll go see him tonight. And we can see what he has to say.”

“I don’t care what he has to say. We need to rescue him.”

Leyna spun around. “What?”

“We need to rescue Quinn,” Grace stated. “We can’t just leave him in the dungeon. We need to do something.”

The suggestion was ridiculous. “We can’t.”

“Why not?

“Wait,” said Leyna. “You’re serious?”

“Yes, of course, I’m serious! He’s the love of my life—and our friend. What if he’s found guilty tomorrow? We need to help him.”

Leyna raised her hands helplessly. “He needs to help himself. If he’s not guilty, why doesn’t he say so?”

“Because, Quinn’s never been good at standing up for himself. I don’t know who’s making him say these things, but…” Grace trailed off, as if doubting her own words.

“Do you think,” Leyna began, “that Quinn’s father is responsible for the Massacre? Do you think he’s using Quinn as a scapegoat?”

“I don’t think so. I…I don’t understand what’s happening. But Marek loves his son, I’m sure of it…”

She didn’t share Grace’s conviction. She remembered a time when she’d seen a thirteen-year-old Quinn with a black eye. He’d refused to talk about it, but it was easy to conclude how he’d gotten it after a servant hinted at an argument he’d overheard in the Volak’s suite.

“Leyna,” said Grace, and it was a plea.

She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Grace. But Quinn has been accused of the worst possible crimes. If he’s found guilty, then it’s out of my hands.”

Grace still didn’t understand. Leyna patted the bed, and she came to sit beside her.

“Grace, do you know what would happen to me if I released him?” Grace didn’t answer, but she continued anyway.

“I would be tried for treason for helping a traitor escape—and executed. You know that. And you could be arrested for even asking that of me.”

Grace folded her arms. “So, you’re going to arrest me now?”

“No!” she said hurriedly. “Of course not. But you need to be careful about who you say these things to. Not everyone can be trusted.”

Grace’s shoulders slumped. “I know. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be asking.”

“It’s not even that. Grace, we’re friends. You can ask me anything. It’s just…I just don’t think it’s as easy as opening a cell door.” Leyna wondered how her friend, who’d been overjoyed with the prospect of seeing Quinn a few minutes ago, could now look more miserable than ever. “Grace, why don’t we get some fresh air?”

Alone on her parents’ balcony, they leant against the railing, too restless to sit. Grace hadn’t been eating well, and she was too slim in her pale-blue dress as it fluttered in the warm breeze. There were grey circles beneath her eyes, and even her cheeks had lost their full plumpness.

Leyna tapped on the stone railing as a thought occurred to her. “Grace, supposing Quinn did somehow escape…where would he go?”

“It doesn’t matter, but I would go with him,” she said immediately. “Wherever he goes…I would follow.”

Leyna half-turned to face Grace. “I don’t think you understand what that means. If Quinn runs from this, he’ll be a fugitive forever. He’ll be on the run, hiding, hunted for the rest of his life.”

Grace bit her lip. “Yes. But he would be alive. And free.”

“But it’s not the life he deserves.” She looked at Grace pointedly. “It’s not the life either of you deserve. But if Quinn stays for the trial, he has a chance of life going back to normal.”

“Oh Leyna,” Grace whispered, “do you really think life can still go back to normal? After everything that’s happened?”

“I hope so.”

The jar of violin rosin was bulky in Leyna’s pocket. The other week, before she’d left the market with Grace and Seth, she’d gone back and bought it from the merchant on a whim. That felt like an eternity ago.

So much had happened since that she’d forgotten all about it until now. The demons in the castle unsettled her. The executions had shaken her. And love—if that was what it was—had caught her off guard. She had to see Finnigan.

Out in the corridor, she was surprised to find Fry near the staircase. She slowed her steps, braced for a quarrel, but the professor ignored her, arms crossed as she leant against the bannister.

This suited Leyna just fine.

When she reached Cornelius’ room, her nerves got the better of her, and she turned back. It took three attempts before she finally had the courage to knock on his door.

Just as she was about to knock, however, the door swung open.

“Leyna!” Finnigan said in surprise. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes,” she said, trying not to fiddle with her sleeves as she took in his gentleman’s attire, which included a wine-coloured jacket trimmed with fur and a matching feathered cap. There was no mask and his face was free of makeup. “Lord Brighton, is it?” she asked wearily.

“Naturally. And may I say, this is a pleasant surprise…I was just about to come and find you.”

“You were?” she asked, stunned.

His smile widened. “Why don’t you come in?”

She only hesitated a moment before slipping inside. The door clicked shut behind them.

They hadn’t seen each other since the Trophy Room, and Leyna was unsure how to greet him. A curtsy or a bow was too formal, but she didn’t have the courage to hug him, either. Somehow, yesterday’s intimacy had only made their relationship more complicated.

Fortunately, Finnigan knew what to do, and he took her hand and kissed it. “I’ve missed you.”

She smiled shyly and whispered the words back. What happens now? She waited, but Finnigan remained silent as he held her hands, staring at them with his brow furrowed.

“Finnigan, what’s wrong?”

He squeezed her hands before releasing them and moved to sit on the bed, patting the mattress beside him. Timidly, she joined him. The room was less neat than she remembered; make-up tins were scattered on the vanity, clothes lay in jumbles on the floor, and inside the open wardrobe, masks hung askew and the outfits that had not yet fallen were threatening to slip off their hangers.

“Finnigan, what’s going on? What’s wrong?” His face was tense, and his wavy hair sat flat and depressed. A part of her wanted to reach forward and tousle it, but mostly she wanted to see him smile—his jester-like humour would have been welcome with how flat she was feeling. She peered closer. His chin was stubbled, as if he’d forgotten to shave. “You seem out of sorts.”

“I am,” he admitted, then straightened as if remembering something. “How are you, by the way? I saw you fall, and I was so worried. Is your head alright?”

“It’s fine, really.”

“I wanted to come to you when you fell. But—”

“But you were in disguise?” She’d spotted the jester on the periphery of the square as Grace led her away. “You were right not to—it would have been odd for the jester to be running up the scaffold.”

He looked away guiltily. “I still feel terrible. Standing there and watching while others attended to you…I’ve never felt so useless. I wanted to run to you.”

Leyna placed a hand on his, trying to smooth the tense muscles there. “It’s alright. And I’m alright—there were plenty of other people there to help me.”

“Ha,” he scoffed, gesturing at the messy wardrobe. “You know, over the years, I’ve used my disguises to help me get what I want. And while there were always limitations, they’ve never prevented me from something I’ve wanted so much: being there for you.”

A warmth expanded in her chest, but it was tempered by concern.

“Finnigan, is everything alright?”

He gave another half-hearted laugh. “Yes. I think I’m just having a crisis of identity.”

As touched as she was, she could tell it wasn’t the real reason for his melancholy. “Why are you really upset?” she asked, trying to wriggle her fingers inside his clenched fist until, finally, he relaxed and accepted her hand. “Is it the executions?”

He nodded. “I wasn’t prepared for them to happen today—especially not Beatrice’s execution.”

“Were you close to Beatrice?”

“No. But her trial was rushed. These things normally take time. Not days or weeks, like you would expect, but months. For Beatrice to be executed the very next day seems hasty.”

“I’m sure there was a good reason,” she said feebly. “There’s pressure on the lord regent and the Royal Council to do something to regain the people’s approval.”

“Yes, but it’s a woman’s life.”

“I know,” she conceded. “I’m just trying to make sense of it myself.” Neither of them had been aware of Beatrice’s trial, let alone been able to gain access, but had learnt that the female huskarl was questioned before a panel of officials, including Steward Marek and the Royal Council members.

“An interrogation behind closed doors is not a fair trial,” Finnigan said.

“Nothing about this is fair,” she replied hotly, releasing his hand. “Least of all the Court Massacre. Look at the lives lost. Look at the suffering. The traitors who did this need to be held accountable.”

She wasn’t annoyed at Finnigan, not really. She was merely frustrated by her own helplessness—and as the emotions rose to the surface, she made one last attempt at calmness. Folding her hands in her lap, she said: “It’s a difficult time, but the executions will help heal the kingdom.”

Finnigan flinched. “Healing? How can more bloodshed lead to healing?”

She shook her head, annoyed at herself for repeating the captain’s stupid words, which sounded even stupider now that she’d spoken them out loud. Why was she so angry?

The tension crackled between them, building until she couldn’t breathe, until…

Until Finnigan took her hand again, his touch gentle, and she could breathe again.

“I don’t want us to fight,” he murmured.

“Neither do I. I’m just angry after what happened today.”

“I would be, too. I saw you remove the silencing charm from Beatrice.”

“Yes, I had to speak to her. To ask her if she’d killed Bancroft.”

Finnigan frowned. “Why would you think she’d killed Bancroft?”

“Because she said so at her trial. But…” she frowned, tucking loose hair behind her ear. “She denied it on the scaffold. And I asked her if she’d killed the queen, but she never had the chance to answer. Someone must have overrode my order. Did you see who it was?”

“I did, actually. It was Captain Marton.”

Leyna’s eyes widened, but then her shoulders slumped. “That doesn’t tell me much.” The captain was usually slow and measured in his decisions, and wasn’t one for taking initiative. “Did you see who gave him the order?”

Finnigan shook his head. “I’m afraid I only had eyes for you.”

He was exaggerating, but it was a sweet thing to say.

“So, I came to talk to you…” she began. The executions had inflamed her concern for Jill and Toby, and she needed to tell someone to get it off her chest. But she had to be sure she could trust Finnigan. She turned to him in a business-like manner. “Are you in the Brotherhood?”

She was convinced he would finally answer her—it was obvious he wanted to—but when his eyes met hers, there was a world of ‘no’ lurking behind the serene blue.

He said nothing.

She blew the hair out of her face and changed tack. “Well, at least tell me why you’re upset. It’s not because of something I’ve done, is it?”

He straightened. “No, of course not.”

“Then what is it, Finnigan? Please, I can see you’re hurting.”

Finnigan gave a half-smile. “I don’t know how to begin. Or how much I can say.”

“Then say what you can. You can trust me. We’re…we’re a couple now, right?”

It was a bold thing to say, but the tight expression on Finnigan’s face seemed to ease as he met her eyes, flecks of light dancing in the pools of blue.

“Yes,” he said. “I believe we are.”

Holding her gaze, he kneaded her palms, which she suspected was as much a self-soothing motion as it was an affectionate one. She was trying to summon the courage to lean in and kiss him when he spoke.

“Leyna, there’s something I need to tell you.”

“Oh?”

“Or rather, someone that I haven’t told you about.”

She froze, but Finnigan continued to stroke her hand.

“There is someone here at the castle who is very dear to me, and she’s in danger. I fear for her life.”

Leyna’s stomach hardened.

Her? Finnigan had said ‘her.’ Did that mean…?

“Someone who is…dear to you?” she ventured.

“Yes, I’m sorry I haven’t told you, but I had to protect her. I love her, she’s—”

They both flinched as someone knocked on the door.

“Just ignore it,” he murmured, and they sat still.

The knock came again.

“I’ll send whoever it is away,” said Finnigan, rising.

Stunned, Leyna remained seated, her heart thumping as his words echoed in her ears.

She is very dear to me…I love her…

Before Finnigan had reached thingoor, the lock clicked, and it swung open, revealing Professor Fry.

“Cornelius, sweetie,” she greeted, adopting a sing-song voice. “Not using magic to lock your door these days? Getting sloppy!”

Her eyes honed in on Leyna sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realise you had company!” Her false tone made Leyna suspect that she’d known she was here. Had Fry followed her? “I hope I’m not interrupting anything?”

“You are, actually,” said Finnigan shortly, which made Leyna look up at him in surprise. She had never heard anyone rebuff Fry so bluntly before. “It’s not a good time, Maisy.”

“Ah, I understand,” the blonde woman said, adjusting her bun while shooting daggers at Leyna from the corner of her eye. “In that case, I’ll come find you another time when you aren’t quite so…busy.”

But Leyna had heard enough. Between Fry showing up unannounced and Finnigan’s heartache for a mystery woman, she didn’t need to be dealing with this right now. It was growing dark, and she needed to have a clear mind for tonight’s mission. She stood up.

“It’s fine. I’m leaving.”

“Please, stay,” said Finnigan, but she shook her head.

“I have other matters to attend to.”

“Oh, I’m sure you do,” simpered Fry, following her out the door. “I’ll walk with you!”

Leyna’s heart sunk. “I thought you were here to see Cornelius?”

“I was, but I’d much rather chat with you, sweetheart. I can come back and speak with our beguiling Cornelius anytime.”

Leyna hated the way she emphasised the word ‘anytime’, and that she was on a first-name basis with him, even if ‘Cornelius’ was just a pseudonym. Out in the corridor, she glanced back at Finnigan, who was standing in the doorway.

‘Stay,’ he mouthed, his eyes calling her back. A second later, Fry slammed the door shut.

“There, now it’s just the two of us,” she said, smiling as if they were two best friends.

“Why are you following me?” Leyna demanded.

“I’m just watching over you, sweetie.”

“On whose orders?”

Fry tilted her head in consideration. “Can’t it simply be because I care?”

Leyna desperately wanted to see the good in Fry, but it was safe to say that Fry cared nothing for her welfare.

“Leave me alone,” she said, stalking away as fast as her leg would allow. The faster she walked, the more pronounced the limp was, and she was torn between moving slowly to disguise it and putting distance between herself and Maisy Fry.

“I’m just curious what you were doing in Cornelius’ room,” smirked Fry, at her heels like a nipping terrier.

“I could ask you the same question,” Leyna muttered.

“Well, if you must know, I came to speak with Cornelius on an important matter—in a professional capacity, mark you. It concerns his uncle.” Fry tilted her head as if to gauge her reaction. “So, I’d say that I have rather more reason to seek out his acquaintance than you do.”

Leyna frowned. Finnigan had never mentioned his relatives before. “Who is Cornelius’ uncle?”

Fry smiled smugly, as if Leyna had asked the very question she was hoping to hear.

“Why, hasn’t he told you yet? Oh, dear. And for a moment, I thought you two were close! Well, if he hasn’t bothered to tell you, then it’s certainly not for me to say.”

Leyna’s nostrils flared.

“And truth be told, sweetheart, I’m rather concerned for you. Our dear Cornelius is not who you think he is.”

Fry was dangling a carrot in front of her. How much did she know about Finnigan? And why did she know more than her?

“And,” continued Fry, “while I may have official business with Cornelius, what you might be doing with him at this time of night, I couldn’t fathom!”

“He’s courting me,” said Leyna. She increased her pace to put some distance between them, but Fry’s voice floated behind her like an annoying fly.

“Courting? With no chaperone? Why, that didn’t look like courting to me! In fact, from an outside perspective, it could be mistaken as something far more scandalous…”

Leyna stopped in her tracks and spun to face Fry.

“Nothing happened,” she growled.

“Oh, I’m sure it didn’t,” said Fry, but her tone was one of disbelief. “But how is one to know? You were both alone for goodness knows how long!”

“Shut it.” She took a step towards the small woman, ready to slap her, but her left leg chose that inopportune moment to wobble.

“Careful, don’t faint again!” she tittered, but ducked out of Leyna’s reach as she swiped at the professor. And then, Fry’s voice changed, the ugliness that she hid from so many others now injected into her words. “I’d be careful if I were you, Leyna. You may have risen up the ladder thanks to your privilege, but I know that you’re neither half as talented, nor half as righteous, as you make yourself out to be.”

“Are you quite finished?” said Leyna, but Fry’s words had rattled her.

“Not quite,” she said, eyes narrowed. “I knew you were an arrogant, selfish, entitled girl the moment I met you. And here you are, parading around on the Royal Guard as if you’re better than the rest of us, when everything has been handed to you on a golden platter. But I’m going to catch you out, little Leyna. Sneaking around with a lord in his bedchamber? You’re a disgrace.”

The last words were full of disgust, and Leyna realised in that moment that nothing she could ever have said or done would have been enough to earn her Maisy Fry’s approval. It was something she wished she’d known a long time ago—a lesson that had needed repeating too many times before sinking in.

Leyna flexed the fingers of her casting hand. Anything short of a fireball was an insufficient reply, but something about Fry’s words paralysed her. Had there been truth to them?

Was she only a wizard because she was born into privilege?

Does that mean I don’t deserve to be a huskarl? Am I really arrogant and selfish?

As her former healing professor strutted away, Leyna’s casting arm remained by her side, useless against an enemy who could deal out death with words alone.

She’d left the jar of rosin on his bed. By the time she remembered, it was too late to go back. What would Finnigan make of it? She tried to distract herself from Grace’s pacing by reading a book, but her gaze slid over the words, rereading the same paragraph.

As dinner time approached, she rang the service bell. Neither of them were hungry, but they needed to eat something before the mission. The minutes passed, but Sophie did not come.

Worried, Leyna went to her parents’ suite to ask after her.

“She went for a walk to find you mint leaves, of all things,” said Lady Saunders huffily, taking her frustration out on her knitting. “But that was this morning! If I’d known she would help herself to a fine day out, then I would never have let her go! She’s probably off seeing that potter of hers.”

“Mamma, Tom is a painter,” Leyna corrected. He and Sophie were saving up so they could have a wedding and start a life together, but she doubted sharing this would bring comfort to her mother, whose knitting was growing more frantic by the second.

“Painter, potter, what difference does it make? She’s left me here, alone!” Her mother’s annoyance fell away, revealing her fear she’d been masking. “They’re saying they might organise a search party for the poor girl. What do you think could have happened to her? Oh no, look—I’ve gone and dropped a stitch!” She shoved her knitting aside. “This has been a wretch of a day!”

“Mamma, I’m sure Sophie will be back soon,” she said, and this seemed to calm her mother a bit.

But returning to her room, Leyna’s skin prickled as she glanced out the dark window. Where are you Sophie?

Midnight drew near, and Leyna and Grace were already in uniform. Grace’s pacing was making her nervous, and she tried to ignore the nervous quivers in her stomach as she waited impatiently for the minutes to tick by.

A soft knock came on the door.

“Lord Brighton!” Grace exclaimed, opening the door wide and curtsying to Finnigan.

“Good evening, Huskarl Grace,” he said. “I understand the hour is late, but I was hoping to speak with Huskarl Leyna, if it’s not too much trouble?”

“Yes, of course, do come in!” Grace ushered Finnigan inside, managing a hint of enthusiasm despite her nerves. “I’ll just be minding my business while you two talk.”

Leyna gestured for Finnigan to follow her into the sitting room.

“How can I help you?” she said formally, sitting at the far end of the chaise.

Something flashed in his eyes. Pain? He hesitated before choosing an armchair. “Leyna, I wanted to apologise for Maisy intruding on us earlier.”

She was glad he’d brought it up first. “What did she want?”

“No idea. She left with you and didn’t come back. If I had to guess, she’s probably just stirring the pot like she usually does.”

She gave him a barbed look. “Does Fry often visit your chambers in the evening?”

Finnigan’s mouth twitched. “Why, Huskarl Leyna…you’re not jealous, are you?”

“It’s a simple question.”

“And it deserves a simple answer,” he conceded. “And the answer is ‘no, not often.’ I generally lock my room, and put a detection ward in place.”

She gaped. “A detection ward? Is that how you knew I’d been in your room the first time?”

“Yes, but…I may have already had a hunch where you were before you tripped it. Or maybe,” he added with a wink, “I just hoped to find you there…”

She smoothed her cloak. “So…are you and Fry close?”

“Hardly. She’s not the most endearing person, as you’ve experienced first-hand, and I’ve had little to do with her over the years, to the point that she hardly recognised me at the Guild. But she keeps my identity a secret, so that counts for something.”

“She’s a horrible woman,” she said, rubbing at her eyes. “By the way, she mentioned something about Cornelius’ uncle.” She raised her eyebrows pointedly. “Care to elaborate?”

He scratched his nose. “It’s a secret.”

“A secret you’re keeping from me, but one that Fry knows,” she muttered, unable to keep the bitterness from her voice.

“A secret Fry will keep to herself, if she knows what’s good for her.”

“Enough. Please. Just tell me. Tell me something about yourself. Who is your uncle?”

She was tired of being kept in the dark.

Finnigan rose from the armchair and scooted to sit beside her.

“You’re right,” he said, taking her hand. “Forgive me. It’s hard because the secrets aren’t solely mine to share.” He frowned down at their hands, then said: “My uncle is none other than the esteemed headmaster of the Wizarding Guild.”

Her mouth fell open. “Master Emsworth?”

“Indeed. Perhaps you can see the resemblance?”

She leant back to examine him. Now that she knew, it was obvious. They had the same narrow face, strong cheekbones and blue eyes. Finnigan even had the same smile lines, except unlike his uncle, he was clean-shaven. They could have been father and son.

“What was that like? Having the headmaster for an uncle?”

It was strange to imagine the headmaster or any of her teachers of being real people with lives and families outside of the Guild.

Finnigan picked up a small carved elephant from a corner shelf and turned it slowly in his hands.

“The fact that he’s my uncle must remain a secret. I can’t risk anyone linking it back to the identity I left behind.”

“It’s funny that you refer to Finnigan as an identity,” she pointed out.

“Is it?” His brow furrowed. “Well, I suppose it is. I don’t get to be me very often, you see. Except with a few close friends that I trust and, of late, with you. Which is rather refreshing.”

He shrugged, his attention still on the carved sculpture.

“ I thought spies didn’t trust anyone?”

“That’s where you’re wrong. A spy who doesn’t trust anyone won’t last long. It’s who you trust that’s critical.” He turned the elephant one more time before placing it back on the shelf.

A soft knock sounded, and Grace opened the door a fraction.

“Leyna? Seth is here. I invited him to come with us tonight. Is that alright?”

Leyna sprang up. “What?”

The door swung wider, revealing a servant boy the same height as Grace who was peering at them curiously. It took Leyna a moment to recognise Seth in the plain garb, his curly brown hair hidden beneath a woollen cap.

“No, it’s not alright. It’s not a good idea.” It was a stupid idea. Going down to the dungeon with the prince in tow would not only arouse more suspicion, but potentially place Seth in harm’s way. She glanced at Finnigan, but his face revealed nothing but polite curiosity.

“I won’t get in the way, I promise,” said Seth earnestly. “Are you coming with us, Cornelius?”

Finnigan cast a good-natured smile at everyone before his gaze settled on Leyna. “Why, I don’t know. Am I?”

Leyna turned to Grace warily. “This is not what we discussed.”

“Sorry. Of course, it’s up to you—but I’d really like it if Seth could come with us.”

“Why?” she demanded. Was Grace hoping to convince the prince that Quinn was innocent? Did she think Seth would hold some sway over the trial?

She could be right.

“I just want him there,” she said. “He’s my friend as well.”

Without waiting for her answer, Grace retreated and shut the door. Leyna rested her face in her hands.

“Well, that was interesting,” mused Finnigan, pressing his fingertips together. “Why do I get the sense you’re all up to something? Not sneaking off to a party without inviting me, are you?”

Leyna gave Finnigan a summary of their plan to go down to the dungeon. He listened intently, his expression growing more pensive as she spoke.

“And you’re doing all of that just so Grace can visit Quinn?” asked Finnigan.

“Yes.” She glanced down at her hands. “Do you think it foolish?”

Finnigan shook his head with a smile. “No, not foolish. It’s kind-hearted…”

“Thank you.”

“…and kind of pointless.”

She blinked. “Pointless?”

“Yes. If you’re going to all that trouble for someone you believe is innocent, then why not help them escape while you’re at it?”

She shook her head in disbelief. “Not you, too! Look…” She leant forward and lowered her voice. “I don’t know whether Quinn is innocent or guilty. All I know is that he confessed to the crime, and there’s evidence against him. This is my only chance to speak with him before the trial…and it could be Grace’s last chance to see him. And she’s my friend, so…I’m bending the rules to make that happen…but that’s it.”

“Interesting,” said Finnigan. “And here I thought you were a stickler for the rules.”

“Well, to a degree. The rules are important, and it’s my job to enforce them.” She was tired of having to explain this. “The kingdom would fall apart if people didn’t follow the rules.”

“That’s true,” he mused. “So you’re willing to do a little rule-bending to see Quinn, but you won’t break him out?”

“Yes.”

“Interesting,” he said again. “And…that’s where you draw the line?”

“That’s where I draw the line.”

“I see.” He stroked his chin thoughtfully as he stretched his legs out onto a footstool. “You’re awfully lawful, for someone so young.”

“I’m twenty-two.”

“Yes, you are.”

“You’re older than me, and a spy for the king. So why aren’t you more lawful?”

He seemed taken aback by this. She pushed on before he could reply.

“Society doesn’t exist without rules. If we didn’t have law and order, we’d be no better than the demons. Everything would be chaos. People would loot and pillage, and no one would be safe.”

“Interesting. I never thought of it like that before. The demons don’t seem to like rules much, do they? Always trying to weasel out of their contracts.”

“My point,” she said, “is that we can’t just pick and choose which rules to follow. Order must be maintained to keep innocent people safe.”

Finnigan interlaced his fingers and stretched his arms above his head, looking thoughtful. “That’s all well and good in theory.”

“Only in theory?”

“What about when the rules are wrong? Extremism rarely serves people well.”

She adjusted her position on the seat. “I hardly think serving in the Royal Guard counts as extremism.”

“It depends who’s holding the reins.”

She shot him a quizzical look.

“Leyna, we don’t live in a bubble. Life involves other people, so it’s far better to compromise. You’ll get further ahead that way.”

“I don’t care about getting further ahead,” she muttered. ”I just want things to go back to the way they were.”

“For the record, I would like that as well. And on that note…” he pulled out the jar she’d left on his bed. “I wanted to thank you for your gift. It’s a fine rosin.”

Her eyes widened. “Wh-why did you bring it here? Don’t you want it?”

Finnigan startled at her question, and clutched the jar close. “Not at all! The opposite, in fact. I was rather touched by your gift, and I suppose I did not want to part with it so soon.”

She smiled. “That’s kind of sweet.”

“Ah, yes, well…” He rubbed his neck in a manner so endearing that she was tempted to throw caution to the wind and kiss him.

She shuffled closer. “I hope you will play for me one day,” she murmured.

He leant in. “It would be my pleasure.”

A soft knock came at the door, and she drew back hastily.

“Leyna? It’s time,” called Grace.

She stood and placed Floofy down on the armchair—he did not like the Demon Door, or the dungeon for that matter, and she had no intention of bringing him tonight. “I really need to go now.”

“Yes, of course,” he said, rising. “But perhaps I could come?”

“You want to come with us? Why?”

Finnigan moved with elegance as he approached, the cut of his fine clothes emphasising his long, lean body. Her breathing hitched as he took her hand and kissed her palm, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. His eyes never left hers as he said: “It’s a chance to spend time with you. Isn’t that reason enough?”

It was impossible to say no to those sparkling blue eyes.

Chapter Thirty-Six

The Dungeon

TRUE TO THE CHAMBERLAIN’S word, there were no guards outside the dungeon door, and entering the dungeon felt embarrassingly easy.

“That was easy,” Seth said lightly, as they descended the long series of stone steps. Their blue light orbs were the only source of light. He surprised Leyna by summoning a light orb as well. “Grace taught me,” he explained proudly.

Standing before the Demon Door, however, was daunting. Leyna verbally granted access to Grace, Seth and Finnigan to allow them to pass through the door safely. After declaring the new permissions out loud, the door responded with nothing but silence, its large, human-like eyes fixed on hers, and its smile gleeful.

The Demon Door gave a low chuckle and said: “Please, do come in,” before eagerly opening its wide maw.

That was the easy part. Overcoming their fear of passing through the door was infinitely more difficult. Grace and Seth had never laid eyes on the door before, but had heard enough about it to regard it with caution.

“Are you sure it’s safe?” asked Seth, clutching Grace’s arm.

"Yes," Leyna said, hoping it was true. There was only one way to find out. Even Finnigan seemed apprehensive.

“First time?” she queried.

“As a matter of fact, it is.” He licked his lips. “Are you sure this will work?”

She nodded resolutely, even as she weighed up the foolhardiness of their mission. Risking the prince's life was reckless, and she already regretted agreeing to let him come.

“I’ll go first,” Grace announced, and before Leyna could reply she was stepping through the door. As she lifted her leg over the tall row of teeth, the door remained perfectly still, its wide mouth stretched taut.

Leyna let out a breath once Grace was safely on the other side.

This is insanely stupid. I can’t let Seth pass through the door. Why on earth did I listen to Grace?

She turned to Seth, intending to send him back to his chambers—but before she could say another word, he was already moving towards the Demon Door.

“No!” she cried, but it was too late.

Seth took a running leap and sailed over the jagged lower teeth. The upper row of teeth snagged the woollen cap from his head.

“Seth!” she cried, hands clenched into fists as she watched him land on the other side, stumbling into Grace. “Seth!”

But a moment later, he was hugging Grace, and they were both laughing, visibly relieved. Leyna let out a shaky breath, flexing her fingers to get the blood flow moving. He was safe. Hatless and reckless, but safe.

She gestured at Finnigan. “Now you.”

“Ladies first,” he offered.

She shook her head slowly and smiled. “If you’re nervous, it’s best you don’t go last. Trust me.”

“Very well.” He gave her a swift kiss on the cheek. “Just in case,” he winked.

And then he stepped through the Demon Door.

Nothing happened. She sighed in relief.

Now it was her turn.

“Don’t get any ideas,” she grumbled to the door, trying to mask her fear as she stepped over its teeth, reaching up to snatch the woollen hat as she went. Once she was through safely, she turned back to the door, expecting it to close shut like it normally did.

But strangely, the door remained stretched open, its teeth glistening as if it were waiting for its next prey—as if it was waiting for one more person.

“That’s all of us,” she said to the door.

It remained deathly silent.

“Charming workplace environment,” Finnigan commented, gesturing at the slime-covered walls. “I can see the appeal of leading the Arrest Unit now—did they give you an office down here too?”

“Leyna, are you coming?” called Seth from up ahead.

Exchanging a smile, they hurried to catch up.

“The door wasn’t so bad,” said Seth with bravado.

“No more charging ahead,” she warned, pushing the cap over his head. “Understood?”

Seth bobbed his head.

“Which way to Quinn’s cell?” Grace asked, gazing at the labyrinth beyond. The only source of light was the wall-mounted torches behind on either side of the Demon Door, each burnt fiercely with a green flame.

Leyna sent her light orb to float ahead, the bright blue glow revealing dozens of passageways.

“This way,” she said, leading them down one of the centre ones.

“How can you tell?” asked Finnigan, a trace of awe in his voice. “It’s a maze.”

Not quite like a maze, she thought, remembering the hedge maze at the Guild, which was designed to confuse with its dead ends and random twists and turns.

“It’s more like a labyrinth,” she explained. “The only trick is choosing the right path, but once you know the correct one, it'll lead you to where you need to go.”

“How’s that any different to a maze?” asked Seth.

“Because there’s a logic to it—it’s not trying to trick you into getting lost.”

Leyna could tell that Seth and Grace were sceptical, but she said nothing.

They continued down the passage, the silence punctuated by drips and drops from nondescript nooks and crannies. The eerie light of their orbs made the dank walls even gloomier, and Grace flinched when a strange faraway moan reached their ears, carried by a cold draft.

“Is the dungeon haunted?” asked Seth.

“No,” said Leyna, at the same time that Finnigan said ‘yes’. She gave him a mock-glare as Seth huddled closer.

When they arrived in front of Quinn’s cell door, Grace rushed to the barred window, calling Quinn’s name. At first, there was no response.

And then, hands reached through the bars to touch Grace’s.

“Grace,” Quinn rasped, his face barely visible as he pressed his face against the bars.

“Quinn! Oh, Quinn.”

“How long has it been?”

“Too long,” she said, her voice growing thick as tears rolled down her face. “I’ve missed you so much! I would have come every day, if I could.”

“I’m glad you’re here now, my love.”

It was a bittersweet reunion.

“Leyna, can you open the door?” asked Grace, wiping at her nose.

It jarred her out of her melancholy. “Clan I what?”

“Please…can you open the door? I just want to hold him. I can hardly reach him through these bars. Please.”

Leyna shifted her weight uncomfortably. “I’m sorry, Grace. You know I can’t do that.”

“Oh, but please…” Grace’s voice broke, the sound making Leyna’s heart break with it.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t.” Perhaps, if Grace hadn’t been a wizard, Leyna might have risked it. But she was certain that once that door opened, Grace would not allow Quinn to return to the cell—her conscience would compel her to help him escape, even if it meant fighting Leyna.

Unless…unless Finnigan backs me up.

With Finnigan by her side, she would be more confident that Grace wouldn’t do something stupid, like try to duel her. Quinn would be in no state to fight. Hugging herself, she turned to Finnigan—but he was nowhere to be seen.

“Fin—err, Cornelius?” She stopped herself from saying his real name just in time. She glanced back to where Grace and Seth were huddled around Quinn’s door. They hardly spared her a glance.

She backtracked down the passage. “Cornelius?” she called again. “Where are you?”

There was no answer. She guided the light orb forward. The linear design of the passageway meant Cornelius had either continued deeper into the dungeon or had backtracked the way they had come.

“Cornelius?” she called again, venturing down the passageway. She had hardly gone more than a few steps, however, when Grace called her back.

“Leyna? Quinn is asking for you. And he wants to speak to you alone.” She sniffed as if hurt as she said the last part, and both she and Seth withdrew to give them privacy.

Quinn’s fingers were wrapped around the bars of the window. “Leyna,” he greeted, his dark eyes giving nothing away.

“Quinn, how are you keeping?”

“I’m good.”

The clarity of his voice, while not without its characteristic gruffness, surprised her, as did the rest of his appearance, which looked much improved from the last time she had seen him. From what she could see in the dim light, his face was clean, the bruises had healed, and though the natural hollowness of his cheeks made it hard to gauge, it looked as if he’d been eating proper meals. Even his dark hair looked as if he’d run a comb through it.

“You’re…you’re ‘good’?” she repeated, confused. Prisoners who spent even a day in the dungeon were usually far from ‘good’.

“Well, I think I’m going a little crazy,” he admitted. “I miss the sun. The constant darkness is…suffocating. My father left me a pocket watch, but it’s hard to keep track of the time. Grace says it’s been twelve days…?”

He was asking how long he’d been imprisoned for. Leyna felt ashamed that she did not know. She hadn’t kept track. Had it really been that long?

“Err, near enough,” she said.

Quinn made an affirmative sound and took a step back.

This gave her a chance to survey his cell. She stood on tiptoe to better see through the bars, confused by the orange light emanating from within the cell. She had expected to see complete darkness, illuminated only by her blue orb, so she was taken aback by the waxy candles lining the shelves in the room. There was even a lantern glowing happily.

Furniture. Why is there furniture inside a cell?

There was a small bed with a pillow, a table and chair, a small bookshelf teeming with books, and a washbasin. There was even a row of hooks with clothing hanging from it, and the table bore a platter with what looked like a hunk of cheese and bread, beside which was a jug and an empty glass.

Leyna tried to stand even taller, the tips of her toes protesting as she craned to see the floor of the cell.

Yikes. There was even a large, circular rug and a pair of slippers.

“Comfy?” she asked, scarcely believing her eyes.

“Can’t complain.”

She eased back down on her heels, suddenly tempted to unlock the door and enter the cell, but she didn’t dare risk it; she was nervous enough having her back to Grace as it was. What wouldn’t she do to save Quinn? But glancing back, Grace was standing some distance away with Seth, hugging herself with her head bowed as the prince comforted her.

There was no sign of Finnigan. His absence made her nervous, and she instructed Grace to stay alert before returning her attention to Quinn.

“You’re looking remarkably well,” she noted. “Your father looking after you?”

“Yes. He visits every day. Although, I sometimes wish he would send someone else. He is my father, but still…”

“We’ve been trying to visit you,” she said quickly. “Your father wouldn’t give us permission until now.”

“I know. But she shouldn’t have come.”

She frowned. “But you are happy to see her?”

Quinn looked affronted. “Of course, I love her. But it is not safe for her to be near me.”

“Oh? You’re dangerous, are you? Going to turn into a wolf and start attacking people?”

“No.”

“Because that’s what the rumours are saying.”

“I don’t want to attack anyone.”

“I know.”

“Grace asked me if I killed the queen.”

“But you didn’t,” she finished. Standing here, talking to Quinn, it was obvious: he wasn’t a murderer. He wasn’t a criminal mastermind or a leader of demon armies. As powerful of a wizard as he was, he was not a fighter, not if he could help it. In the Maze Exam, the wolf had run and hid, at least until they were the last ones left. And when he finally had her cornered, and she was weak and exhausted, he had offered her a tie, more interested in ending the fighting than becoming champion. Even then, Quinn was not motivated by winning.

“Beatrice was executed. Did your father tell you that?”

Quinn nodded.

“Before she died,” Leyna continued, “Beatrice told me to speak to you. She seemed to think you had something to do with the queen’s death.”

“I did. I was meant to kill the queen. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.”

“What do you mean, you were meant to kill the queen?”

He shook his head helplessly.

She sighed. “So why not claim innocence?”

He covered his face and half turned away as he spoke.

“I have my reasons.”

Leyna waited for him to say more, but he didn’t. Instead, his sad eyes met hers, as if willing for her to read his mind. “Quinn, I’m going to need specifics. I’m investigating the Court Massacre. And I’m trying to clear your name while I’m at it. Why don’t you tell me what’s going on? What happened at the Baxton Estate?”

“I did nothing. I did not attack anyone, but I did not help our people, either. I stood by and I did not help the huskarls. I did not help our friends, or their children. I watched what the demons did, and I was frozen…I was a coward. For that, I cannot forgive myself. When I couldn’t kill the queen, they made me watch the queen as they…as they…” he broke off, swallowing several times before pushing his shoulders back and looking her in the eye. “I couldn’t do it. But they wanted me to. So I ran.”

“You ran?” she prompted. There was a lot he was leaving out, a lot she needed to clarify, but it was a miracle she’d gotten him talking at all.

“I ran back here. They tried to stop me, but I was the wolf, and I was fast. I came back to the castle walls, and I stayed in the mountain woods.”

“What were you doing in the woods?”

“I don’t know. But I couldn’t go back. Not after what I’d done. And not when they were after me.”

“You keep saying ‘they’, but who are you referring to?”

He didn’t answer the question. Instead, he said: “I just wanted to see Grace.”

Something clicked into place. “Quinn…that day in the woods, when Grace and I took the prince horse riding…you weren’t trying to lead us into an ambush, were you?”

He shook his head. “No. I was going to stay away completely. But then I saw Grace, and I couldn’t help myself, I had to get closer. It was killing me to stay away. But then you and Seth saw me, and I didn’t want to be discovered. Not by the Rutherford guards…and not by anyone else, either. I really didn’t know what to do, there was no one I could turn to. So again, I ran. I didn’t think Seth would follow me—or that there would be demons.”

“Who did the demons belong to?”

Quinn either did not know, or would not say.

“Who are you hiding from?”

He glanced down as if troubled, and his black hair, which had grown long and unruly, flopped across his face. He seemed lost in thought, his eyes haunted and faraway.

A minute later, she grew impatient.

“More words, Quinn,” she prompted. “I can’t read your thoughts.”

He gave a strangled laugh.

“There are people after me. Wizards who use dark magic.”

Fear jolted through her. “Can you expand on that?”

“A cult. Called the Renegátok. They practise with Renegade spells, and they are dangerous. The cult is Kormendian in origin, but it was never widespread. And it almost died out after the wars ended. Kormend had zero tolerance for it after the peace treaty with Rosaria. Officially, the cult does not even exist anymore. But it is still active, and their influence has grown in recent years.”

“And they’re the reason you started using Renegade spells at the Guild?”

“Yes,” he said. “The Renegátok was the reason my father brought me to Rosaria. He didn’t want them to recruit me for their cult. And for a long time, we thought it worked. But they found me, when I was in the middle of sixth year. And they did not give me much choice.”

“Oh Quinn…” Leyna drew a steady breath. She’d been right all along—Quinn hadn’t cast the Renegade against her by accident. But he hadn’t done it out of arrogance, or out of a desire to win. He’d been expected to.

“The Renegátok is growing powerful again,” Quinn continued. “And they have been planning to target Rosaria for some time, to take control of the castle.”

“So, these cultists, were they the ones who organised the Court Massacre?”

“Yes. And they have someone here at the castle who organised the attack."

Leyna gripped the bars. “Who?”

His thick eyebrows knitted together. “Are you sure you want to know? It could be dangerous for you.”

“I’m sure!”

“It would be safer for you if you did not know…”

“Quinn,” she said, her voice low in warning.

“Alright, but please, do not tell Grace any of this. Not of my innocence, not of the Renegátok…she mustn’t know. Can you promise?”

Leyna wanted to strangle him. “I can’t promise that,” she grumbled, checking to make sure Grace was out of earshot. This was not a secret she wanted to keep from her. “Tell her you're innocent, at least! She has a right to know.”

“No, Leyna, I can’t know. Please, promise you won’t tell her.”

“Why?”

His lip trembled. “It's the only way I can keep her safe. If she thinks I'm innocent, she will try to help me escape. She will put her and myself in danger. The Renegátok are after me, but she won’t understand."

"So you're letting her think you're guilty?" she whispered in awe.

He gave a bitter laugh. "Lying to her is killing me. But you know what is funny? She thinks I am guilty, but still wants to break me out. She says she forgives me, even if I did kill the queen.”

“Forgiveness for a queen you didn’t kill…” she murmured. “But Quinn, I don’t understand. If you’re innocent, then why did you say you’re guilty? It makes no sense at all.”

“It does make sense,” he insisted. “Why do you think my father put me in here?”

“I thought it was because Fry pressured him in front of the court.”

He gave a weak chuckle. “No. That was a coincidence. My father intended to lock me here, and he’s been delaying the trial on purpose.”

“Why?” Leyna eyed the nearby candlestick holder. It was covered in thick, melted wax, but this did not disguise the lustre of silver underneath. Why had the steward opted to keep his son in a dungeon, however nicely fit-out, when he could have been under house arrest in his suite?

“Leyna, the dungeon is the safest place for me. That’s why I said I was guilty. So my father would be forced to lock me up. And you don’t know what these cultists are like, Leyna. They are dangerous, and they’ll never stop.”

“Are they trying to kill you?”

“No, I think they want to capture me.”

“Why? Why do they need you?”

Quinn gave his head a quick shake, and she was growing frustrated by his selectiveness in answering her.

“Well, you can’t just stay down here forever."

“It was never meant to be permanent. My father is keeping me here until we can find a better solution to keep me safe. I was meant to be out of here by now, but he feels he is losing the court’s support, and he doesn’t know who to trust…many people want him to step down.”

Leyna made a sound of disbelief. “But he still has all the guards under his command. All the remaining huskarls. Why can’t he keep you safe in the castle? I would fight for you, Quinn. And you’re not exactly helpless, either.”

“I appreciate that, Leyna,” said Quinn, and they clasped hands through the bars. “Comrades.”

“Comrades,” she agreed, before releasing his hand. “But now, I need you to tell me. Who’s responsible for the Court Massacre? You said there’s someone here, at the castle. Who is it?”

Quinn leant close to the bars to whisper. She leant in as well, ears straining, but deep down, she already knew the answer before the name left his lips.

And even though she knew, it still came as a shock when he uttered the man’s name—because she had been in denial for too long. Her head spun, and she gripped the bars for support as her legs wobbled, her entire body reeling as the full force of the revelation came crashing down. Suddenly, it all made sense.

“Leyna, are you alright?” Seth called.

“I’m fine,” she replied, waving a hand. “Give me a minute. Her head was reeling as she turned back to Quinn. “So it’s really him? He orchestrated the Court Massacre?”

Quinn nodded, and she gave an incredulous laugh.

It was too perfect; the answer hidden in plain sight. After all, who would have suspected the nervous, bumbling, and seemingly incompetent lord chamberlain? The clumsy, silver-haired man with a head for numbers, who was kind, approachable, and always deferring to others?

“He’s the one who stole the Demon Book,” she breathed.

“Yes,” said Quinn. “He coerced the headmaster to graduate me, and he wanted me with him when he stole it—but I think he just wanted someone to blame in case he got caught.”

So her theory on Quinn being a scapegoat had been right, but not for the reasons she’d suspected. “And he ordered you to assassinate the queen.”

“And as I said, I refused. But I also did not protect the Queen Claire. I failed both sides.”

She gripped the bars tighter, angry that Chamberlain Percy would try to use Quinn in that way. The metal grew red beneath her casting hand. Percy had even had the nerve to make her an investigator of the Court Massacre, feeding her mixed information. It explained the communication breakdown between him and the steward—Percy had never passed on the Captain’s weapons permit, no doubt because it interfered with his proposal to summon demons, and he’d never intended to let her see the real testimony, either.

She had hundreds of questions. “What about the executions? What about the list of traitors—were they even traitors? Or have we simply been arresting Percy’s enemies for him?”

Quinn didn’t know the answers, but she knew enough to piece it all together. When she had balked at executing Beatrice, Percy had lied about the female huskarl killing Bancroft. It had not registered at the time, but deep down, Leyna had known in her heart that this was false; Beatrice would not have killed Bancroft. So why had Percy been so intent on seeing her execution go ahead? To ensure that she was silenced? What had the female huskarl known that he didn’t want getting out? Leyna suspected that Beatrice’s account of the Massacre might be vastly different to what Maurice and Firmin had claimed. Would they ever learn the truth?

What else had Percy lied about? And why? Why would a man who proudly claimed to be of ‘peasant’ stock, descendant from wealthy cattle farmers, plot to kill the King of Rosaria? Had Percy meant for Steward Marek to become lord regent? Or did he mean to kill him as well so he could become the undisputed ruler?

He doesn’t need to kill Marek, she realised. Not if he can control him.

“That’s why Percy sent me down here,” she said out loud to Quinn. “He wants me to free you. To help you escape. You're his bargaining chip.”

Quinn nodded. "He wants to blackmail my father."

Percy had to know, as she now did, that he wouldn’t be able to manipulate the steward forever. But with the steward’s son held captive by the Renegátok, Percy would be able to keep him in check. And she, Leyna, was unknowingly helping him, with an equally unwary Grace sent to persuade him to leave the safety of the dungeon. Was Percy waiting outside, even now, for them to deliver Quinn straight into his hands?

Because if he got his hands on Quinn, then the man she’d underestimated, Lord Chamberlain Percival O’Haire, would have the Lord Regent of Rosaria, Steward Marek Volak, under his thumb. A chill rippled down her spine as realisation dawned. They were in danger.

“You should go,” said Quinn, and she turned on her heel.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

The Demon Door

“I WISH I COULD kiss you,” Grace said to Quinn as they held each other’s hands through the bars. “I don’t want to leave you.”

Convincing Grace to leave was proving impossible. Grace had begged for Quinn to lie at the trial tomorrow and say he was innocent. It was hard for Leyna to stay silent when she knew the truth; that Quinn was innocent, but that he was doing this to protect Grace, and so he could stay alive.

“Shh, it’s alright, my love,” said Quinn. “We’ll be together again soon. All will be well. I’m sure my father can delay the trial.”

“I don’t want the trial delayed,” sniffed Grace. “I want you to go to the trial and say you’re innocent! Please, tell them you’re innocent, even if you did take part in the attack, and I still don’t believe that you did—”

A distant shout made them jump.

“Finnigan,” gasped Leyna, spinning to face the darkness, her heart thundering in her chest.

“Who’s Finnigan?” asked Seth.

She ignored him. “Time’s up,” she snapped. “Everyone, follow me.” She shot Grace a sharp look. “We’ll come back for Quinn, I promise. But we have to leave. Now.”

Leyna darted to Quinn’s door, hand lingering over the handle as an idea struck her.

“Quinn, if you change your mind—”

“Leyna, don’t,” he warned, but she ignored him.

“Should you change your mind, between now and the trial, then…”

She trailed off, unwilling to tip Grace off to what she was about to do. She met Quinn’s dark gaze through the bars.

For the first time, he seemed unsure, and that was answer enough for her as her lips moved silently.

“I’ll talk to the Demon Door,” she said quietly, and he nodded his understanding.

“Whatever you decide, good luck,” she whispered, before darting down the corridor. Grace had sunk to the ground in despair, half-wailing, half-sobbing, but Leyna jerked her up by the arm. There was no time for apologies or consolation as she urged Grace and Seth to follow.

“Cornelius!” she yelled into the darkness, only vaguely remembering to use the correct name as she sprinted along the corridor. The stone floor was old and uneven, but they reached the end of the passage without tripping.

She stopped in an empty chamber to catch her breath while the others caught up.

“Cornelius!” she called again, making one last attempt to locate him.

There was no answer except for the murky whisper of the dungeon and the fast footsteps of Seth and Grace behind her.

“Where do you think he went?” Seth asked.

Leyna rubbed her palms on her cloak. “I don’t know, but I think it’s time we left.”

She was afraid to consider the possibilities. Had Finnigan gone off on his own? Had something happened to him? And why had he left in the first place without saying anything to them?

Leyna shushed the others, ears straining. Was that another shout? Or was she hearing things?

Their prolonged time in the dungeon was getting to her. Every hair stood on its end.

“Let’s go,” she murmured. “Quietly, now.”

Grace and Seth followed silently behind as she led the way back down the long passageway. Their footsteps squelched on the damp floor as they passed the long line of cell doors stretching into the endless darkness. The torch sconces were unlit and their magical orbs only illuminated a few feet in any direction, which made it easy to imagine fearsome shapes leaping out at them from nowhere.

“Is it much further?” asked Seth anxiously.

“No, nearly there,” Leyna said.

With Finnigan gone, she was conscious of how small their party was—and how vulnerable. Her mind was in overdrive, trying to anticipate lurking enemies she couldn’t see. She tried not to think about how the light orb made them a visible target and that anyone—or anything—would be able to see them.

Despite her uneasiness, nothing attacked, and as they emerged in the dungeon’s main chamber, they spotted Finnigan standing at the far end by the Demon Door, illuminated by his blue light orb and the green flame torches.

“Cornelius!” she cried, relief washing over her as she hurried to him. “Where did you run off to?”

Finnigan shot her a troubled look before turning back to face the Demon Door.

“Cornelius?” she asked, her footsteps slowing. “Can you hear me? Why aren’t you answer—”

She never finished the sentence, however, because just then, a metallic smell hit her, the scent as stark as a slap across the face.

“Leyna, what is it?” asked Grace, stepping around her. “What—oh my!”

A small scream escaped from Grace’s lips before her hands flew over her mouth.

Reaching Finnigan’s side, Leyna could now see why he was staring at the Demon Door.

The door’s enormous eyes were closed and its teeth were bared in a wide, satisfied smile.

And there, clamped within its teeth, was what looked like…

“Is that a person?” asked Seth meekly.

Leyna nodded, unable to speak from the burning sensation in her throat.

“Who is that?” asked Grace.

Only the legs were visible. The rest of the body would be on the other side of the door. Had the victim been severed in half? Or was there enough left to keep the legs and torso joined? It was a perverse thing to consider as she approached the door.

“Open up,” she commanded, and the Demon Door’s eyes leapt open and found hers, its warped pupils flashing with malice, the whites of its eyes horribly human-like. It gave a high-pitched snigger before stretching its jaws open with a rubbery sound.

There, impaled upon the lower row of teeth, the woman who was unmistakably dead with her torso near-severed through, was Professor Maisy Fry. A fresh stream of blood pooled from the body where the door’s top teeth had just been extricated.

Grace groaned and collapsed to her knees, heaving loudly as Seth rushed to her side. The scent of bile soon filled the air, mixing with the other smells.

Leyna gripped Finnigan’s arm.

“What happened?”

“Maisy must have tailed us,” he replied, his eyes fixed on something beyond the Demon Door. Leyna followed his gaze, but all she saw were the stone steps disappearing up into the darkness—back to the castle.

“This is bad.” Leyna ran her fingers through her hair and scrunched the braids as she contemplated the scene. What should have been a stealthy mission had become a violent mess. How in the world would she explain the death of Maisy Fry to the captain?

And how would she explain what they’d been doing in the dungeon? Her reasoning for letting Grace visit Quinn as a favour—because she thought it would be a nice thing to do for her friends—wouldn’t cut it with the captain, nor with the steward.

And they would think she’d lost her mind for endangering the prince by bringing him down here. I’m going to lose my huskarlship. I could be sentenced to death and lose my head.

Or worse.

The chamberlain, the man capable of ordering mass murder and then politely organising the funerals, knew that they were here. Were they in danger? Alarm bells rang through her.

“This is bad,” she repeated, sinking to a crouch.

“I’ll take care of it,” said Finnigan, crouching beside her and placing a hand around her protectively. His voice was calm, his touch reassuring, but it wasn’t enough to keep her panic at bay, not when the stench of blood and bile was so profound.

“I should never have brought Seth,” she moaned. “We need to get out of here.”

She could already feel the cell closing in around her, its walls like ice on her back, and hers wouldn’t be nice like Quinn’s, with a bed and a pair of slippers. No, it would be like the other cells, cold, dark and dirty, a fate worse than death.

Finnigan shuffled around so he was facing her and slipped his arms around her. “Listen to me. Everything will be fine. This has nothing to do with you, alright? Fry simply took it upon herself to wander down here—probably to stir trouble. All you need to do is report what you found. That’s it.”

“What about Grace and Seth? How do I explain what they were doing here?”

“You don’t. They were never here. And you’re the head of the Arrest Unit, right?”

She sniffed and gave a small nod.

“You had every right to be down here. You were just doing your due diligence, that’s all. Or, better yet,” he added, straightening, “you were never here. Then you don’t have to explain yourself to anyone. Just leave with Grace and Seth, and let someone else discover Fry.”

Leyna resisted the urge to look at the impaled carcass on the door’s teeth. “But…I can’t just leave her like this.”

“Leyna, Fry is dead. She’s not going anywhere.”

“I know, but…it feels wrong.”

Finnigan let out a long breath, and she couldn’t tell if he was growing impatient, or was simply feeling the stress like she was.

“Tell you what, leave it to me. I’ll take care of everything. All you need to do is leave now with Grace and Seth, and tomorrow, when you wake up, this will all feel like a bad dream.”

She nodded, feeling surer this time.

“Good.” He cast an eye on Grace, who was being helped to her feet by Seth. “Now, when you go up, stay alert. Just in case.”

“In case of what?” asked Grace. Her pale complexion was awash with blue and green light, and her cheeks were puffed as if she might throw up again.

“Just in case you come across anyone…any guards, for instance. Just keep your wits about you. Especially you,” he added to Leyna as she stood and brushed herself off. “Take Grace and Seth, and go straight to the prince’s rooms. Stay with him tonight. Do not open the door for anyone.”

Leyna frowned. Something wasn’t right.

Grace and Seth were already stepping through the Demon Door, leaning awkwardly to avoid Fry’s body. She did not follow. Instead, she turned to Finnigan with narrowed eyes.

“And what are you going to do, exactly?”

He didn’t answer.

She lowered her voice. “Finnigan, what’s going on?”

“Nothing’s going on. As I said, I’ll take care of Fry’s body.”

He was acting strangely. “But you just said before that we should leave her body to be discovered. What purpose does it serve for you to stay here? You should come with us.”

Finnigan leant back, sliding his hands into his pockets.

“Someone needs to stay back.”

Yes, but why? She wondered, but did not say so out loud. He wasn’t going to give her a straight answer. And if he refused to trust her, then how could she trust him?

She turned to Seth and Grace, who were on the other side of the door. In a loud, clear voice, she revoked their privileges to the Demon Door.

Grace looked unhappy with losing access to the dungeon, but this only eased Leyna’s guilt, confirming her suspicion that Grace had intended to return to see Quinn without her.

Except that without Leyna to grant Quinn safe access to the Demon Door, it would be a horrible way for him to die. People always forgot about the Demon Door.

She took charge, hoping Grace would pick up on her urgency.

“Grace, change of plan. Take Seth directly to the barracks—it’s closer. Wake the captain. Tell him about Fry. And keep the prince safe and well-guarded—do not leave his side.”

To Grace’s credit, she did not question why Leyna had overruled Cornelius’ instructions. Instead, she gave a stiff nod of acknowledgment, trusting there was a reason for the order. “Understood. What about when the captain asks what we were doing in the dungeon? Do I tell him about Quinn? About Cornelius?”

“Just tell the truth. Try to keep specifics out, but don’t lie. I’ll take responsibility—but let’s worry about that later. And Grace? Stay sharp.”

She turned away, but could tell by the receding footsteps that Grace and Seth were hurrying up the steps.

“Leyna, what are you doing?” asked Finnigan softly. “My way was better. You’ll get into trouble if you tell the captain.”

She exhaled in frustration and rounded on him.

“I’m prioritising the Crown Prince’s safety, that’s what I’m doing. And I’m sick of wading through secrets.”

It would have been easier to do as Finnigan suggested, to go back to her room as if nothing had happened, but he was holding something back from her, and she couldn’t leave without unearthing what it was. There was something sinister surrounding Fry’s death, and Finnigan’s explanation was weak. It didn’t make sense why the professor would step through the Demon Door of her own accord. Fry was arrogant, but not stupid, and she’d been at the castle serving as a locum for long enough to know the dangers.

Leyna glanced through the door at the steep flight of steps beyond. Grace and Seth were gone, their footsteps echoing faintly.

“Are you sure about this?” asked Finnigan. “It’s not too late. You can still hurry after them and stop them from speaking to the captain. But if you don’t, you could lose your huskarlship.”

Leyna snorted.

“Doesn’t matter,” she said, even though it did. Her huskarlship meant everything to her, but for the time being, she was still a huskarl, and the Crown Prince’s safety was paramount. Which meant she couldn’t take any chances. She couldn’t trust anyone. Not even Finnigan, not when he was acting so strangely. She eyed the tall wizard, who was an interesting blend of calmness and vigilance, like a hunter resigned to waiting for its prey, but ready to spring.

“Finnigan, what’s going on? I can tell something’s up.”

A pained expression crossed his face. He was holding back, and she wished he wouldn’t.

I need to give him the benefit of the doubt. This could all be a misunderstanding.

A misunderstanding that involved a dead woman merely feet from them.

“Finnigan, we need to leave together so I can revoke your access to the Demon Door—that’s standard procedure.” She gave him a small, apologetic smile as she said the last part, as if it were a tiresome thing to adhere to protocol. “That means you have to come with me now. I can hardly revoke your access and leave you trapped in here, can I?”

“Ah, yes,” he said. “I understand now. Thank you for explaining.”

Her shoulders relaxed. “It’s fine. So you’ll come up to the castle with me now?”

“Of course,” he said, gesturing to the steps. “Ladies first.”

She returned his smile, equally polite. “Please, after you.”

Finnigan made for the door, but then he turned back.

“Unless…”

She tensed.

Finnigan tapped at the air with an index finger, then placed it thoughtfully on his lip. It was a jester-like movement, and she did not trust it. “I’m just thinking…you could always revoke my privileges tomorrow. And in the meantime, I could stay down here, near Fry’s body. Win-win.”

“But Fry’s body isn’t going anywhere. You said so yourself.”

“Yes, of course.” Finnigan’s nod of assent was almost believable, but he loosened his collar—the first obvious sign of his unease.

I can’t take this anymore.

“You’re usually a better actor,” she said, tilting her head to the side as she appraised him. “Why are you lying to me?” She was ready for him to deny it, or to become defensive, but his face changed to one of guilt.

“I’m sorry.”

The words hung between them, and their significance was not lost on her. Her gut instinct had been right—he had been lying.

“When the Demon Door opened,” she said, “you didn’t seem surprised to see Fry’s body. You knew it was her.”

He didn’t answer.

“In fact, you weren’t looking at Fry at all. Tell me, what was so fascinating beyond the Demon Door? Were you expecting to see someone else there?”

No reply.

She was bursting to tell him what she’d learnt about the chamberlain, that she’d uncovered that he had orchestrated the attacks against the king and the court, but she needed him to meet her halfway.

“Look, we’re not going anywhere until you start being honest with me. Please, talk to me.”

Finnigan seemed torn, as if he was in a hurry to be somewhere else, but then he nodded. “Very well.”

She was surprised he wasn’t using Jester’s mannerisms—perhaps he knew better than to try those tactics on her, or perhaps he was too distressed to play the part. She suspected the latter; his smile may have been pleasant, but he couldn’t hide his corded neck or the vein throbbing near his forehead.

“Good. So, how did Fry die? You saw what happened, didn’t you?”

“I did.”

“Was it you? Did you kill her?”

“No, of course not.”

“Good. I didn’t think so. So who did? Because I know she didn’t try to walk through by herself.”

“You’re right. She didn’t.”

“Was there someone else beyond the door?” she coaxed. “Someone who was with Fry?”

“Possibly…”

“Who’s out there, Finnigan?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know…?”

“I only saw Fry at first. But then I realised someone else was with her, hiding in the shadows. I couldn’t tell who it was because he was wearing a hood, and a black mask that covered his entire face.”

“The Renegátok?”

Finnigan tensed. “How do you know about them?”

“Doesn’t matter,” she said. “Go on.”

“When I tried to chase the man, he pushed Fry into the door, and it shut to kill her. That’s when you arrived. By the time the door opened, he’d fled. I think that’s why he pushed her, so he could get away.”

She swallowed.

“And you don’t know who it was?”

“No, I don’t.”

“But you suspect?”

To her frustration, he didn’t answer. How was it that the man she felt such a deep connection to kept so many secrets from her? She tried a different tack. “Finnigan, why do you want to stay down here in the dungeon?”

Silence.

She began to pace, kicking at a pebble—a pebble that she realised too late was a human tooth. She covered her mouth.

How could she get him talking? To finally trust her?

Maybe I should open up to him. Maybe it’s up to me to trust him first.

“I spoke to Quinn,” she offered. Finnigan blinked in surprise at the change in topic. “I found out he’s innocent.”

“Oh really?”

“Yes.” She glanced at the steps. With Grace and Seth gone, it was safe to follow through with her promise to Quinn. Raising her voice, she addressed the Demon Door:

“I, Huskarl Leyna, Head of the Arrest Unit, hereby grant access privileges to Quinn Volak for safe use of the Demon Door, where he will be allowed through unharmed, and these which will remain in place indefinitely, or until such a time as myself or another authorised officer revokes them…”

Finnigan waited patiently until she was finished.

“You’re giving Quinn permission to use the door? Why?”

“Just in case,” she said, choosing to be cryptic. Before Finnigan could question her, she said: “And I’ve uncovered the man responsible for the Court Massacre.”

His eyes widened. “Go on.”

“It was Chamberlain Percy.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Finnigan shifted, rolling his shoulders back.

“Does that surprise you?” she asked.

“Yes…and no. I suspected the chamberlain, at first. But then the steward had Quinn arrested, and began twisting the law so he could summon demons, so I assumed it was the steward using his son as a scapegoat.”

“I thought that too,” she admitted.

“What makes you so sure it’s him? Is it just Quinn’s word? Because—”

She shook her head. “No, it’s not just that. I realised that he was lying about Beatrice’s innocence.”

“How?”

She blushed. “Do you remember when we were in the Trophy Room together recently?” She peered at him through her eyelashes.

Finnigan cleared his throat and placed his hands behind his back. “Um, yes, I do.”

“When the chamberlain walked in on us, he was holding a plaque.”

He stroked his chin. “You know, when we were there together, it wasn’t the trophies I was looking at.”

“Funny,” she said, fighting the urge to smile. “Anyway, it had metal plates for the Rutherford guards who’d received accolades for acts of high bravery over the years. Several huskarls were listed, but some of the plates were missing.”

“And you think the missing plates belonged to Beatrice?”

“Exactly. In fact, one of the missing plates was from the year I arrived at the castle. I remembered seeing her being awarded the plaque in front of the court, and how impressive she looked…” she cleared her throat, embarrassed. “Someone removed her awards—probably Percy himself. But the thing is, Beatrice hadn’t even had her trial then, it was held later that day. But Percy had already decided she was guilty. That’s what made me realise he was lying.”

“Hmm. Well, that does sound like our chamberlain, doesn’t it?. He’s rather meticulous. Likes things clean and neat.”

“Yes, which is why we need to leave,” she said. “Now. We can’t waste time down here; we need to do something.”

“Oh? Like what?”

His lack of urgency surprised her.

“I don’t know, like tell someone. Finnigan, aren’t you concerned?”

“Oh, believe me, I am. Please don’t misunderstand, but there’s very little we can do without prior planning. Percy is better protected than you realise.”

She frowned. “So we’re just going to do nothing?”

“I didn’t say that. But we need the support of the court before we can remove him. He’s crafty, and he’s got powerful supporters. Even the king’s distant relatives are wrapped around his finger.”

Leyna crossed her arms. “Can’t you just…kill him?”

Even though Percy had ordered the death of hundreds of innocents, the words felt wrong.

“I could.” Finnigan gave her a steady, unflinching look. “But it’s akin to kicking the hornet’s nest. Have you considered there could be other perpetrators? This won’t end with Percy.”

It had not occurred to her, but he was right. It wasn’t just Percy—it was the entire Renegátok cult. As for the Brotherhood, it still wasn’t clear how they factored in. Whose side were they on now?

“The steward,” she said suddenly. “Steward Marek needs your support, Finnigan.”

He raised an eyebrow. "My support?"

“Yes. He needs help. I think Percy’s turned the court against him. It’s why Quinn is in the dungeon, and why Quinn pleaded guilty. His father is trying to keep him safe.”

Finnigan clicked his tongue thoughtfully. “Interesting. As a Kormendian, Marek was never popular, even as the steward. Too much bad blood between the kingdoms from the wars. Or perhaps it’s just his charming personality.”

“Probably the latter,” she muttered. “I know he’s not very likeable, but I think he’s trying to be a good ruler. And he needs you.”

“What makes you think I can do anything?”

“Don’t play games. You work for the Brotherhood…” she hesitated. “Don’t you?”

He avoided her gaze, and she felt a spark of anger. Even now, he was holding back, shutting her out.

“Because if there is such a thing as the Brotherhood,” she continued, “then the steward needs its help.”

Finnigan shook his head. “The Brotherhood serves the king, as well as the future king, Prince Seth. No one else.”

“Seth is just a boy.”

“He’ll be a man soon.”

“Not if the chamberlain has his way,” she hissed.

“Leyna, if what you’re saying about the chamberlain is true, then he doesn’t want the prince dead. It would serve him better to keep him alive and control him like a puppet. He probably plans to discard Marek once the prince comes of age.”

She hugged herself. The idea of Prince Seth being used like a puppet was revolting. “If the steward had the Brotherhood’s support, then surely, he could arrest the chamberlain? You could try to convince the rest of the Brotherhood.”

It was obvious that Finnigan was a member, and as if to confirm this, he gave a nod of assent. She made one final attempt to convince him. “The steward is an honourable man, but his hands are tied. I think he needs assurances that his son will be safe.”

“Honourable, yes,” agreed Finnigan. “But I’m concerned that where you underestimated the chamberlain, you may overestimate the steward. They’re both men, Leyna, driven by motive and principles. If you’re trying to decide which is good and which is evil, you could be in for disappointment.”

She shrugged, remembering what Jester had once said to her when convincing her to dance at the feast. “Maybe the steward is the lesser of two evils.”

“Maybe,” he agreed. “But the Brotherhood doesn’t trust him.”

Leyna placed a hand on his arm, closing the distance. “Then trust me.”

He covered her hand with his.

“I do trust you. In fact,” his eyes met hers, “I asked the Brotherhood to make you an offer to join us.”

She gaped at him.

“You did? And?”

“I’m afraid they didn’t think you could be trusted.”

“Why not?”

“My uncle said no.”

A pang of hurt shot through her. Headmaster Emsworth had found her untrustworthy?

“But why? Haven’t I proven that I’m loyal to the king, and to the prince?” she spluttered. “We’re related, for goodness’ sake. And what about when you spiked the king’s drink, and I intervened—”

“It’s because of your involvement with the chamberlain.”

Leyna took a step back, her hand slipping out of his.

“My involvement?”

“Yes. We had our suspicions about Percy, although I’ll admit he was not my top suspect. And when he made you an investigator, there were concerns as to where your loyalties would lie, or that he would manipulate you. Ultimately, you were deemed too much of a risk to be an agent.”

Her mouth slackened in disbelief. “That little weasel! So that’s why he made me an investigator…to compromise me.”

Finnigan gave a delighted laugh. “Why, Huskarl Leyna, did you just insult a court official? I didn’t think you had it in you.”

She didn’t laugh. “Finnigan, you said I was too much of a risk to be an agent. But why not use me as an asset? I could have provided the Brotherhood with information.”

He pursed his lips in reply and gave her a meaningful look. It took her a moment to understand.

“I was an asset,” she intoned. “You were using me, and I didn’t even know it.”

He nodded.

“Fantastic.” She spread her hands, defeated. “I was used by the court fool. Does that make me the fool now?”

“Stop that,” said Finnigan, reaching out to her, but she waved him away.

Had he been using her all along? Had the entire courtship been a sham, as she had once feared? Were his romantic feelings contrived? And that day in the Trophy Room, when the chamberlain had walked in on them making love—

“Oh no.” She covered her face, doubling over. Had that been a way to use her as well? She was too afraid to ask, too nauseated by the lies and the truth and the smell of blood…

“Leyna, I’m sorry,” said Finnigan.

She raised her head. “Who is she? The woman you said you love? She’s the reason you’re still down here, isn’t she?”

“Yes.”

His answer was a death blow, and she felt the breath sucked from her as she stumbled backwards. He leapt forward to steady her, and this time, she didn’t shake him off.

“But…let’s move away from the Demon Door, shall we? And I’ll explain.” She was eager to comply. Finnigan slipped his arm in hers and led her away from the door—taking them deeper into the main chamber of the dungeon, strolling as casually as if they’d been taking a turn in the gardens.

“This isn’t the most romantic setting,” she muttered.

Finnigan chuckled. “And here I thought you’d be impressed.”

Her anger deflated with every step they took away from the violent scene, giving way to an open sea of sadness, where she felt lost with nothing on the horizon to guide her, not even the sun or stars.

It’s my own fault. If Finnigan used me, it’s my own fault.

They reached the far side of the vast chamber, and the Demon Door appeared small and faraway, illuminated by the green torches. Here, in the deep black, their floating blue orbs were the only source of light, bobbing along in the air and occasionally bumping into each other.

“Where are you taking me?” she asked, as Finnigan made to lead her down a passage—a different one than they had taken earlier to visit Quinn.

“There’s something I need to tell you, Leyna.”

She stopped and pulled her arm free of his. “We’ve gone far enough. You can tell me here.”

“Very well.” He halted. “I recently discovered your unit arrested a woman named Jill Dobay.”

“And you love her?”

Finnigan nodded. “Yes, but the thing you need to understand is that Jill is my sister.”

She did a double take. “She’s your…your sister?”

“My older sister, actually.”

“Is that where you disappeared to earlier? You went to see her?”

Finnigan nodded. His blue eyes, normally bright and full of mischief, looked sad. And they reminded her of someone.

“I had to.”

“So how is she? Did you find her?”

Her question seemed to take him by surprise.

“Not well. The dungeon is not a nice place, especially for someone like Jill. She’s quite…fragile. She may be older than me, but she’s suffered her fair share of tragedies in life. Jill helped raised me, even though I was a baby, and she was little more than a child herself. For a time, things were alright, but as we grew older, she became trapped in a terrible marriage, and in recent years, I’ve been the one taking care of her.”

“That…that’s noble of you.”

“It’s my duty. She’s my family.”

“I did wonder where Jill’s husband was,” she said. “Is that why you both have different surnames? Finnigan O’Connell and Jill Dobay?”

“It is.”

“So that’s why you want to stay down here? To talk to her more?”

“Well, she’s not exactly in talking condition." Finnigan muttered a spell, and the torch sconces all along the wall burst alight with a merry flame, revealing that the passage was long and straight, continuing far into the distance. “Shall we?” he asked, offering his arm again.

She reluctantly slipped her arm into his, curious to know more and not as committed to being as angry with him as she felt she ought to have been.

“I know I haven’t been forthcoming with you,” he said. “I would like to have told you about Jill, but she’s a Brotherhood member too, and I had to protect her.”

“At least you’re telling me now. But what about your uncle? How does he fit into all of this?”

“He was our mother’s older brother. He took us in when we lost our parents. He’s very talented, especially when it comes to magic. But when it came to parenting, Jill and I very much had to raise ourselves.”

It sounded lonely. “What about Jill’s son, Toby? Does that mean he’s your nephew?”

Finnigan stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes wide with surprise, and she suddenly knew why they looked so familiar—they were the same piercing shade of blue that the headmaster and Toby had. “How do you know about Toby?”

She bit her lip. “I met him, on the night of the arrest.” Until now, she hadn’t mentioned Toby to anyone, and the secret had been weighing on her.

Finnigan was staring at her. “Were you the one who hid him in the closet?”

“Sort of,” she said. “He was already hiding when I found him, but I wasn’t sure what would happen if the guards found out, so I locked him in the closet with a spell to keep him safe—which was probably a good idea, as he was nearly discovered. But when I came back later to rescue him—”

“You went back?” asked Finnigan, his face alight with astonishment, as if he were seeing her for the first time.

“Of course, I did,” she said, feeling a warm blush creep across her cheeks. “I couldn’t just leave him there.”

“It was you? You locked him in?”

“Yes, but—”

“Oh, Leyna, you wonderful girl,” said Finnigan, scooping her up suddenly and swinging her around as if they’d been in a sunny field before setting her down and leaning over to kiss her.

“Wait,” she said breathlessly, drawing back. “What happened with Toby? Do you know who took him? Is he alright?”

“I do, in fact,” he said, still gazing down at her with what looked like pride. “Patrick couldn’t find me, but he arranged for someone from the Brotherhood to go back for Toby.”

A weight lifted off her chest. “I’m glad to hear it. I’ve been so worried about him, and I felt like I couldn’t tell anyone.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

She gave an incredulous laugh. “I might have, if you’d just been honest and told me you were a member of the Brotherhood!”

He gave her a rueful smile. “I suppose we’ve both been keeping secrets from each other.”

“Some of us more than others.”

“That I can’t deny.”

“So how is Toby?”

“He is fine, but he needs his mother. He misses her terribly.”

She shifted uncomfortably. “I can imagine. How terrible to lose a mother.”

“But he hasn’t lost his mother. Not yet. Not if you help me free her.”

Leyna froze.

“What?”

“Jill is innocent, Leyna. She was wrongly accused. Please, just set her free. No one has to know.”

The touch of Finnigan’s hand didn’t feel real, the stroke of his fingers unable to soothe the bubbling agitation of her stomach. Once again, her world was shifting, the supporting pillars she had relied on now unstable, the ceiling she had raised in hope threatening to cave in. “You know I can’t do that.”

He dropped her hand. “Then, I’m sorry.”

He resumed walking.

“Wait, where do you think you’re going?” She ran after him, her vision filling with spots.

“Jill is innocent,” he said, never breaking stride. “Yes, she is a spy. But I promise you—she had nothing to do with the Court Massacre. None of the Brotherhood did—we are His Majesty’s faithful servants.”

“And what am I, just an asset?” She stormed after him. “You said you found out about Jill’s arrest ‘recently’. How long ago was that? Because she was arrested the same night I became the Head of the Arrest Unit, and the night before you seduced me in the Trophy Room.” She had meant the comments as a barb, throwing one after the other at him, her eyes welling up with tears even as she did.

Has he been using her because of her new powers? Was she just a way for him to free his sister?

The barbed comments worked. Finnigan stopped and spun around to face her. She flinched, thinking he would begin shouting at her, but he didn’t. Instead, he threw his arms around her and pulled her close, ignoring her struggles.

“Leyna, sh, be still. I know what you’re thinking.”

“I’m sorry it’s your sister,” she cried. “But were you just using me? Was that all I was to you? And in the Trophy Room, when we—“

Finnigan pulled back slightly, just enough to cup her face. “Sh. No, don’t think like that. It was all real, I swear.”

“But you were using me all the same,” she whispered. “You knew I was your best chance of freeing Jill.”

He didn’t deny it, and torn between the thin divide of love and hate, she buried her head into his chest. His arms tightened around her, holding her as if he was afraid he’d lose her.

“Leyna, I love you.”

Silence, except her own shallow breathing.

“I love you,” he said again, and his voice grew gentle. “I began falling in love with you from the start. I admire you, and I want a life with you.”

He stroked her face, and she realised he was waiting for her reply.

Her mouth had gone dry, and she licked her lips several times, but the words still didn’t come, even though they were there in her heart, already lovingly gift-wrapped, simply waiting for her to summon the courage to deliver it.

He chuckled softly. “It’s alright. You don’t have to say it back.”

“I…I want to,” she finally managed. “But this is all happening so fast. Everything is changing. Nothing in my life has been constant, not even you—different names, different faces, and I hardly know the first thing about you. I didn’t even know you had a sister!” Her temperature was rising. “I mean, who are you?”

“I’m Finnigan.”

“That’s not enough.”

He paled. Even in the blue light, her words had sapped the little colour there was left, and he spun on his heel and continued down the passage.

“Wait, that’s not what I meant!” she called after him, hurrying to keep up. “I didn’t mean it like that! Finnigan is enough, but I just don’t know who that is. You’ve kept so much from me—”

“I know. There’s no need to explain. You’re right. But it doesn’t change what I have to do.”

“I don’t understand.” Her voice had risen high in pitch. The situation was spiralling out of her control. “What are you going to do?”

He didn’t answer.

“Finnigan, stop! Just think about this.”

He stopped so abruptly that she ran into him. He was staring at a cell door, and she knew whose cell it was before she even saw the numbers etched on the plate above the door. It was Jill’s.

“You can’t,” she whispered. “I won’t let you.”

“She’s had a hard life, Leyna. She doesn’t belong in a dungeon. Please.”

“I’m not saying she does. But you need to stop and think about this. There are other ways—ways that don’t involve breaking the law. Just let me talk to the steward. We can go right now and speak to him.”

He made a sceptical sound, peering through the bars.

“Finnigan, I can’t just go releasing prisoners! I’m a huskarl, and I have responsibilities. Why can’t you and Grace understand that?”

The last part had slipped out, born from frustration and confusion. For the second time that evening, she had the power to ease someone’s suffering, but was unable to help them, at least not in the way they expected. She forced her voice to calm. “Finnigan, listen. I want to help your sister, and I promise that I will. I’ll do everything I can to help. But my job is to uphold the law. I can’t go around breaking it—and I can’t let you either. Please, don’t put me in this position. There are other ways to free her.”

Her face was hot, her eyes pricked with tears. Despite Finnigan’s earlier profession of love, all she could feel was the expanding divide between them, a great chasm that the pieces of her heart were falling into. Would she be able to retrieve them later? Or were the pieces gone for good? “Just wait,” she gasped. She needed air.

“Leyna, I don’t have a choice. Jill is out of time.”

“Why? She hasn’t even been trialled yet. Just—”

“Her execution is tomorrow.”

She shook her head. “No, it’s not. I’ve seen the list. Jill’s trial isn’t scheduled until next week.”

“It was today.”

She nearly stumbled. “What?”

“The trial…it was moved up to this afternoon, after this morning’s executions. It was quick, and not open to the public.”

Dread sucked the air from her mouth. So that was why Finnigan had been so upset when she’d seen him earlier—why his room had been in disarray.

Finnigan rubbed his eyes tiredly. “I had to stand outside with the other nobles and endure their comments, pretending like it wasn’t my family they were discussing.” His hands balled into fists. “When they finally brought her out, I only caught a glimpse of her. She’s on the brink of death, Leyna. Do you know what a place like this can do to someone like her? And I had to stand there, powerless—” His voice cut off. She had never seen him angry before, not like this. When he raised his head again, his eyes were blazing. “I will not stand by again and do nothing.”

“That’s fine. Let me help you. We can free her together. But not like this…Finnigan, come back upstairs with me. We can go to the steward tonight, together, and we can convince him to let her go. I’m certain he’ll listen. What do you say?”

Suddenly, distant shouts echoed from far away, making them jump. It had come from the dungeon’s main chamber.

“It’s the captain’s men,” she said. She’d lost track of time, had forgotten that Grace would alert the captain about Fry’s body…and about their presence in the dungeon. It was only a matter of time before they searched this passage as well.

“I have a chance to free her now,” he said, his voice low. “If we do it your way, there’s no guarantee they’ll let her go. And I won’t get this chance again. I might never see her again.”

They had both assumed a wizard’s battle stance; they were facing each other, jaws set, feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent. Even her casting hand was half-raised as if, at least subconsciously, she was preparing to cast a spell at him.

He was giving her an ultimatum, and they were out of time.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Betrayal

FINNIGAN INCHED TOWARDS JILL’S cell without taking his eyes off her.

“Don’t,” she warned. “Stop.”

“Leyna, I’m doing this, whether you help me or not.”

“You can’t,” she choked. “Not with the guards coming, and not with the Demon Door—”

But Finnigan wasn’t listening. He had turned away to face Jill’s door, and she knew he’d unlocked it when the tumbler clicked.

“Finnigan, listen to me,” she pleaded, her eyes darting distractedly to the faraway torchlight. It was bobbing in the distance, growing brighter, but why was it blue, and not orange? “We need to come up with a plan.”

He shook his head stubbornly.

“There’s no time for plans. I understand if you won’t help me—but do not get in my way.”

The threat in his voice sent a chill through her.

She answered in a low growl. “Finnigan, you haven’t thought this through. You’re going to get both you and Jill killed.”

“I can handle a couple of castle guards,” he said.

“It’s not just that,” she mumbled, stealing a glance down the passage again.

The blue light was still a great distance away, but it was moving in their direction, no doubt drawn by their echoing voices.

Finnigan was putting Jill in harm’s way. She needed to warn him, but was momentarily lost for words as the significance of the blue light dawned on her.

Finnigan’s eyes veiled over, and their hardness pierced her. “I love you, you know…”

Her hand wavered uncertainly.

“…and I’m so sorry.”

Sorry? Sorry for what?

And then a pressure spell erupted from his hands, and she was slammed against a wall, the wind knocked out of her as she collided with the stone.

The impact wasn’t painful, but she doubled over from shock, gasping and trying to comprehend what had happened.

“What are you doing?” she gasped. It had to be an accident. He wouldn’t attack her, would never cast a spell at her—would he?

A glimmer of gold appeared in his hand. He was preparing his next spell.

She raised a pink magical shield just in time to deflect a spinning lattice of gold light.

What the heck was that?

There was no time to think.

A second golden net erupted from Finnigan’s hands, and she cast another shield spell, the wall of translucent pink appearing for a few seconds—just long enough to deflect the golden light.

She wanted to scream for him to stop, to demand to know why he was attacking her, but all she could think of was her own survival as he sent another spell her way.

Her shield flew up again, just in time, the yellow spell crackling against it angrily before fizzling out.

Finnigan’s eyes were cold as he shot spell after spell at her, and her heart broke a little more each time one impacted against her shield. The man she cared for—the man she loved—was now a stranger, a hostile force.

“Finnigan, wait!” she cried. “Please! Please, if you love me, just wait…”

He hesitated, the spell dying in his hands, his chest rising and falling.

“Let’s talk,” she pleaded, fighting to suppress the grief and anger seething inside her. She had to keep her cool, to reason with him, but all the while, all she could think of was the fact that he’d attacked her.

How can he love me, and then attack me? How can he betray me like that?

“Stop. How can you do this to me?”

He didn’t respond, and his emotionless expression was like a punch in her gut. Her next words were a whimper. “Please. There’s a better way.”

“I agree,” he said, and her heart leapt for the briefest of moments. “Your way is better. In theory. But in practice, it can get my sister killed.”

“You’re going to get your sister killed,” she gasped, shaking her head in wonderment. How did he not understand? Hadn’t he just seen her go out of her way to grant Quinn privileges? Had she not explained in detail how the Demon Door worked? He was blinded by desperation, just as others had been before him.

Finnigan’s forehead was glistening with sweat as he spoke, but his voice was too soft for her to make out the words. She frowned.

“Can you speak up? I can’t hear y—”

Too late, she realised he was casting a spell, purposefully speaking low so she wouldn’t hear his incantation. A clear pressure spell erupted from his hand, surging through the air and colliding with her chest.

It sent her flying along the passageway, flailing wildly as the cobblestone ground rushed to meet her. She squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for impact, knowing there would be broken bones.

But something cushioned her fall, and it felt as if she were landing on a thin mattress. The landing was uncomfortable—but not as painful as it should have been. He had softened her landing.

Before she could get her bearings, however, he cast his next spell. She had taken too long to stand, and a golden net appeared, the glowing threads wrapping themselves around her, crackling with power as they contracted tightly. She raged against the bindings as it forced her down onto her knees.

“Finnigan!”

She lifted her head. He was facing away the wooden door to Jill’s cell creaking open as he slipped inside.

She tried to shift her position, but each time she moved, the net stung her. Struggling was no use; each time she thrashed against the golden bindings the hot threads would pierce her skin, even through her clothes, causing her to yelp. She went still, her vision blurry as her eyes welled up.

“Let me go!” She cried, trying to sound commanding, but the words sounded pitiful to her ears.

Finnigan returned and knelt down in front of her. He was cradling Jill.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I know it’s frightening, but I promise you’ll be fine. But Jill might not be.”

“Jill.” Leyna hardly dared to speak as the gold threads crackled threateningly, but a whimper escaped her mouth when she saw the woman hanging limp in his arms. Her face was grey, her eyes were closed, and she had chapped lips. “Is she…”

“She’s still alive.”

Was Jill’s chest rising? She couldn’t tell.

“I need to take her somewhere safe,” said Finnigan, shifting Jill’s weight. His face was aglow from the golden net that had her entrapped, as if he himself was radiating magic. “Come with me.”

“What?” she croaked.

“Come with me. I should have asked you before.”

She laughed derisively and looked away. “You’re a piece of work, you know that?”

A tense silence passed, then Finnigan rolled his shoulders back.

“I’ll make sure you’re discovered soon. The net should last until then, so no one will blame you for Jill’s escape, not when they find you like this. They’ll think freeing Jill was my idea.”

“It was your idea,” she snarled.

“Leyna, don’t you see? This way, you won’t lose your huskarlship.”

She spat at him. “If you think my huskarlship means more to me than an innocent woman’s life, then you don’t know me at all.”

Finnigan pinched his eyes shut, as if bracing himself for the onslaught of her words. When he opened them again, his expression was distant, as if he was already far away.

“Goodbye, Leyna.” He stood, adjusting the bundle that was Jill in his arms.

“Wait,” she said, terror seizing her. “Wait, you can’t go. Someone’s coming!”

Finnigan gave a small shrug and walked away. “I can handle a few guards.”

Fuck. Words. Use your words.

“It’s a wizard!” she yelled after him, but she couldn’t see him anymore. She tried to stand, but the net made it impossible to move at all. “Finnigan! I saw a blue light. It’s a wizard! It’s a wizar—”

She broke off, remembering the other thing. Shit. The door. I have to warn I him. If he’s carrying Jill, it will kill them both.

“Wait! You can’t take Jill through the door!” She yelled after him, half-screaming the words as she fought against the crackling spell, feeling like a fish caught in a net. It hurt so much. Could it slice her clothes and flesh? “Finnigan! Finnigan!”

There was no answer, and her surroundings swam through salty tears and sweat. She tried to blink them away.

“Wait! Stop! You can’t take Jill through the Demon Door! It will kill her! It will kill you both! Finnigan!”

It was dark. The only source of light was the harsh glow of the net, which did more to blind her in the darkness than it did to help her see.

Panting wildly, she drew in every scrap of air she could into her lungs. “Finnigan! Come back!”

Boom.

The telltale sound of spells echoed from faraway, booming and crackling. Voices sounded. She held her breath, straining to hear, but the noise had stopped.

Silence.

Who had won the duel?

A long time passed as she sat in the dark, all her muscles aching from kneeling on the hard ground. The net did little to support her, stinging her painfully whenever she tried to shift her position. She couldn’t even relax against it.

She was alone and trapped in the dark. No one came down the corridor, which meant he had won the duel—and walked straight to his death with Jill.

Please, no.

Despite everything, she couldn’t lose him. She couldn’t keep losing people…

“I love you,” she whispered, so quiet she didn’t hear the words.

The minutes passed and the darkness was getting to her. The horrible feeling that she wasn’t alone crept back, and she imagined hidden monsters lurking in the passage around her. Try as she might to keep the fear at bay, panic descended, and her breathing came in short, sharp gasps. She pushed the panic down long enough to fill her lungs again:

“Finnigan!”

There was no answer, only the deafening throb of her pulse in her ears.

Her head fell forward, but the net buzzed angrily and zapped her chin, forcing her to lift her head again. She was exhausted, trapped in timeless agony, and a dull ache had infiltrated her neck and lower back. How long would she be trapped like this? Was anyone coming?

Anger and misery mixed surged, and she raised her head to scream his name one last time.

“Finnigan!”

A smooth voice spoke in the darkness, making her flinch.

“Who’s Finnigan?”

She flinched.

“Who’s there?” she asked, her voice raspy.

It was pitch black. She had feared monsters, but this was worse—fear of the unknown.

Whoever was with her must have been a wizard, because suddenly, the golden net vanished. She was unprepared, and fell forward against the cold floor, giving a choked cry as her nose collided painfully with stone.

“Who is it?” she asked, unable to sit up. Everything ached. Her muscles had cramped, and her legs had gone to sleep, but now the blood flow surged back, painful and ticklish, and it truly did feel like a thousand pins and needles were embedded in her flesh. She moaned, waiting for the symptoms to pass.

When she had finally recovered enough to lift her head, a ghostly blue light filled the passageway.

“Can you get up?” asked the man.

“I…” she grunted, struggling to prop herself up on one elbow.

“Here, allow me.”

Something hard pressed beneath her stomach. It was an elegant, buckled shoe, and it rolled her over unceremoniously. She flopped onto her back, where she lay staring up at the ceiling. A figure stepped into view, standing over her.

She could not see his face. The cell was dark except for the light orb hanging in the air behind the man, who was shrouded in darkness.

The only feature she could make out was where the blue glow highlighted his short, neat hair.

The man lifted his chin, causing his spectacles to flash blue.

Paralysed by fear, she was unable to scream.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Shared Ambition

“HUSKARL LEYNA.” PERCY SMILED, extending a pale hand to her. “Please, let me help you up. The floor is no place for a huskarl.” The chamberlain’s voice was smooth as velvet, and he held himself with poise.

She stared at his hand uncertainly, mouth agape. It was lucky she hadn’t screamed. Percy didn’t know she had identified him as the one responsible for the Massacre. What would he do if he found out?

Percy beckoned impatiently, his hand still extended. “Come now. We don’t have all night.”

She accepted his hand, fighting the urge to recoil from his touch. Despite his small build, his wiry arm was strong, and he hoisted her up with apparent ease.

“There. Are you hurt?”

She shook her head wearily. It was unnerving to find herself face to face with the Court Massacre criminal. He was the same polite court official she had always known at the castle, so how could he be a mass murderer? Had he always been this way? And how could he smile at her like that, showing compassion after he’d ordered the death of hundreds?

“Now tell me, who is this Finnigan?”

She opened her mouth to answer, but her teeth chattered with fright.

Mistaking the source of her reaction, Percy’s face morphed into sympathy. “Oh, you poor thing, you must be so cold. Here…” For a moment, she thought he would offer her the fur-trimmed cloak on his back—her stomach coiled—but instead, he drew his hand through the air, and a wall of fire blazed to life.

Leyna leapt back, but it was not an attack; the flames floated beside them, thin and flat as if contained within a plane of glass. It crackled merrily, and the warmth radiating from it was pleasant.

“Excellent. Isn’t that better?”

She nodded weakly. “H-how did you get in here?”

“Captain Marton let me in. It was rather clever of you to have young Grace send for him—I could never have gotten through the Demon Door without the privileges.”

“The captain let you through?” No matter what hold the chamberlain might have had over him, Captain Marton would not have gone against the lord regent's wishes.

“Indeed, I was surprised myself. I convinced him to allow me in for a short time to provide magical support. When I shared my fears of someone trying to help the lord regent’s son escape, he took that quite seriously. That still wasn’t a good enough for him…he’s stubborn as an ox. But then I told him about Maisy Fry’s death—that did the trick.”

Leyna gritted her teeth. “You pushed her into the Demon Door, didn’t you?”

“Indeed.” He caught sight of Leyna’s shocked expression. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. I only pushed her out of necessity.”

She retreated a step, but her back hit the stone wall.

“Why was it necessary?”

“I didn’t want my identity discovered. You see, dear Maisy and I were waiting outside the Demon Door for you and Grace to deliver Quinn. But when your dear Lord Brighton appeared, he began something of a quarrel with her.”

She gasped as her mind snapped to Finnigan. “Is Lord Brighton alive?”

Percy clucked his tongue impatiently. “Yes, yes, more or less.”

“Have you hurt him? Because—”

“Please, all in good time. Now, can we hold the interruptions? I do hate to digress…”

It took great effort for her to remain silent, and she placed her hands behind her back so Percy wouldn’t see them curled into fists. She glanced down the passage and sent a silent prayer into its black depths.

Please be alive. Finnigan, Jill…please, please be well.

She jumped as Percy snapped his fingers near her face. “Eyes here when I’m speaking, please. Goodness, where are your manners? You’re normally much better behaved.”

Her fingernails dug into her palms. If she was going to make it out alive, she would have to be smart—she would need to adopt a facade, just like the jester, and disguise her true feelings. Digging deep, she offered an apologetic smile. “I’m terribly sorry, sir.”

“Ahem, as I was saying. When your beau spotted me, I knew he would give chase and discover my identity.”

His links to the Renegátok, she thought to herself.

“While not the end of the world, it might have complicated things. It seemed easier to simply cut him off.”

Her throat went dry. “So you pushed Fry into the Demon Door?”

Percy clapped his hands together. “Precisely! Gave me plenty of time to get away.”

She grimaced and turned her head away. He did not seem to notice her disgust, because he continued to speak.

“Alas, poor Maisy…she had great potential, just like you.” He gave a sad pout. “She was so ambitious, so underutilised by the Brotherhood. And when she came to me, eager to make her mark in the world, I was only glad to oblige.”

“She came to you?” She couldn’t believe that Fry, even with all her faults, would want anything to do with a man like Chamberlain Percy.

He held up a finger as a warning not to interrupt. “I was prepared to offer Maisy so much more than the Brotherhood ever had. So, it’s such a shame, really, that I had to kill her.”

Leyna tried not to let her horror show as the gravity of Percy’s words sunk in: He pushed Fry into the Demon Door, not because he had no other choice, but because it was the easiest solution. He killed the very person who was helping him on a whim, just so he could get away cleanly.

“By the way,” said Percy, “I was rather disappointed when Grace left without Quinn. I was counting on you, Leyna, to read between the lines and deliver him to me.”

“I don’t understand. You wanted me to free Quinn?”

Percy sighed. “Perhaps it’s my fault—I should have spelt it out. And now, there are some Kormendian wizards here who are not very happy.” He paused, running his tongue along his lips. “I’m not happy.”

Her jaw slackened. It was time to take a gamble. Her life would depend on staying in Percy’s good books—and she couldn’t help Finnigan if she was dead. And right now, she was on shaky ground, Percy’s easy confession to Fry’s murder was evidence of that. He wouldn’t keep her alive, not unless he trusted her.

“Sir, are you referring to the Renegátok?” she ventured.

Percy’s eyes narrowed, and his arm darted forward and seized her chin, lifting it. “I see you know more than you’re letting on. Tell me, Huskarl Leyna…have you made any progress in the investigation?”

She swallowed.

He knows. He knows that I know.

It was too late to play dumb. Her only chance was to play along, to prove she was useful to him.

“Yes,” she said, as casually as she could with her jaw held in his grasp. “I know you ordered the Court Massacre.”

“Indeed?” Percy released her chin. “How did you find out?”

“Beatrice,” she said. “Her name was missing on the plaque.”

She startled as Percy emitted a crazed laugh. “Ooh, very clever! Yes, Beatrice knew too much, and I needed her executed quickly. Perhaps I was a little hasty in redecorating, but there didn’t seem much point in waiting to fix the plaque.” He dusted his clothes. “I must say, you gave me quite the scare when you lifted her silencing charm. Did you mean to do that? You’re lucky I was there! I had to tell the captain to give her the chop quick-smart before she started talking.”

Leyna gulped, lips tightening as her stomach threatened to heave.

“Moving forward,” said Percy matter-of-factly. “Now that you’ve uncovered the man behind it all—what do you think?”

She licked her lips. “And…” Think Leyna, think! What would the chamberlain want to hear?

The answer came to her in the form of Finnigan’s voice, echoing in her mind as clearly as if he’d been standing beside her.

He would want to hear himself speak—to hear his own words repeated back to him.

She drew herself up. “On the balance, sir, I think it’s all for the best. After all, no one can deny that these are difficult times.”

Percy’s smile grew so wide, she was reminded of the demon cat she’d seen in the steward’s office, the one he’d fondly called Ernie.

“Exactly! But this is also a chance for great change, is it not? Yes. One can’t get anything done without loyal soldiers.” His expression turned pensive and he peered at her through his glasses, and as the muttered to himself, she had the horrible feeling that her life hung in the balance, dependant on whatever thoughts were going through his head. “Huskarl Leyna,” he finally said, “I’m in a position to offer you the opportunity of a lifetime. Can I count on you?”

She gave a stiff nod. I have to do this, if not for my self, then for Finnigan. “Yes sir.”

“Excellent! Walk with me?”

It was bizarre to walk along the passageway, side-by-side with the chamberlain. How long had she been down here? Her head swam. This felt like a bad dream.

“Are you a member of the Renegátok?” she asked, seizing on the first question she could think of. Anything to get Percy talking—and to stop him changing his mind about keeping her alive.

“I am—at least for the time being. Here is something for you to understand, Huskarl Leyna: My loyalty is to Rosaria, and no one else. I serve Rosaria’s citizens in the purest sense. And the Renegátok’s interests align with mine—they want reform, and they are starting with Rosaria. It’s a fruitful relationship.”

Leyna hoped the chamberlain wouldn’t see her frown in the dim passage. “Is that why you had King Rutherford assassinated? Because you thought he was a bad ruler?” She tried to phrase the question in a non-judgemental way, but this proved impossible. Her seething tone betrayed her.

“You must remove words like ‘good’ and ‘bad’ from your vocabulary,” chided Percy. “Some of the king’s actions, however well-intentioned, caused great suffering, and he allowed that suffering to go unheard for too long.”

They were nearing the end of the passageway.

“Wait,” she said, apprehension building in her chest. “Where’s Lord Brighton?”

Percy spun around, blocking her path. “You’ll see him soon enough. I left him in the main chamber so the captain could question him.”

She drew a sharp breath. “Did you hurt him?” She clasped her hands, ready to beg.

Percy giggled. “You should be asking if he’s hurt me! His magic packs a punch! I always took him for a pacifist, but he put up quite a fight, and made it as far as the chamber, all while carrying a woman! It’s lucky the captain let me in, or your Lord Brighton would be long gone.”

“Is Jill alive?”

“Quite possibly. But what did I say about interrupting? Oh, speaking of Lord Brighton…” he leant closer. “Who is Finnigan? And why was he trying to free that wretched prisoner—a woman, of all people? And why did he leave you in such a state?” He made an impatient sound. “Things are getting messy again. I don’t like clutter…”

“Wait…” The last thing she wanted was for Percy to decide to ‘declutter’ by killing Finnigan and Jill. She had to convince him to keep them alive.

If they’re still alive.

“Yes?” Percy was watching her with gleaming eyes like a snake ready to strike. “Who is Finnigan? A Brotherhood member?”

She nodded as the secret was wrenched from her.

“And that woman, Jill something-a-rather…that wouldn’t happen to be his lover…?”

Unwilling to correct him, she nodded again.

“Shame. Love can be disappointing, can’t it? No wonder you were crying…”

She flinched as Percy reached to touch her face.

“I’m fine,” she said hastily.

He lowered his hand.

“You know, you were always my first preference for the Royal Guard. But after your nasty injury, I had no choice but to use Quinn.” He leant forward again, invading her personal space. I need a loyal soldier, Leyna. A right-hand man who shares my vision for what Rosaria can be: a place of equal opportunity. A place where anyone can become a wizard, should they so choose. A kingdom of prosperity—but not at the expense of others.”

His words were like ice on her skin, but they also resonated with her, lighting up her soul and making her feel buoyant. She hated that she wanted the same things.

Does that make me like him?

“But Quinn failed me,” Percy went on. “He and I made a deal; I would ensure that the Guild allowed him to become a qualified wizard, and in return, he would serve the Renegátok under my watch. To be fair, I had my doubts, but they insisted that he be the one to kill the king and queen. I was right, in the end…the boy didn’t have the stomach for it. But I know that had circumstances been different, you would not have failed me, Leyna.”

She didn’t dare answer. Her insides were screaming. Nothing would ever have compelled her to kill another living, breathing person, at least not in cold blood, and never the king and queen. Percy was right about some things, but he had seriously misjudged her. Her conscience eased.

I’m nothing like him. Not where it counts.

“I used every resource at my disposal to have Headmaster Emsworth graduate Quinn,” Percy said. “He was quite adamant that no exceptions would be made. I think he fancied himself as a man of principle, but it turns out he was just another stuffed shirt. Do you know what it took to convince him to let Quinn through?”

She shrugged helplessly.

“Money.” Percy grinned at her surprise. “Oh yes, I was disappointed, too. Not at all what I expected from a master mage like Emsworth. But that’s all it took to sway him, and with the castle’s treasury at my disposal, a generous donation was easy enough to arrange.”

“And the steward approved the payoff?”

“The donation, if you please. And yes, he did. Although, I do feel as though he shortchanged me. The old fop restricted Quinn from using most of the spells that would have made him useful.”

She needed to sit down. It was bad enough that the chamberlain was a monster. But to have all her leaders knocked from their pedestal in the space of a few hours? It was too much.

“I warned you, Leyna. It’s important to know what people want before you can trust them.” Percy spread his arms wide. “Which is how you know you can trust me. Haven’t I always looked after you? We are more alike than you realise. We share the same ambition. We both want to see Rosaria prosper, to see its citizens safe and looked after, with equal opportunities for all. And it can all be possible. I have the keys to the kingdom, the steward does everything I say, and in a few years, the prince will inherit the throne.”

“You don’t want the throne for yourself?” she asked, remembering Finnigan’s theory.

“No, I have no desire to sit on the throne myself. I may share your ambition, Leyna, but I do not desire fame or glory. I do not wish for credit or accolades. And unlike you, I have no desire to wear a banderole. I only wish to serve our people and see Rosaria prosper.”

Even if takes murdering everyone who trusted you to do it.

She didn’t say this out loud, but wondered how he didn’t see it written across her face.

“So why kill the king?” she asked, casting a distracted glance up the passage. “Why—?”

“A valid question, but we better mosey on. Let’s just say that sometimes, the ends justify the means.” He dusted his hands together, then flashed her a smile. “Now, on to better things. I present to you with a chance to join me, and to help me rebuild Rosaria. I admire your tenacity as a huskarl, and just think of all the spells I could teach you as a wizard—the Renegátok have been more than generous in their bargain, and I could extend that goodwill to you. Just imagine, you would have powers one can only dream of, powers you could never hope to achieve even if you spent your whole life studying at that dowdy excuse for a guild.”

She glanced down the passage again, but this time, he caught her looking. “Eyes on me when I’m talking, please. No one is coming, Leyna. I’ve instructed Captain Marton to wait for me. And you know the captain: he is nothing if not good at following orders, to the point of being annoying, really. He’ll do almost anything I ask of him, so long as it doesn’t contradict the lord regent. It’s fascinating to watch, really…”

A chill ran down Leyna’s spine.

“So, what do you say? I’m offering you the chance to effect positive change. To restore the kingdom to where it was. To protect the prince and help me forge new rules—and make sure others follow them. You will have the glory and respect of the people, and the knowledge that your loved ones are safe and taken care of. And together, we can ensure that every Rosarian, whether they be a farmer, or a milkmaid, or a poet, has the same opportunities and stabilities as any citizen deserves.”

Her lips parted. It was what she wanted. Safety, stability, respect, presented like an elegantly-wrapped gift. It was too good to be true.

“What about Cornelius?” she asked, avoiding the use of Finnigan’s in the bleak hope that the chamberlain might forget.

Percy shrugged and gestured at her with an open palm. “It’s entirely up to you, my dear. Whatever makes you happy. But if you do choose to keep him alive, just remember: he will be your responsibility. I expect him to fall in line.”

“And what if I don’t join you?”

Percy blinked several times, his smile wavering. “Then I’m afraid I’ll be telling the captain a rather different story, won’t I? Yes, you would leave me no alternative. I’d much rather promote you, so it would be a shame to explain how a huskarl such as yourself allowed a female traitor to escape after being tricked by the man who courted her…ooh, or maybe I’ll say that you were a willing accomplice, a traitor to the realm. I have not yet decided.”

He tilted his head at her expectantly.

The choice was simple.

Taking a deep breath, she stretched out her hand in offer of a handshake, and with a burst of charisma she had never before possessed, said: “Sir, there’s really no need for threats. I want the same things you do.”

Percy’s eyes widened with delight, and he clasped her hand.

“Indeed,” he purred. “I always knew you had potential.”

As they shook, Percy’s hand was as moist and limp in her grasp as it had been when she’d first arrived at the castle, but the smile never slipped from her face.

Chapter Forty

Potent Loyalty

HER BLOOD HAD RUN cold when they entered the dungeon’s main chamber. Finnigan was on his knees, restrained by a golden net.

Feeble but alive, Jill had been returned to her cell, but at Leyna’s request, Healer James was sent for. Percy looked small beside the captain, whose large muscled form was exaggerated by his full plate armour. None the less, the chamberlain had a commanding presence, and had no trouble getting either the captain or the surrounding guards to obey his orders.

“Leyna, I promised you would decide the fate of Lord Brighton, and I meant it—but, you must concede, he does not look particularly tractable, does he?”

Leyna gazed down at Finnigan sadly. “No, he does not.”

“We could lock him up,” Captain Marton suggested.

“We could,” mused Percy, “but that’s rather unimaginative. What say you, Leyna? Do you think you can bring him to heel?”

What could she say? She had never seen Finnigan lose composure before. He was an open book, and there was no point in telling him to calm down and defer to the chamberlain, not when he’d spent the last ten minutes shooting death glares at the captain, and not after he’d spat on one of Percy’s immaculate shoes—a shoe which had responded with a sharp kick to the face.

She couldn’t bear to see Finnigan’s injuries. It was obvious the captain had questioned him. His face was a swollen motley of red and purple, with a black puffy eye and a split lip. Had his nose always been broken? Or was that new?

She ran to him, trying to shield his body. Even after he’d betrayed her, she would do anything to save him.

At least the beatings had stopped. She scanned his body with her magic, probing a tentative blue tendril forward. The injuries were external, and would heal, but she was shocked to see the number of bruises on his arms, legs and chest that were hidden by his clothes. She wanted desperately to heal him, but assessing his injuries was all she dared do—a sloppy spell would only make things worse.

“Please, Finnigan,” she whispered. “Play along. Stop resisting.”

Had he heard her? Would he listen? She wished he could read her mind, or that he could say something, but had Percy silenced him with a charm on arrival.

Percy circled them. “I’ve got it,” he announced, opening his cloak wide and reaching into an inside pocket. “Lord Brighton won’t be nearly as threatening without his magic.” He pulled forth a small glass vial and held it up for them to see.

“What’s that?” asked Leyna, rising hesitantly.

“A potion called varaztalan,” he purred. “Left over from the Baxton feast. Although, this one is rather more concentrated, so the potency might make it a little…painful to the insides.”

She flinched as Percy extended the vial towards her.

“Care to do the honours?”

She shook her head, gaping at the vial, and made no move to take it.

Percy gave it a gentle shake, causing the liquid to swish around inside.

“Come now, don’t be shy.”

It was a test.

Her mouth went dry. She reached out a shaky hand to take the vial. What would happen if she dropped it? Then she wouldn’t have to do what he was asking…

“Careful,” Percy sang in warning. “It’s fragile.” He cocked his head at Finnigan. “As is your dear Lord Brighton. I’d hate to have to consider alternative ways to restrain him. Did you know that a wizard cannot perform magic if he doesn’t have his hands?”

Leyna winced. She had known that. It was one of the more gruesome anecdotes from her Rosarian history subject, the one that had described what fate awaited wizards who were captured during wartime.

Every muscle in her body tensed, and she wanted nothing more than to knock the vial from Percy’s hand, to spring forth and smash his spectacles, to claw at his face, to cast a spell, to do anything.

But beyond the torchlight, behind the castle guards, were three wizards watching them from the shadows. Their black masks fully covered their faces, and the spherical eye-holes made their appearance infinitely more frightening than the jester’s cat-eye-shaped ones of the jester. Their shoulders were draped with burgundy capelets, the hoods raised to shroud the eerie masks. They were members of the Renegátok, and each was flanked by a Demon hound. How or why the captain had agreed to let them in, she couldn’t fathom.

They were vastly outnumbered, and Finnigan was trapped within the golden net. Even if she released him, they wouldn’t stand a chance. She felt as helpless as when Beatrice had been executed—what good was it to start a fight she could not possibly win?

Trying to control her breathing, she took the glass vial from Percy’s hand. With trembling fingers, she uncorked it.

“Are you sure it’s only temporary?”

“Admittedly, I’ve never experimented with this potion in its undiluted form. So, I can’t promise that it won’t be permanent.”

The bright net crackled as Finnigan began to struggle, the eye that hadn’t swollen wide with horror.

“So dramatic,” smirked Percy, before pressing his lips together in sympathy and turning to Leyna. “But don’t worry. You might like him better without magic. Just remember: a bird with clipped wings is still a bird…even if it cannot fly.”

What a twisted thing to say. She wanted nothing more than to hurl the bottle across the room. Surely, nothing could be worse than Finnigan losing his magic forever?

The pain etched on his face and his broken nose made her reconsider.

I have to keep him alive.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped towards him, but he shook his head, tipping his head away from her.

“Cornelius, please, I’m so sorry…”

He thrashed against his restraints, even though the golden net must have dug into his skin like a hundred razor blades.

“Oh, captain?” sang Percy.

Captain Marton stepped forward, seized a handful of Finnigan’s hair, and jerked his head back.

“Finnigan,” she pleaded, using his real name. But Finnigan continued to lean away, his lips pressed together tightly, refusing to open.

Her heart was pounding in her chest and every single muscle was cramping, her entire existence signalling that this was wrong.

It’s his only chance. If I don’t do this, they’ll do something worse…

She held the vial up, but even with the captain and the net restraining him, Finnigan wouldn’t open his mouth. He kept jerking his head, and several times, he nearly bumped the vial from her hands.

“Here, allow me,” said Percy, pinching Finnigan’s nose.

A couple of seconds later, Finnigan’s mouth flew open in a silent gasp, his expression as pained as the one she herself was wearing.

“Bottoms up,” said Percy cheerfully, and she hated his voice, and hated him for making her do this. For the first time in her life, she realised that she’d never truly hated anyone before, not even Fry.

As she tipped the contents of the vial down Finnigan’s throat, she heard a hissing sound, and realised too late that the liquid was burning his insides.

She screamed his name, dropping to her knees before him.

After ensuring Finnigan had swallowed the potion, the captain released him, and the chamberlain released the golden net.

The silencing charm was no longer in place, but as Finnigan fell forward, clutching his stomach, the only sound he made was a hoarse wheeze.

Chapter Forty-One

Blood and Lies

FINNIGAN’S HEAD WAS CRADLED in Leyna’s lap.

When he was ready, she helped him sit up. Amazingly, he didn’t fight her, and once he was upright, she swept the mess of caramel waves from his forehead. His blue eyes were shining with tears, and she fell into the depths of them, no longer caring about any disagreements or fights they may have had.

All she felt was guilt. She would never forget how heavy the small, flask had felt in her hand, or how cold the glass had been, its surface slick with condensation. Nor would she forget the pop of the cork, or the steamy hiss of the potion as she tipped it into Finnigan’s mouth. It was the worst thing she’d ever done.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

He placed a hand on hers. “Don’t be,” he rasped.

“Does your stomach hurt?” She already knew the answer because she’d dared assess him with the magic blue tendril again, and found his mouth, his throat, his stomach was lined with ulcers. The pain…she wished she could give him something to ease the pain.

Miraculously, he managed to give her a winning smile. “I’ve never been better.”

She touched his face in wonderment. “But your magic, it’s gone… isn’t it?” She had tried to reach for his magic, to sense it, but did not know how. Whether she was doing it wrong, or whether his magic was truly depleted, she didn’t know.

“It’s gone…for now.” He reached up to touch her hand, the one that was caressing his face. “But it will be back, don’t—”

His voice cut off as he began to cough, the raspy sounds horrible to hear, mostly because she knew how much the coughing fit would hurt.

She rested a hand on his back helplessly, hoping the fit would subside soon.

Percy was busy conversing with Captain Marton, his voice too pleasant for someone who had just helped force a wizard to drink a potion—that might have stripped him of his powers for good.

As for the captain, she was tempted to throw caution to the wind and warn him of Percy’s true nature, to beseech him to help her and Finnigan—but it would have been futile. Only someone of a higher rank than Percy would sway him, and together with the strange wizards watching, she didn’t dare risk it.

“Let me try healing you,” she said to Finnigan. “I’m not very good, but…I can’t bear to know you’re in pain.”

He shut his eyes for a moment, clutching his stomach, before giving a small nod. “See what you can do.”

Blocking everything out, she focused her attention on Finnigan. She started with an investigation, the blue tendrils exploring the extent of his injuries, and it was akin to staring up at a city on fire, wondering where to start in putting out the flames. She licked her lips, going over the incantation in her mind, before she began to recite. It was a simply healing spell—one to stem the bleeding—and while it achieved little to tidy things, the waterfalls of red stopped flowing. Feeling encouraged, she dared a second spell, this one more advanced, but one of the few she remembered from third year, around the time when she was still trying to prove herself to Fry. It was a spell to ease pain, and it worked more in the mind than it did at the site of injury, and in normal circumstances, she would never have attempted it. But Finnigan was hurting, and she couldn’t bear it.

“Did it work?” she whispered, when the blue tendrils laced around his temples had withdrawn.

“It did, a little.” He offered her a smile. “Thank you.”

That was all there was time for. She was astonished that she’d managed to perform two healing spells so well, and disappointed she hadn’t been able to address the ulcers in his throat—those were the worst.

“Play time is over, children, it’s time to go up,” Percy announced. He’d already sent Captain Marton and his men ahead, and with the captain out of earshot, he turned to Leyna. “When we leave the dungeon, you will grant Quinn permission to safely pass through the Demon Door, and you will do so in a way that the captain does not hear. Is that understood?”

She nodded. It seemed pointless to say that she’d already done that.

“Excellent.” Percy turned to one of the black-masked wizards. “Ildi, go get Quinn. Ensure no one sees you when you leave the castle. You know where to take him.” He caught the wizard’s arm before she left. “And Ildi—do not lose him again.”

“Yes sir,” she answered, and left in a sweep of her cloak, a demon hound at her heels.

“What’s going to happen to Quinn?” Leyna asked, keeping her tone neutral as she helped Finnigan rise. Thankfully, he was steady on his feet, but several guards swept forward to bind his hands. “Where is she taking Quinn?”

“Quinn will go away for a little while, back to where he belongs,” said Percy. “He will be punished for his failures, but ultimately, he will be expected to take his place in the Renegátok. They can be rather persuasive. If he still refuses to cooperate, well…that is out of my hands, but I do not think he’ll be afforded a third chance.” His eyes swept over their group. “Meanwhile, we are going up to the Great Hall. I plan to give his dear father, the steward, a little reminder of who’s in charge.”

Leyna’s head was swimming as she followed Percy, the captain, the guards and the remaining two Renegátok wizards out of the dungeon. She paused at the door, pretending to give Quinn the privileges that Ildi would need to smuggle him out alive, but all she could think of was the horrible mistake she’d made. After everything the steward had done to protect his son, and the reputation Quinn had sacrificed by allowing people to think he was guilty, she had unknowingly compromised his safety in a single night. He would be delivered to the cult, to be shaped or crushed into who they wanted him to be.

By agreeing to come down and visit him, she had set off a chain of events that she couldn’t undo.

What will the Renegátok do to him?

Quinn was not mouldable in the way the chamberlain imagined. After speaking with Quinn in his cell, she’d gained further insight into his temperament. He was like glassy porcelain, hard but brittle. The cultists would have difficulty breaking him, but if they tried to bend him to their will, he would crack. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes.

They will crush him. I’m never going to see him again. They’ll take him away, and even if he returns by some miracle, he won’t be the person he is now. He’ll be a shadow of the man that Grace loves.

It was late at night, but Percy had requested a private audience with the steward in the Great Hall, and he had a bounce in his step as he crossed the Foyer. Captain Marton marched proudly behind, followed by four castle guards who had bound Finnigan’s hands and were walking him forward. She and the two remaining Renegátok wizards brought up the rear. They never once removed their masks, but without seeing their faces, she sensed their distrust. They were watching her. She smoothed her features and bowed her head, determined to be the picture of deference as they followed Percy into the empty hall.

Except the Great Hall wasn’t empty at all; it seemed the steward wasn’t easily manipulated, because when they pushed the great doors open, the large room was packed with people.

She could tell Percy was taken aback by the way he hesitated in the doorway, his hand flying up to adjust his spectacles. It was the only sign of his surprise, because a moment later he was striding confidently down the aisle, the folds of his fur-trimmed cloak flapping dramatically behind him. The gathered courtiers went quiet as they watched his approach.

Steward Marek was sitting on the gilt throne, surveying the scene below, wearing his characteristic glower. Seated beside him at the High Table was a handful of court officials—nearly none of whom were Royal Council members. Meanwhile, the gathered courtiers wore a mix of day and evening wear, as if unsure how to dress for the occasion. One young woman looked embarrassed as she tugged at her shining satin ball gown, whilst a middle-aged noblewoman looked equally self-conscious in her nightgown and slippers. The periphery of the room was lined with castle guards draped in the same blue and gold as the wall banners behind them. It would have been a dignified display if not for the dozen Demon hounds that stood beside them, motionless like gargoyles except for their sharp eyes, which moved erratically in their sockets. Two spectators circled the high ceiling, twisting in the air to weave between the chandeliers. Their dragon-like beauty was diminished at such proximity by the flat, human-like faces that graced their long, scaly necks.

The prince’s chair at the High Table was empty, and Leyna couldn’t see Grace anywhere.

The chamberlain stopped several feet before the dais with the rest of their group kept a respectful distance. The captain, Renegátok wizards and their demons stood to her right, whilst Finnigan and the castle guards stood to her left. As she tried to catch Finnigan’s eye, she had to blink several times before she realised that one guard had been swapped out—and in his place was Patrick, the bearish man with the bushy beard. He was facing straight ahead determinedly, as if unaware of her stare.

Then, for the briefest of moments, his eyes flickered to hers, and understanding passed between them. In a show of rolling his shoulders, he shuffled closer so they were standing shoulder-to-shoulder.

“My dear lord regent,” said Percy, bowing his head. “I was unaware that there was already a meeting taking place. I had hoped for a private audience.”

“Is that so?” said Marek.

Only the back of Percy’s head was visible, but she could easily imagine the twitch of his eye at the brisk answer.

Percy quickly recovered with a polite cough. “Your Grace, may I ask, with all due respect—what is the reason for such a large assembly? And where are the other Royal Council members?”

“Certain members of the Royal Council have been detained on charges of corruption,” said the steward vaguely, before his dark eyes slid past Percy. “Captain Marton?”

The captain hesitated before stepping forward heavily, his armour jangling as he went down on one knee. “Yes, Your Grace?”

“Captain, I need you to watch over the detained Council members. They are being held in the undercroft—make sure they stay there.”

Captain Marton gave a deep, formal bow, before leaving the Great Hall with his chest puffed out. Leyna wondered if the captain realised the steward was purposefully removing him from the scene, depriving Percy of a supporter. The chamberlain’s hands clenched; the power move had not escaped his attention.

“Now, what did you wish to speak with me about, lord chamberlain?” Steward Marek peered at his goblet idly, the mannerism reminding her of King Rutherford. The aloof gesture would irk the chamberlain, and despite the circumstances, she repressed a smile.

Percy gave a stiff bow, then beckoned towards the crowd. Maurice and Firmin emerged and stepped forward to kneel beside Percy as he spoke. “My lord regent, I present to you new information that has come to light. Tonight, there was a grave incident in the dungeon. I’m afraid it’s rather shocking.” He glanced around at the surrounding nobles, ensuring he had their attention before continuing. “Your son, Traitor Quinn Volak, previously accused of involvement in the Court Massacre, has escaped the castle dungeon.”

A loud gasp rippled through the crowd at the news, giving rise to a low murmur of speculation. The steward shifted on his throne, the power transferring ever so slightly to the chamberlain.

“How could this happen?” he demanded, his face darkening.

Percy spread his hands innocently. “Why, Your Grace…I hoped that as his loving father, you might know. It is clear he was aided by someone within the castle. As head of the Royal Council, and keeping in mind the people’s best interests at heart, I am deeply concerned. I was led to believe that you would hold your son accountable for his crimes. Perhaps, you can enlighten us as to why he has been set free?”

The implication was damning, and Leyna was amazed at how quickly the chamberlain had wrenched control from the steward, steering the court to believe he had freed his son.

“You are mistaken,” growled Steward Marek. “I did not order my son’s release. This is the first I am hearing of his escape.”

His simple statement, while not unconvincing, failed to win the audience’s confidence back.

The chamberlain took advantage of this and continued speaking, turning his back on the High Table as he addressed the court. It was a bold move. It was also effective; despite Percy’s lower elevation at the foot of the dais, the backdrop of the High Table and proud Rutherford banners lent him credibility while indirectly shunning the steward. He weaved a tale which, supported by Maurice and Firmin, re-emphasised Quinn’s involvement in the Court Massacre. Unbeknownst to the watching nobles, the chamberlain conveyed, without ever being explicit, that the cultists had captured Quinn, and Leyna listened with horrified fascination as Percy blackmailed the steward into submission, going so far as to outline suitable modes of punishment for when Quinn was eventually captured.

Next to the humble, nervous, and oddly likeable chamberlain, the steward looked like a villain, and his royal-blue cape and bright neck scarf were not enough to soften his glower. Few people in the room knew that behind his harsh features was a grieving father who could not retaliate, and could only put on a brave face as his control of the court slipped away. Percy wore a smug smile, outfoxing the steward at every turn. He was in his element.

How had she not seen it before? This toxic dynamic between the steward and the chamberlain? Even the demons were listening with interest, their heads tilted as if awaiting a command.

An idea seized her, and she turned her chin ever so slightly to the left. Keeping her voice low so as not to alert the Renegátok wizards standing nearby, she whispered her instructions to Patrick. She prayed that the Brotherhood member would trust her enough to do as she bid him.

Patrick gave no signs of acknowledgement, and after several long minutes, she worried he had not heard her. Just when she was considering repeating her message, he turned and left, and was replaced by another guard as seamlessly as if the switch hadn’t occurred at all.

It was all she could do to face straight ahead and not look to see where Patrick had gone. Had he heard her instructions? Would he trust her enough to do what she asked? Would he find the prince and bring him here?

Finnigan glanced at her in puzzlement. She gave a tiny shake of her shoulder before turning her attention back to Percy, who was still speaking. The court was quiet, enchanted by his flowery emotional words. He had perfected the art of speaking continuously, and having made his point about Quinn, was now droning through a tale that painted the Brotherhood as the enemy.

“The Brotherhood are the real instigators of the Court Massacre,” Percy announced, and Finnigan was brought forward as evidence. “Quinn was but one man, but behold—” He gestured at Finnigan, who had been forced to his knees “—this is one of their secret spies in the flesh. He was captured by our esteemed Huskarl Leyna as he attempted to break out a fellow Brotherhood member. If not for her dedicated undercover work over these past weeks, and daring, brave actions tonight, both traitors would have gotten away scot-free. I think that deserves a round of applause.”

Leyna could hardly bear to listen, pressing her lips into a thin line as noisy clapping rattled against her ears. Once, such public acknowledgement had been a dream of hers. She had wanted her name on a plaque like Bancroft, distinguishing her as an honourable huskarl, and she had wanted the Great Hall to erupt with applause as the courtiers witnessed the Crown commend her for acts of heroism. She had wanted people to be impressed, to have every head turn towards her and stare, wide-eyed, just as they were now.

But she didn’t want it. Not like this, with the praise framed perversely, with the man she loved forced to his knees beside her.

She stood straight-backed, enduring the court’s attention as Percy built up her role in capturing Finnigan to epic proportions, fabricating lies like a spider spinning silk and pulling tight until she was snug and secure in his plot.

I’m trapped. Trapped by Percy…and trapped by my own ambitions.

The huskarlship, the respect, the power…what was the point if she couldn’t protect the people she loved?

If she was forced to conceal her feelings?

To support the lies and secrets of men like Percy?

I got what I wanted. And yet, I haven’t won at all.

Her ambition had made a fool of her. It might have earned her the huskarlship, and the wizarding qualification, but somewhere along the way, she’d become too focused on an end goal, unable to let go, and unable to adapt when the rules had changed. Worst of all, it had made her predictable, vulnerable, and able to be used.

She licked her lips. There had to be a way out, a way to disentangle herself from Percy’s spidery web. She was ready to fight, to shout, to cast a spell, to do anything but remain silent. Like in chess, it was critical that she only make good moves—or at least not make any bad ones.

But there were no good moves available to her, at least not yet, and so she waited, hoping for an opportunity. The waiting was torture.

“Enough.” The steward’s sharp voice echoed through the hall, and the force of it even silenced Percy. He gestured at a guard near a set of side doors. “Bring in the body.”

Dread filled her as two guards entered carrying a long, wrapped bundle between them. They set it on the floor before the dais. The stained sheet was pulled aside and the court clamoured closer, standing on tiptoes to see the dead woman. She was facing towards them wearing the plain, crisp dress of a lady’s maid, and—Leyna’s heart lurched sickeningly as she recognised the strawberry blonde hair. A guard gently lifted the hair back to reveal a pretty, plump face and a button nose.

Her stomach dropped.

No. It can’t be. No, no, no…

“It’s the Saunders’ maid,” someone whispered.

Leyna gaped silently before an angry shriek burst from her throat. “Sophie!” she screamed, no longer caring about the chamberlain as she ran forward, sliding to her knees before the body—before Sophie, her maid, her companion, her friend. The closest thing she’d had to a sister after Tash had died.

She tried to lift Sophie’s head, but it was difficult. Her body was stiff and cold, the skin grey and smeared crimson. Up close, her clothes were torn and soaked with blood, her stomach slashed open, her insides…

No. She would not look at the damage. That was not how she would remember Sophie. Suppressing a sob, she brushed her cheek, which had once borne a rosy flush that could rival even Grace’s. It was like touching a fallen angel. Even in death, she looked peaceful, kind, and sweet.

“How did this happen?” she snarled at no one in particular. She tried to repeat the question, but her words were lost in the noise of the crowd’s frenzied chattering.

The steward’s voice broke through the din.

“Sophie Woodstock was found in the mountain woods by our search parties tonight. I have asked you all here because her death is proof of a serious lapse in security.” He pointed to the far wall where the guards and demons were assembled. “It is clear from her wounds that a demon attacked her. This poor, innocent girl was viciously mauled by the very beasts that we have fooled ourselves into trusting. Beasts that have no place here in our world, let alone in the castle. Unprovoked, the demon that should have been protecting our most vulnerable citizens has instead slaughtered this young woman.”

Leyna bit her lip. Why would a demon attack unprovoked?

“I must accept some responsibility,” continued the steward. “I regret that I ever approved this folly of a plan, which was petitioned by our lord chamberlain, and I only did so after he gave me every reassurance that this would not happen. But the cost of even one life, especially after we have already lost so many others, is a cost too high to bear.” The steward pointed a broad finger at Percy. “Lord Chamberlain, you are to dismiss these creatures immediately. They are indisputably unsafe and have no place at the castle. And you will do so under the supervision of Master Emsworth, headmaster of the Wizarding Guild, to whom the Demon Book will be returned as soon as you have completed the dismissals.

Leyna held her breath. Where was this coming from? Since when had the steward not touted the demons?

At the rear of the dais, movement caught her eye. A figured shifted in the shadows, nearly obscured from her vantage point by the thick drape of curtains and banners. It was a man wearing rich purple robes, and her heart skipped a beat as the glint of a silver bead cinching a short, pointed beard caught her eye. Master Emsworth was here.

“Well?” barked the steward. “What are you waiting for, Lord Chamberlain? I order you to banish these demons from our world immediately.”

The silence dragged as the two men faced off. Finally, Percy lifted his head high and said in a crisp, clear voice: “No. I will not do that.”

The steward’s eyes widened, and he stood up from the throne so abruptly that the heavy table shifted, rocking the glasses and goblets. “You will obey, or you will be removed for insubordination,” he warned.

The heads of the crowd whipped back and forth as they looked between the two men. Those unaware of the power struggle before could be in no doubt of it now.

“I will not obey, and I will not be removed,” said Percy, abandoning any pretence of a stutter. As easily as if he were shedding a cloak, his poor posture was gone, and he was not as small, nor as helpless, as he had once appeared.

Suddenly, the doors to the Great Hall opened, and Ildi, the female Renegátok wizard, came hurrying in. She bowed her head to the chamberlain curtly before whispering in his ears. Leyna could only just make out what was said.

“Gone? What do you mean he’s gone?” he hissed, tugging at his ears.

“The cell was empty, sir.”

“That’s not possible.”

Leyna tried to avoid Percy’s gaze, but he rounded on her, snapping his fingers at her.

“You,” he said, and the force of that single word struck her to the core.

He knows. Percy knows I unlocked Quinn’s cell door.

Despite Percy’s displeasure, a small part of her rejoiced that Quinn had gotten away. That he had taken his chance to escape, even if it meant he was alone again and on the run.

Her momentary relief vanished as Percy strode towards her, red-faced and arm raised, as if he planned to slap her. But he was still several feet away when she heard his incantation and saw the sparks of lightning forming in his raised palm.

She lifted her arms defensively, but before she could bring her shield up, Finnigan had launched himself at Percy. His hands were tied, but he shouldered the chamberlain off his feet, and they both fell forward, hitting the hard floor.

“Cornelius!” she cried, using his pseudonym from habit as she left Sophie’s side and rushed towards him. Percy was already clambering to his feet when she reached them, and she shoved him to the ground, abandoning her magical training in preference of brute force.

The chamberlain cried out in shock as he was pushed to the ground for the second time.

Meanwhile, Finnigan had gotten to his knees, but his hands were still bound and she went to help him up, but he sprung to his feet with his old jester-like nimbleness.

“Enough,” roared the steward, rounding the High Table to stand at the front edge of the dais. “Demons, surround him. Guards, arrest the chamberlain.”

The demons were fast, hungry for action, and were already darting forward before the guards has registered the order. The demons encircled them—Leyna, Finnigan, and Percy—parting only when two guards pushed through the circle and advanced on the chamberlain.

Leyna and Finnigan took a half-step back to give them room. But as the guards approached, Percy did not recoil, or beg, or try to talk his way out of the situation. He didn’t even lift his hands to attack.

Instead, he laughed.

And his shrill laugh was so disturbing that it made the advancing guards pause before taking him by the arms.

Percy threw his head back to draw a breath between the laughter, then fixed the steward with a sneer that distorted his previously bland features.

“You are not the final authority on the demons, steward,” he yelled, his voice edged with derision. “Or have you forgotten?”

The steward blanched, and Leyna exchanged a worried look with Finnigan.

“In the hierarchy of demon masters, you are my subordinate,” Percy went on, cutting an imposing figure even as the castle guards restrained him. “And I overrule your order.” He gritted his mouth in a twisted smile, and his next words spelt death: “Demons, attack!”

Leyna had only a moment to register Percy’s command before the Great Hall erupted into madness.

Two Demon hounds leapt at the guards restraining Percy, who immediately released him. Percy stumbled backwards as the guards were pinned to the ground by the muscled beasts.

“Don’t attack them!” Finnigan warned her, but it was too late—she’d already blasted one demon with a fireball. The spell had little effect except to enrage the demon It lifted its head and hissed at her, its expression more triumphant than angry, and Leyna realised too late what she had done: she had given it permission to attack her back.

She stumbled backwards in reflex as the demon sniggered, its wide mouth spread wide to reveal teeth shining with blood. The guard on the ground was already dead, its throat ripped out.

Resisting the urge to yell out in fright, Leyna used the precious seconds she had to envelop herself and Finnigan in a pink shield, extending the barrier so it wrapped around them like a cocoon.

No sooner had she done so than several thuds sounded as demon after demon collided against it.

“Don’t release it!” warned Finnigan as they stood back-to-back.

She shook her head in a silent promise that she wouldn’t, unwilling to speak for fear of breaking her concentration. The stumpy-legged demons surrounded them, snarling and cackling as they launched themselves at the shield, again and again, uncaring that it rebuffed them and sent them rolling back against the tiles.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

It had all happened in a matter of seconds, but she already felt a sheen of sweat from the effort of keeping the semi-transparent shield in place. It was draining her magic faster than she would have liked, but she had no choice but to maintain it as the demons collided against it.

That was when the other guards entered the fray. Whether acting on instinct after seeing their comrades fall, or ordered by the steward, she did not know, but through the haze of pink magic, she saw the castle guards engaging the demon hounds, and she was grateful that many of them wore full plate armour with visored helmets and bevors to protect the neck.

They slashed at the hostile Demons, and it wasn’t long before the beasts had turned their attention away from Leyna and Finnigan.

“Now?” she called, blinking as a bead of sweat teetered on her eyelid.

“Now,” agreed Finnigan, and she released the shield with a gasp.

As soon as the shield was down, they backed away from the centre of the fight, and spotting an opening, they left the circle of fighting demons and guards. She passed a fallen demon, and though its head was near-severed off, it kicked itself forward as she passed, trying to gnash at her ankle.

“Fuck,” she yelped, snatching her foot away just in time.

“Leyna!” called a woman’s voice, and she turned in time to see Amelia the guard throw something shiny in her direction.

She caught the object out of reflex, a feat she would never have dared had she known the object was a razor-sharp dirk.

“Time for the real thing,” Amelia called, then launched herself into the fray of fighting.

Leyna immediately turned to Finnigan and, stepping behind him, cut his bindings free.

Meanwhile, the flashing lights of spells lit the hall in colours, and all around them, chaos ensued as the nobles screamed and tried to flee the scene.

“Here,” she said, offering Finnigan the dirk, but he shook his head and stooped to pick up a fallen spear.

“No need—I’ll manage.”

Before she could protest his stubbornness, his face grew fierce, his eyes cold and focused, and her heart stopped as he thrust the spear at her.

But he wasn’t aiming for her. Instead, the spear narrowly missed her head, shooting past her shoulder to connect with something right behind her.

She yelped in fright and spun around as the spear sunk into Percy’s underarm. He froze in shock as the spear pierced him, his arms raised high above his head, a wicked-looking knife in his hand, its point aimed directly at her head.

He was going to stab me, she realised, recoiling from the silver-haired man. He followed me so he could kill me!

There was a split-second delay between the spear embedding itself in Percy’s armpit and his reaction. Then, he shrieked in pain, released the knife, and it clattered loudly to his feet.

Finnigan used the momentum and leverage of the spear to push Percy backwards, and the chamberlain landed flat on his back, on the ground for the third time that night. Fast and lethal, Finnigan stepped forward, pulled the spear out of Percy, and raised the spear again, ready to strike—but the chamberlain shot a pressure spell at him, and it sent the magicless wizard flying backwards.

Leyna flinched as Finnigan hit the ground with a loud thud, but he rolled out of it, albeit messily, and was in a crouch position again.

“Leyna, finish him!” he cried, and she startled, remembering the dirk in her hands.

Percy was trying to get to his feet, wincing from his wounded shoulder.

“Leyna, please, have mercy,” he begged, and his voice was so reasonable that it made her pause.

Had she been prepared to hit him with magic, she would not have hesitated. But the dirk in her hands confused her. The weapon was heavy, and sharp, and capable of killing a person forever, promising a finality that she wasn’t prepared to deliver. A pressure spell or fireball could be just as lethal…but it didn’t have to be. She could control the strength. But a blade like this?

She weighed the dirk in her hands, her anxiety growing as the chamberlain raised a hand in surrender, mouthing “please” as he slowly, ever so slowly, rose to his feet.

“Leyna!” Finnigan roared.

She flinched again, her eyes darting between the dirk and the wizard. A stab wound in the wrong place would kill. If the blade found a vital organ or artery—then the human being before her, however immoral, however evil, would be no more. Even a stab wound to the legs and arms could be lethal—how could she disable him without killing?

“Leyna,” said Percy, his voice sweeter than honey as he finally got to his feet. “Leyna, Leyna, Leyna…”

The repetition of her name made her frown, even as she yearned to hear what he had to say…and the distraction prevented her from seeing the knife in his hand until it was too late. He slashed at her, and she leapt back, raising the dirk, trying to parry as she retreated.

Percy’s knife was small compared to her dagger, but his arm was strong, and as the blades collided, the knife met her chest and sliced into her waist. The pain was nearly blinding as she staggered back.

Percy drew his hand back and slashed again, his face distorted with rage. Finnigan was charging towards them, running to save her, but Percy advanced, slashing again and again, narrowly missing her midriff, her face, her arms, barely pausing as he used his other hand to blast Finnigan off his feet again, this time sending him sliding across the surface of a dining table.

“Leyna!” someone called, but she had no time to turn around to see who it was, not with the quick, lethal swipes of Percy’s knife drawing ever nearer.

Just as it finally occurred to her to blast him backwards with a spell, a soldier appeared and slammed his gauntleted fist into Percy’s face with a thwack.

Percy fell to the ground for a fourth time, and did not get up.

“Damian!” Leyna cried as the long-haired blade turned to her.

“Fucking wizards,” he scoffed, shaking his head as he pulled the dirk from her limp grasp. “What are you doing with this? You trying to get yourself killed? Just use a fireball, for fuck’s sake.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” said Finnigan smoothly, appearing by Damian’s side and taking the dirk. He gave Leyna a small wink. “Are you alright?” he asked her.

She nodded, exhaling shakily.

It was a relief to have the dirk gone—it had occupied her casting hand, preventing her from casting spells.

Idiot. I should have learnt to use a blade in my other hand.

They turned to face the scene. All around them, chaos ensued as demons, guards and wizards attacked each other, all while the Great Hall teemed with screaming nobles trying to flee the scene. The blades and castle guards were fighting valiantly, flanked by the headmaster and Professor Carlton. Together, the wizard’s magic was impressive but restrained, their spells powerful but targeted, a semblance of what it might have been had the hall been any less crowded. They had to be careful with so many people in close proximity, or there would be hundreds of casualties on their hands.

The three Renegátok wizards, however, had no such qualms, and Leyna’s eyes widened as she witnessed from afar the dark, black spectres forming in one of the wizard’s hands. He was harnessing a Renegade spell, which by definition, should not have been controllable. So how did the wizard have the confidence to risk it? Had the cult found a way to utilise them safely?

The three of them cried out as a wave of people surged, knocking them forward several steps, a mix of nobles and servants.

“What are they still doing here?” Leyna cried to Damian. “Get the courtiers out!”

“We can’t,” he said. “The chamberlain’s wizards sealed the bloody doors after we brought in the spears.”

Spears? What spears?

But the answer was plain to see in the small, red glow of illuminated spear tips scattered around the dim hall.

Patrick, she thought, as a guard shot a red flash of light—a basic attack spell—at a demon, causing it to yelp and scratch at his eyes with a chunky paw. He did hear me after all—and he brought the magical spears.

Her heart leapt with hope. Did that mean he had heard the rest of her plea? Was Seth coming?

Seth would no doubt be under lockdown for his safety, probably in Captain Marton’s office, but they needed him. The faint wisps of a plan formed in her head, a plan for her to go fetch him herself, but then the packing crowd surged forward, and this time, instead of knocking them off their feet, they were engulfed.

Leyna whipped her head around desperately, separated from the battle by the teeming mass of people, the ones that recognised her clamouring for her attention.

A quick scan suggested that the demons were not attacking the gentry—the demons contracts were robust, forcing them to protect the castle and its inhabitants, but they would retaliate against anyone who attacked them. She wished she had a way to convey this to the panicked crowd, who were trying to flee. Locked inside the room, they were going nowhere fast.

Regardless of the demons’ restraint against those who did not attack, the Renegátok wizards were reckless with their dark spells, and unless the battle ended soon, the casualties would be high if the hall wasn’t evacuated. “Let’s do the balcony doors,” she shouted to Damian and Finnigan. “I’ll open them.”

They nodded, and together, they made their way towards the tall glass doors. The very people they were trying to save were dangerous in their panic, and they were batted around helplessly in the throng like a boat in a storm.

“Get back,” snarled Damian, but he made no move to push the women who were clinging to each other in fear.

Leyna stumbled on a body, a gigantic mass of black and white clothes with a head of thin, grey hair. She stooped to help the man up, realising with a pang that it was the butler, his forehead bleeding and his eyes half-closed.

“Get up!” She begged, but he was heavy, and the heel of someone’s boot caught her cheek, causing her to yelp as pain shot along her face.

“Got you,” groaned Damian, seizing her by the scruff of the neck and setting her on her feet. “We have to keep moving!” But he bent down to lift the butler up.

The servant wobbled on his feet, unable to stand without Damian’s help. Giving her a resigned look, the blade grasped the butler by the underarms and nodded at the balcony doors. “Go on, Leyna! What are yah waiting for?”

She refocused on the balcony door—it was so close, yet so far—and tried a light pressure spell, but it was too tightly packed, and the energy that she sent into the crowd came pulsing back, the momentum carrying them like an ocean wave.

Leyna grabbed on to Finnigan, steady herself amidst the mass of people.

“There’s too many people for that,” said Finnigan. “Try fire.”

“Fire?” she spluttered, then realised his meaning. Not a fireball. Not actual fire. She summoned a large, tall flame, encouraging it to burn high, and as the flames swirled around her, it made the surrounding crowd recoil in alarm, giving them just enough space to push through to the balcony doors.

The enchantment locking the doors was weak and hastily cast, the handles interlaced with rippling swirls that formed a loose bow. She pulled it free with a single wrench of magic, and the glass doors flew open as people surged out onto the balcony, pushing her out with them.

She tried to fight her way back against the onslaught of escaping people and suddenly felt a firm grasp on her arm.

“Leaving so soon?” asked the jester’s voice, albeit raspier than usual, and Finnigan pulled her back inside.

They made their way to the centre of the Great Hall, where the fighting continued before the dais. It wasn’t clear who was winning. There were only three Renegátok wizards, but there were many more Demon hounds than guards…far more than the dozen that she had seen earlier.

Somehow, more had arrived, and it made her fully appreciate the number of demons that the chamberlain had summoned since acquiring the Demon Book.

A small army’s worth, she realised.

Meanwhile, the Great Hall was still full of civilians.

“Why are there still people here?” she asked Finnigan.

Damian answered, appearing by her side, no longer carrying the butler.

“The fools outside are blocking the balcony.”

“What? Why aren’t they running into the gardens?”

Damian spat. “Cause they feel safe enough out there that they think they can stand around on the balcony and watch the shitfest in here.”

His reply left her speechless, but not for long. A Demon was sprinting towards them, and she rebuffed it with a light pressure spell—just enough to make it stumble—before slicing her hand through the air, the motion causing a jet of energy to pummel the Demon backwards into the range of the guard chasing it, who swung his sword down, cleaving its skull in two.

That was all she saw, because a boom shook the room, and she jerked her head up in time to see a long, heavy dining table flipped up violently into the air. It spun twice and landed near them, crushing several guards and sending dust and broken tiles flying.

Finnigan pulled her backwards out of harm’s way, and she squinted as debris smarted against her face. Thick black smoke billowed beyond the table, but Finnigan was already on his feet as it cleared, dirk at the ready. A Renegátok wizard climbed over the upturned table, a smoky, black-and-navy vortex already spinning within his hand.

There was no time to think on the flurry of questions, because the wizard advanced, and without magic, Finnigan was defenceless. He backed away, putting distance between himself and the enemy wizard.

“Finnigan,” she gasped, darting forward, the shield spell on the tip of her tongue as she ran to intercept the two wizards. As Finnigan continued to back away, the enemy wizard continued his advance, the vortex growing ever larger in his grasp. The masked wizard lifted his hand, preparing to cast the spell. Leyna readied a shield spell, stretching out her hand as she ran forward, intending to release the barrier between Finnigan and the enemy wizard, hoping it would be enough to block the Renegade spell.

Not for the first time that night, Finnigan surprised her with his ability to fight without magic. Somehow, he had acquired an orange, and just before the enemy wizard released the dark spell, he pelted the fruit at the wizard’s head.

The orange hit the wizard so forcefully that the black mask dislodged, and he fell backwards, releasing the spell upwards at a strange angle.

Cheeky, she thought in approval, her mouth dropping in awe, but her smile fell away as the Renegade spell collided with the ceiling above.

The enormous crystal chandelier swung, the glass shattering into millions of pieces, and the metal fixture lurched as the chain suspending it broke.

It took her a moment to realise the chandelier was falling—falling down onto them. Instinct told her to run, but love drove her forward, and she leapt against Finnigan, colliding against him and embracing him with one arm while projecting the shield above them with the other.

Her eyes widened in the moments before the heavy chandelier hit them.

Thunk.

The chandelier bounced off the magical shield and flew sideways, punching the Renegátok wizard in the midriff before trapping him underneath. Most of the candles snapped or flickering out, and the scene grew a little darker. Only the wizard’s legs were visible, and they twitched and went still. Had he survived the blow? There was no time to check.

In the chaos of battle, they’d lost Damian, but as they ventured further into the fighting, Leyna’s heart fell. More demons arrived.

She could see how they’d gotten in with the doors sealed: through a dumbwaiter, a small window designed to send food up to the nobles’ quarters.

From this small, cupboard-sized door, more demons emerged until at least a hundred were assembled, their ugly flat faces grinning as they surveyed the scene.

They were doomed.

“We could find the chamberlain, have him call them off,” she said in an undertone, but Finnigan shook his head.

“I checked just before—he’s still knocked out cold.”

Damn it, Damian, she thought, because without Seth, that was their last hope.

With so many demons, they could never defeat them all, not even if Finnigan still had his powers. Not even with the headmaster’s help.

Finnigan gripped her arm, trying to pull her away.

“We have to leave!” he urged, but she shook her head.

This was her home. She couldn’t abandon it, not now. The surrounding soldiers were her comrades, and some of these people were her family—her parents were probably here in the crowd. And where was Grace? She couldn’t leave them.

An ominous silence settled over the hall, broken only by the echo of crying. Even the crowd had gone still, as if sensing the danger. It was the calm before the storm. The demons, however hasty in their lust for bloodshed, halted in their attack, savouring the panic.

A bizarre clicking sound began, low and unlike anything she had ever heard before, as dozens upon dozens of demons chanted, the noise punctuated by gurgles and sniggers.

They’re talking to each other, she realised.

Finnigan was still pulling her backwards, and she let him, but she dragged her feet, knowing what surely he knew as well—that they would never make it out alive.

And then the doors to the Great Hall crashed open, and Grace was there, with Seth by her side.

Seth Mathias Rutherford, the Crown Prince of Rosaria.

But he was just a boy. A boy who had lost his parents, and lost himself in his grief.

He took in the surrounding chaos with wide-eyes, mouth agape.

The demons snarled, and it seemed directed at no one in particular, as if they were dreading Seth’s power over them, fearing he would deny them a fight. Eager for blood, their muscled legs bent, their heads swiveling towards the guards and wizards as they prepared to pounce.

Leyna’s stomach knotted. They would take as many as they could, for as long as they could.

Before any of the demons could launch themselves into the air, Seth’s voice rang out as he stepped forward.

“Stop! Stand down.” The demons hesitated, but only for a moment. Seth’s voice was shaky, the order nonspecific, and the demons knew this.

Moreover, his first step had been uncertain, the second equally so, but by the third step, Seth’s head was held high, his expression hard, and the next time he spoke, he was a leader any soldier would have died for.

“Stand down, demons,” Prince Seth commanded, and he looked older than he was, an image of their future ruler.

Amazingly, the demons obeyed, their muscles relaxing, their battle stances fading, the snarling melting away so seamlessly that they might have been benign all along.

“Sit,” Seth added, and thee demons obeyed, sitting back on their hindquarters like dogs—except there was nothing remotely loveable about them. Leyna understood why Seth had done it: he was showing the court who was in charge.

Attaboy, Seth, she thought, but could never have said it to his face, especially not now with how fierce the prince looked.

“Where’s the lord regent?” Seth demanded.

A coarse voice rang out, and Leyna spotted Steward Marek lying beside the dais, clutching his arm as if it was broken.

Seth marched to the steward, stopped before him, and thrust his hand out. The entire court watched, enraptured, as the young prince helped the steward to his feet.

A show of strength and unity.

Leyna sighed, and some of the tension left her shoulders. The fighting was over. They’d won—or at least, they’d neutralised the threat.

She glanced at Finnigan, and they exchanged a smile.

And then the unthinkable happened.

Even though the demon hounds sat obediently, constrained by a contract that bound them to the prince’s command, there was one demon that did not obey. A demon that had been summoned separately.

It was smaller than the hounds, with long, spindly legs and several sets of eyes. It was Ernie the demon cat, and he slinked forward.

At first, Leyna only spotted the hairless tail, and realised too late that it was stalking towards them—towards her and Finnigan.

The demon cat pounced, yowling as its claws dug into Finnigan’s face and hair. He tried to tear it away, but the demon cat hung on with its claws, and then Finnigan was on the ground, roaring with pain as the cat slashed and gnawed at his chest.

Leyna blasted it with a pressure spell, shaped into a concentrated jet that should have punched it right off Finnigan, but the demon was resilient, its claws sunk deep, and as it flew sideways, Finnigan was pulled with it, the force dragging him across the floor.

“No!” she yelled, leaping after them. She threw another spell, this one similarly concentrated but made of water, the cold jet drenching them both. The cat hissed as steam rose off its back, but it clung to Finnigan’s body, and the same thing happened again, with the force of her spell causing the entangled cat and wizard to slide sideways and collide with a wooden bench.

She yelled in frustration, lifting her hand to cast…she didn’t know what. Fireballs did not seem effective against demons, and she couldn’t risk burning Finnigan.

She created a magical cord, utilising the table clothes scattered around the hall, and a thick rope was formed. It glowed green as she sent it whipping through the air, but the demon cat was faster, darting away at the last minute, and as the enchanted rope found its victim in Finnigan, she released the magic before it could wrap around his neck. It fell uselessly to the ground.

Despite her attacks, the demon cat seemed uninterested in her, returning to Finnigan’s groaning form, as if intent on attacking him, and only him.

I have to do something. It’s killing him. It’s claws…the teeth…

Her boot collided with something metallic that clattered as she bumped it and dropped to pick up the dagger.

She didn’t know whose dagger it was, and she didn’t care. She wasn’t even gripping the handle properly, but her strikes were true as she plunged the blade into the demon cat’s back. The demon hissed, but she ignored its cries as she wrenched it out and plunged it back in again, stabbing the vile beast over and over to make it stop hurting Finnigan. To make it stop killing him.

Finnigan, her insides screamed.

Suddenly, the demon cat’s bald tail whipped through the air and slapped at her wrist with a force so sharp that her hand jarred open, and the dagger spun from her grasp.

The demon cat gave a yowl and returned to maul its prey.

Finnigan! She screamed, too horrified for sound to come out, only a choked warble. Finnigan! No!

Without thinking, she seized the demon cat.

The hot contact of the demon burnt her skin, sizzling loudly, and she screamed from the pain even as her fingers dug deeper into the thick, muscled flesh, tears streaming down her face as she tugged, and tugged, and tugged in vain, but the Demon wouldn’t release Finnigan, not until it had killed him.

Suddenly, teeth seized the hood of her cloak and wrenched her backwards, breaking her futile grasp on the demon cat as she was dragged along the ground, away from Finnigan.

She tried to cast a spell at the cat, but the wind had been knocked from her lungs, and whatever had her was dragging her further away.

“Finnigan,” she gasped, uncaring what dragged her or what happened to her, crippled by her inability to save him, by the sheer hopelessness of it all.

The dragging stopped. She was lying on her back now, and as she looked up at the beast that had dragged her across the floor, she tried to draw breath, but she couldn’t. She could only lie there and wheeze as the dark shadow towered over her.

And then she recognised the beast, and she gasped, her lungs finally pulling air.

It was Quinn. Quinn.

The wolf was not looking at her. Instead, it was looking back the way they’d come, and its muscled legs propelled it into the air. It sailed over the length of her body, landing somewhere far beyond her feet. Sniffing, she propped herself up onto an elbow in time to see the wolf land on the demon cat. It seized the creature in its enormous jaws, its long, curved fangs clamping down on the cat. Even with its body shattered, the cat evidently would not release Finnigan, because the wolf shook its powerful head several times before the demon finally let go.

Leyna rolled her body around and crawled forward towards Finnigan, pushing with her elbows and knees as she fought for breath, wincing from the sharp, broken tiles. As she reached them, the wolf finished gnawing at the cat, and satisfied, dropped its small, muscled body to the ground.

Smoke was coming from Quinn’s mouth as he met her gaze, and he licked his muzzle several times with a quiet whimper.

He’s burnt his mouth. And that smell…

The smell of burning flesh filled the air.

It was coming from Quinn, and from her burnt hands, and…

And Finnigan.

Leyna pressed her mouth together, trying not to cry as she braced herself for what she was about to see. Ignoring the agony flaring in her hands, she pushed herself up on her arms so she could see Finnigan better.

It was bad.

It was blood, and gore, and an open chest.

As she collapsed on the floor beside him, she was shaking so hard that she couldn’t judge if he was still breathing.

“Finnigan?” she whimpered, wet tears rolling down her face.

He didn’t respond. His eyes were closed, and she would have given anything to see the blue of them again, to see the smile lines wrinkle in humour and the glint of delight whenever she surprised him.

She called his name repeatedly, but he did not stir. Unready to face the reality of his wounds, she rested her head on the cool tiles beside him, and averting her eyes from his torso, focusing on his face instead.

“Leyna,” someone said, but she ignored them.

The whole world could pike off. None of the things that had seemed important before mattered now.

She curled up beside Finnigan and caressed his cheek with the back of her trembling hand. A long, low, uninterrupted wail sounded from her throat.

Chapter Forty-Two

Awakened

SHE WOKE UP IN bed to see a pair of familiar blue eyes peering down at her.

“Finnigan?” she murmured.

“Shh, don’t get up,” he said, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“What happened?”

“Shh, it’s alright. You’re in the castle’s healing ward.”

She frowned. For a moment, she’d thought she was in the Guild’s medical bay with Cornelius. With Finnigan. But the man’s voice was older, and as he came into focus, she was disappointed to see his uncle. Memories of the battle in the Great Hall came racing back to her.

“Sir,” she said, blanking on the headmaster’s name. “Where’s Finnigan? Is he…?”

“Cornelius is doing just fine. And so are you.”

“Really?” Despite the headmaster’s insistence, she tried to sit up again, and with a resigned sigh, he gave in and helped her. “Ouch!” she cried, withdrawing her hands from the mattress she'd been trying to push up from. Her hands stung and throbbed with hot pain like boiling water had been poured onto them. Why were there bandages on her hands and forearms?

The demon cat.

She shuddered, then cast her gaze around. Her bed was tucked away in the ward's corner, with stone walls to her right and privacy screens to her left, and right beside her was another bed…

“See? He’s fine,” said Master Emsworth.

Ignoring the headmaster’s protests, she slid out of bed, avoiding the use of her hands as she did so, and approached the other bed where Finnigan lay. His face was still bruised and his eyes were closed, but there was colour in his cheeks, and it brought her joy to see the gentle rise and fall of his chest.

“There is still a lot of work to be done, but he’s stable.”

She nodded, running a bandage`d finger along his bare arm, which lay at a relaxed angle across his midriff. He looked peaceful. “Good. And…do you know if his magic will return? The chamberlain and I…” she screwed her eyes shut at the memory, knowing it would haunt her nightmares. “We made him drink a potion. The varaztalan,” she said, the name appearing on her lips. “Only it was very concentrated. Do you think his magic will return?” The question was a plea.

Please, don’t let him wake and find himself magicless.

“Varaztalan potion?” The headmaster rubbed his throat. “Undiluted, you say? Well, that explains the internal bleeding.”

Her head shot up.

“Don’t worry, it’s all settled now. I was able to stabilise things in time. As for whether his magic will return, I do not know. Normally, it takes less than a drop to rob a wizard of his magic temporarily. That is, a drop is pipetted and made up to, say, one hundred millilitres. But if it was varaztalan in its purest form…” the headmaster frowned. “How much did you say you gave him?”

She winced and shut her eyes. “About that much. A flask’s worth. But undiluted.”

“Ah, I see.” His eyebrows lifted high as drew a sharp breath. “That is indeed a high concentration. Well, let us hope for the best, shall we? And prepare for the worst…”

Her hand stilled on Finnigan’s arm, and she willed herself to feel the strength of his magic as she once had in the kitchens. Try as she might, she could not feel a thing.

“Is everything alright?” asked Master Emsworth.

“Actually, sir…” she hesitated, but saw no harm in sharing what she’d discovered about her mysterious new power. After everything that had happened, she was sick of secrets.

The headmaster listened thoughtfully as she explained the times she’d felt the connection to Finnigan: when he had cast a spell to save Seth, and in the kitchens when she’d rifled through his entire inventory of spells. “Oh, and I just remembered,” she added, “this may be unrelated, but the night I found the Demon Book, it spoke to me.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Did it now?”

She nodded, hopeful that it could lead to her discovering how to use her power—if that is what it was. With Finnigan unconscious, she longed to connect to him, even if it was just to feel his magic. “Do you know what any of it means, sir?”

The headmaster seemed to consider this. “I’m afraid, Leyna, that my experience with what you are describing is limited. If I’m right, however, then it is a rather rare, subtle form of sensory magic. That’s not to say it does not have its value, and in fact, it can be rather useful if expanded upon…but at present, there isn’t even a classification system for it, so only a specialist in the field could say for sure…and there’s been so little documentation, with most of it anecdotal, so I’m unsure how accurate any of it would be for your situation.”

She did not quite understand, but nodded along, hoping to glean something useful.

“From what you’ve described, perhaps a relaxed mind is the key—which is a good starting point for any magic, as you know. And from what I gather, you could achieve a relaxed state on each of the occasions you described with the aid of a little spirit or similar.”

The confusion must have shown on her face, because he smiled and stroked his goatee in amusement. “Alcohol, Leyna. You were drinking, yes? I imagine that you either you drank a lot, or else you were relaxed enough that a little did the trick.”

“So…it’s a magic that only works with alcohol?”

The headmaster chuckled. “I never said that—nor would I condone performing magic while drinking. That being said, the alcohol might have assisted you in achieving a state of relaxation. Ideally, it is a feat you would achieve without the need to drink. Something for you to practice, perhaps? Now,” he said, shifting to a business-like tone, “I haven’t had a chance to heal your arms properly, hence the wrappings, as you can see. My focus has been almost solely on Cornelius, although there were many others injured, and Healer James and I had our work cut out for us.”

The healer’s name jogged her memory. “Jill Dobay, one of the prisoners—she’s innocent, and Healer James was meant to go down to heal her. Where is she now?”

“Jill’s gone, Leyna.”

Her heart lurched, but then the headmaster said: “Healer James attended her, and then someone came to take her home. I understand she has a son to take care of.”

She looked up at the ceiling, breathing out in relief. Thank goodness.

“What about Quinn?”

“Quinn Volak is fine, but he sustained significant burns, especially inside his mouth. He was in a tremendous amount of pain, although I’m relieved to say that most of the damage has been reversed—and time should take care of the rest. There is still significant ulceration, and his tongue is quite swollen, so it’s rather hard for him to speak.”

“Oh, that’s just Quinn,” she joked, unable to help herself as a weight lifted off her chest. “Because he’s not very talkative, you see,” she added hastily.

“Indeed.”

“Does that mean Quinn’s name has been cleared?”

The headmaster inclined his head, and she relaxed. Jill, Quinn, Finnigan…they were all alive and free.

She sat bolt upright, remembering Sophie, her momentary bliss shredded.

“What about my parents, and Grace? And what about Seth? And Amelia? And…” she rattled off a list of names, somehow including everyone from the steward and Professor Carlton, down to the butler and housekeeper, whose names she didn’t even know, but she surprised herself by how much they all mattered to her. She even asked after Sir Waldorf, who had overslept after the night of the feast and missed out on the king’s trip, which had inadvertently saved his life, and prompted him set out on a journey of his own to Kormend.

Master Emsworth laughed softly, and it reminded her of Finnigan’s laugh. “Yes, yes, they’re all fine. But I’m afraid there were others who were not so fortunate…”

She braced herself as he recounted the casualties. Maurice had died in the fray, while Firmin survived but sustained lasting injuries, and was under arrest in a separate part of the healing ward, where he could recover before being transferred to the dungeon for charges of perjury and other criminal offences. The chamberlain had paid off both men with money and promises of power, and they had altered their recount of the Court Massacre, distorting the details as it suited Percy’s needs. This had allowed him to eliminate Beatrice, whose trial had been anything but unbiased, with only a few council members sharing the panel with Percy, and Maurice and Firmin’s eyewitness testimony serving as the primary evidence.

By the time the headmaster finished recounting the aftermath of the battle, her brain felt foggy. Sleep beckoned, but she couldn’t waste this opportunity to ask questions. It struck her that the headmaster hadn’t mentioned Percy. “What about the lord chamberlain? Is he still alive?”

“Yes, although he’s lucky to be.” His lips pressed together tightly, and she realised he was angry. “And Percival O’Haire is not the lord chamberlain anymore. He regained consciousness near the end of the battle when Prince Seth arrived, and he used that opportunity to set the steward’s demon cat on Cornelius. I believe he had ‘gifted’ the demon to the steward to keep him in line, and to kill him one day, if the need ever became necessary. Percival gave himself the highest authority to control the demon cat, able to override even the prince’s commands.”

“But he didn’t use the demon cat to kill the steward,” she said, thinking out loud. “He set it on Cornelius instead. Why?”

The headmaster gave her a knowing look. “I think he was jealous of Cornelius’ relationship with you.”

“Jealous? But…” she was speechless. There had been nothing remotely romantic about her interactions with Percy.

“Perhaps not in the way you are thinking, Leyna. But certainly, he liked to control people, and I think he very much wanted to have a hold over you. I believe he resented Cornelius for ‘stealing’ you from him.”

“I was never Percy’s in the first place,” she grumbled, crossing her arms and looking out the window, hoping to see a glimpse of nature—only to find that it was shuttered. She sighed. “Was Percy really blackmailing the steward?”

“Yes, but not at first. In the beginning, he made himself invaluable to the steward, and as you’ve experienced, he can be quite persuasive.”

She recalled how fondly the steward had petted Ernie. He had trusted the chamberlain—but their interactions in the Great Hall proved he’d caught on to Percy’s manipulations.

“So who will rule Rosaria now?”

“Why, Marek Volak, of course. That isn’t changing. Our lord regent is more than capable, and considering our victorious battle, he has the full support of the courts now.”

Her eyes lit up, but she kept her voice low as she asked: “Does that mean the Brotherhood will support him as lord regent until the prince comes of age?”

The headmaster’s eyes flashed, and she realised she’d assumed that Master Emsworth was involved in the Brotherhood. Her chin dipped, but deep down, she was sure enough to ask him directly: “You are the leader of the Brotherhood, aren’t you, sir?”

A moment later, he inclined his head.

“What about Professor Fry?” she pressed, hungry for answers. “Was she a member of the Brotherhood?”

He made a noncommittal sound. “Technically, yes, she was a member of the Brotherhood. When she was young, her training brought her in contact with Finnigan. I’m not sure if you’re aware, but Maisy Fry has a tragic family history. She’s the only of nine siblings to still be alive. All her brothers and sisters perished, some from the wars.”

“That’s horrible.” The new knowledge helped shed light on Fry’s character. “She must have carried so much pain with her.”

“Everyone deals with loss differently. She struggled, as I think you are aware, and her family’s tragedy made her fierce, but unstable—the latter only became apparent as she grew older, and especially when she lost the two sisters who were close to her in age. Still, she completed her training for the Brotherhood, but I never quite knew what to do with her. I couldn’t trust her with sensitive information or important missions, but she never stopped trying to become involved. I think she imagined herself achieving great things.” His brow furrowed. “Perhaps it was a mistake, but I kept her at the Guild as a professor, where I could monitor her.”

“And then you sent her here.”

“Indeed. The steward requested I send wizards to reinforce the castle’s security, and it seemed like a blessing in disguise. Maisy was driven, and it was a calling that would satisfy her, at least temporarily, and she would truly be of value to Rosaria. It is easy, knowing how things ended, to question past decisions…”

The headmaster trailed off, cupping his mouth as if grieving.

“Her death wasn’t an accident,” she said. “Percy pushed her into the Demon Door.”

He nodded. “Yes, I’m aware. Percy has been quite…forthcoming.”

Leyna’s hands clenched into fists at the thought of the chamberlain bragging, but the sharp pain of the burn made them spring open again “Do you know why Fry was following me? The chamberlain was with her outside the Demon Door, waiting for Grace and I to deliver Quinn to him. Who was she working for?”

“I dare not speculate. Either she was watching over you for the Brotherhood, as per her orders, or she had switched sides, and was serving the Renegátok and Percy.” He paused. “Given her ambition, I could see her being tempted to join a man like Percy. But it doesn’t matter now.”

“Yes, it does,” she insisted. The headmaster raised an eyebrow at her, but she continued: “I think her legacy is important. If she died serving the Brotherhood, then she deserves to be remembered that way.”

Master Emsworth’s eyes softened. “Yes, very true.” Suddenly, he clapped his hands together. “Now. You need your rest. Back to bed, now.”

Leyna didn’t have the energy to protest, but as she wriggled under the covers, she thought of a new question.

“Sir, the chamberlain said he donated money to the Guild in exchange for you letting Quinn graduate.” She avoided the word ‘bribe’.

Master Emsworth tilted his head like an owl. “Mm, what about it?”

“What did you do with the money?” The question was blunt, but she needed to know.

The headmaster shrugged. “I redecorated my office and purchased a rather lovely new armchair.”

Her jaw dropped, and it took her several moments to realise he was joking.

“Scholarships, Leyna,” he said kindly, his moustache twitching. “The money went to establishing scholarship funds for prospective students experiencing financial hardship. It will allow for more young people to pursue a career in wizardry.”

She was speechless. Did that make accepting a bribe alright? Did how the money was used make a difference? And who decided whether it was a bribe or a donation, anyway?

“Breaking principles isn’t always a sign of hypocrisy,” Master Emsworth said quietly. “Our core beliefs don’t always apply to every situation. They are more of a guideline, and we may need to break them now and then. In fact, our principles may change with time—and that goes for our life goals as well.”

She bowed her head. “I can’t change my goals. That would mean I’ve failed.”

“Leyna, look at me.” Their eyes met. “It’s important to adapt to the world we live in. You need to accept that the dreams you had seven years ago might not be the same dreams you have now.”

Leyna bit her lip, mulling over his words. Was the headmaster right? Could she reimagine herself and her beliefs? Because if she could, it was like the opening of a metal portcullis, the lowering of a drawbridge, and there, beyond the rigid walls she’d built for herself, a world of possibility awaited. It was liberating to realise that her past self’s convictions did not have to dictate her future.

“Now, it’s best you get some shut eye,” smiled the headmaster.

“Sir, just one more thing.” She frowned down at her bandaged hands. “The scholarships, sir. Was that your idea? Or was it the chamberlain’s?”

His smile widened. “You know, truth be told, I really did want a new armchair.”

This time, she couldn’t tell if he was joking.

The headmaster gestured to his nephew. “I’ll let him sleep for a few more days before waking him. He’ll need several more rounds of healing, and I don’t have the heart to see him suffer. Not to mention, I don’t think I could make him stay in bed once he was awake.”

She snorted, remembering how Cornelius had made her stay in bed after he healed her leg.

An idea struck her. “Sir, may I have a drink? Brandy, if you've got it?"

The headmaster looked at her as if affronted. “Absolutely not.” But he pulled a flask from his cloak and balanced it on her bedpost before leaving the room.

Her meeting with the chamberlain was short. The nerves she felt descending the dungeon steps disappeared when she stood before his cell door. There were guards on either side, and the faint shimmer indicated the door was sealed with magic as well.

The chamberlain’s voice was sweet and pleasant, as if he hadn’t tried to stab her with a knife, or kill the man she loved. His preamble was long, and as she waited for him to finish, she realised he expected their discussion to last a long time.

But she only had a few questions. Polite as can be and using his former title, she asked:

“Lord Chamberlain, sir, you spoke of making Rosaria a prosperous kingdom. But was it not already in a much better state than when the wars ended? Wasn’t King Rutherford a good ruler?”

Percy clucked his tongue. “Sometimes, there is a price to pay for one’s actions. And our dear King Rutherford wasn’t always the praiseworthy ruler you might think him to be. His greed and negligence ruined my family.”

Leyna frowned. “But I thought he made you the chamberlain. Didn’t you say your family were cattle ranchers?”

“They were…once. But not anymore. My family once owned vast lands in the mountain foothills, lands that had been in our family for generations. The Maidstone river made our lands rich and fertile, and the diversion of some of its lower branches helped Royad increase its trade and recover from the wars.” He sniffed derisively, adding: “although the wars were unnecessary to begin with. They were wars his father started, and he continued. So our kingdom picked itself back up. But King Rutherford was not satisfied, oh no. He wanted more, and he ordered the diversion of the entire Maidstone River, with no consultation with any of the farmers who would be affected. Back then, my father was an influential man—a peasant, yes, but proudly so, and well respected in the community. But that held little sway with the king, and the courtiers laughed him out of the hall.”

She had never heard the story of the river’s diversion told like this. It had always been painted in a positive light, with frequent mention of the prosperity it had brought Rosarians.

“What happened?” she asked reluctantly, glancing down the passage. There was only a short stretch leading back to the dungeon’s main chamber, and a distant orange glow.

Finnigan. He had to be there. He had to be alive. She was so close.

Percy grew more emotional with every word, scrunching his hair so it stood up at wild angles, an effect made more unsettling by the deranged bulge of his eyes.

“Despite my father’s protests, the river was diverted. Another dam was built, canals were placed, and in less than a season, our lands became bone dry. My father had to let go of his men, and though I was a young boy, he relied on me.”

“That must have been hard.”

“It was devastating. We lost everything. Our cattle grew underfed and prone to disease. My father returned to the castle and made multiple appeals, but it fell on deaf ears—the king would not even see him. The chamberlain of the time could do nothing, and that’s if he cared at all. There were no provisions made to compensate the landowners who had worked those fields for generations. My father refused to sell his cattle, and by the time he realised the hopelessness of our situation, it was too late. Leyna, our cattle died before the river had even dried completely. And while my family fell into poverty, the rest of the kingdom grew fat and prosperous.” He spat the last word, and she cringed as spittle flew through the bars and filled the air.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said, resisting the urge to wipe her face. She was sorry, at least in that moment. She pitied Percy, his family’s broken legacy, and the herds of gentle creatures that had died on the barren mountain slopes. She’d seen those parts of the mountain herself with its dry gullies, rocky slopes and abandoned houses.

“Aren’t you going to ask me what happened to my parents?” Percy asked.

“What happened to your parents?”

“Nothing—at first. A king’s scout arrived, offering me a position at the castle. To this day, I do not know why. Had my father written to the castle and begged for help? Or did someone feel guilty of the wrongs wrought on us? Either way, it was a small consolation.”

“But you accepted?”

Percy drew himself up indignantly. “I did not have a choice. My father insisted. He stayed in the cottage, alone. My mother passed a year prior. I wrote to my father often, but I never received a reply. It was months before I could finally secure leave to visit him. But by then, the cattle had perished, and my father was no more, died of a broken heart, just like my mother. They loved those animals.” Percy tipped his head at her, a tortured expression on his face. “Can you imagine what hundreds of cattle skulls look like?”

She shook her head.

“Well, try. Try to imagine it. Try to imagine an unborn baby calf, long dead, its skull unfused, because that is what I found, time and time again, within the skeletons of their mothers along our empty riverbed.”

She hugged herself, struggling to reconcile the man who mourned the loss of animal life with the one who’d ordered the death of many more human lives. “Enough,” she said. “I get it.”

The chamberlain’s spectacles flashed orange in the torchlight, hiding his eyes. “My apologies. I got carried away. It’s unhelpful to dwell on the past.”

She brushed the discomfort aside.

“What about the list of traitors? Were all those people innocent?”

Percy giggled and shook his head at her. “Leyna, haven’t you learnt by now? No one is ever truly innocent.”

Her shoulders stiffened. “Jill Dobay was innocent.”

“Jill Dobay was innocent,” Percy repeated mockingly. “No, she wasn’t. She worked for the Brotherhood.”

Leyna crossed her arms. “Working for the Brotherhood was never a crime.”

That seemed to startle Percy, but he recovered quickly. “Well, she was a member of the Brotherhood, and in my way. In any case, I thought the list was rather a good opportunity to be rid of my enemies, and your Arrest Unit was so good at rounding them all up—I had to keep thinking of new names! We made a good team, me and you.”

His voice had grown gleeful, and it made her feel nauseous.

Just one more question.

“Sir, there’s another thing I was curious about.”

“Please, Leyna. Ask me anything. I’m an open book.”

It was a lie, but she smiled and nodded amenably. “Sir, I was wondering why so many people were killed at the Court Massacre. If your plan was to rid the kingdom of King Rutherford and his queen, why not simply order their assassination? Did you mean to kill the rest of the courtiers and guards?”

Percy smiled at her fondly. “See, Leyna? This is one reason I’ve always liked you. You always give others the benefit of the doubt. And I see you can appreciate how difficult my decision was. No one else bothered to ask me why—they simply assumed I was a cold-blooded murderer! But you don’t believe that, do you, Leyna? We’ve always seen eye-to-eye, have we not?”

Her skin crawled, but she was holding out for an answer. “Indeed, sir…we have.”

“Well, the answer is quite simple, really. As you rightly guessed, my only intention was to kill the king and queen. Clean and simple. I had the wine drugged, which was in everyone’s best interests. It was a way to avoid fighting.”

“So, what happened?”

Percy’s smile fell away. “The fools attacked the demons, even after they were warned not to. And, of course, the demons retaliated.”

“But, sir, why not call the demons off? They killed hundreds of people…those lives could have been spared.”

Percy clucked his tongue in irritation. “It was all so messy, Leyna. The guards attacked, then the demons attacked, and then the guards attacked again…and it was all so messy, and I hate mess. It was meant to be clean cut. No one else was meant to die. But once the fighting started, it seemed to me that allowing the demons to make a thorough job of it was for the best. You know the saying—do it once, and do it right. That’s what my father used to say…”

Percy’s voice faded into the background, and she wondered how long it would take him to realise that she’d left. Half a minute later, his cry of outrage echoed after her, but she didn’t break stride, and when she was finally out of the dungeon, she stopped to inhale a deep breath.

The skies were blue, the gardens were in their prime and the late summer sun warmed her back as she made for the gatehouse where Grace and Quinn were waiting.

Leyna and Grace sat by the river with their feet dangling in the cool water. They both wore soft dresses in pastel colours, and their skirts were hiked up to their knees as they sat on the edge of the low fishing platform.

Behind them, stone steps led back up to the coffeehouse, which had been built upon the bridge that passed overhead. Although they were in the centre of Royad, down here beneath the bridge, they felt separate from the city’s bustle.

“We’ve set a wedding date,” said Grace, twirling her feet around the stem of a lily pad, unperturbed by the bright green mats of the floating algae. “For autumn, before all the leaves have fallen.”

“Sounds good,” Leyna said. “That’s coming up soon. Is that enough time to plan a wedding?”

“Of course!” Grace beamed, her old smile returning. “It will just be a small ceremony. I don’t want anything big or exciting, not after everything that’s happened.”

Leyna nodded. A lot had happened in recent days, and yet, it was remarkable how quickly the Battle of the Great Hall had become an anecdote…at least to those who hadn’t been there.

The demons had been dismissed, and in hindsight, she felt safer without their constant presence.

Finnigan still hadn’t woken from his drug-induced slumber, and she’d insisted on staying by his side in the hospital ward. His face was peaceful as he slept, and she hoped he wasn’t having nightmares. After the last healing, his torso had finally been sealed, leaving a large patchwork of red, wrinkled scars that covered one side of his chest and extended onto his shoulder.

Leyna lifted her legs out of the water. The scarring on the left had not improved since Cornelius had healed it at the Guild, but the colour was more white than red, perhaps even moreso from the water’s chill. Grace didn’t say anything about her leg, and Leyna didn’t comment on it either.

She was looking forward to her friends’ wedding. They needed more pleasant things to look forward to. For a fleeting moment, she wondered if Finnigan would accompany her, but quickly dismissed the thought.

He hasn’t even woken up yet. And when he does, will he still have his magic? Will he be able to forgive me for making him drink the potion?

She was anxious to see him, to speak to him, to at least know that he was healthy and well.

To distract herself from worrying about Finnigan, she asked Grace about her wedding dress, and Grace eagerly seized on the topic.

“Well, your mother said she would help me pick something out.”

“Oh, did she?” Leyna asked, raising her eyebrows.

“Yes! Isn’t that lovely of her? Now: I just want a simple dress, something modest. Nothing too fancy, you know?”

“Right… ” Her eyebrows raised even higher. A ‘simple’ wedding dress was not a concept her mother would understand, but she listened contently as Grace described her vision, hoping the wedding day would be everything her friend wanted. “I can’t wait,” she said, when Grace finished describing the simple lines of her dream dress.

“Oh, and do you think Floofy could dress up too? I have a few ideas…”

The sound of footsteps alerted them to Quinn’s return. He trod down the stone steps, balancing two porcelain cups in his hands. Two guards followed behind, their chain mail jingling.

“It’s like he’s a prince,” smiled Grace, nodding towards Quinn’s escort, and Leyna returned her smile. She was glad that Grace could still find the silver lining to every situation. The steward had assigned two guards to accompany his son at all times, which, in Leyna’s opinion, was the minimum amount of protection he would need if the Renegátok ever returned for him. They wore swords at their belts, and carried magical spears, which had become standard issue for the castle guards.

Quinn set the cups down on the wooden platform, taking care not to spill the coffee, and he looked relieved to finally be done with the task.

“They weren’t happy with me taking the cups away,” he mumbled.

Grace laughed. “Nonsense! We’ll take them back as soon as we’re done.”

Leyna thanked Quinn as she lifted her cup.

“Oh, but where’s yours, Quinn?” Grace asked. “Did you only buy two?”

“I, err, only have two hands.”

She clucked her tongue. “Well, that won’t do! Don’t worry, I’ll go get us another one. Drink mine, before it gets cold!” Ignoring his protests, she sprung to her feet, adjusted her skirts, kissed Quinn on the forehead, and hurried up the stone steps on bare feet, foregoing her shoes.

Leyna hid her smile behind her cup.

At the top of the steps, Grace turned back. “Oh, and we’re going to the market after this, don’t forget!"

Grace had made Quinn promise take her to look at the gombotchs, and Leyna suspected Floofy would soon have a new companion at the castle.

Quinn lowered himself to sit on the wooden platform, glancing at her before fixing his gaze across the Royad River.

“So, you’re a huskarl again,” she said.

“Yes.”

“Do you think you’ll stay a huskarl?”

He frowned, as if the possibility of doing anything else had not occurred to him.

“I don’t know. Will you?”

She smiled down at her cup and shrugged. A week ago, the merest suggestion of forfeiting her huskarlship would have seemed ludicrous. But with everything that had happened since, she felt open minded. If she could do anything else, somehow freed from her oath to serve the Royal Guard, what would it be? What would she do?

I can’t leave Seth. I promised I would be there for him. He needs me more than ever.

She frowned as a trickling sound met her ears, and turned to see Quinn pouring his coffee into the river.

He looked embarrassed when he realised she’d noticed.

“A Kormendian who doesn’t like coffee?” she asked, shaking her head in disbelief.

Quinn dipped his chin, hiding a sheepish smile. “Please don’t tell Grace.”

“I won’t. But you know she’ll find out.”

He nodded solemnly. “I know. But let me tell her.”

Before Sophie’s funeral, Leyna returned to the hospital ward to visit Finnigan, hoping she might find him awake.

When she arrived at the ward, his bed was empty.

She spun around, heart thumping and half-expecting to see him in one of the other beds, but the ward was deserted. She searched the side rooms, peeked into Healer James’ office, but there was no trace of either Finnigan or his uncle.

Frantic, she hurried to Lord Brighton’s old room in the guest wing, but it was empty and cleared out, as if Cornelius had never existed. She half-expected to find a bell or some other sign of his jester costume in the wardrobe, but it was completely bare, and even the carpet where the tin of white makeup powder had spilt was spotless.

Her search became more frantic. She visited the Great Hall, the Gallery, the Trophy Room, the kitchens and the gardens, but no one had seen either Lord Cornelius Brighton or the jester. She even checked the spy nook behind the tapestry and the secret passage near the privy.

Maybe he’ll be at the funeral. The desperate hope of seeing Finnigan again fluttered agitatedly in her stomach, making her queasy as she walked to the cemetery in Upper Royad with Grace. They hadn’t changed for Sophie’s funeral, but Quinn had donned a coat of baby blue that complemented Grace’s dress.

“Sophie wouldn’t have wanted us to wear black,” Leyna had said, and that had been that.

They arrived early to the ceremony which was rich and lush with fresh flowers. Lady Saunders had spared no expense, and this made Leyna’s heart swell as she hugged her mother and father, taking care not to squash Floofy. Things had been better lately, and she felt closer to her parents than she had in a long time. The tragedies they’d suffered had stressed their family, but had also brought them closer together.

Seth was in attendance, as were several of Sophie’s friends, most of whom she’d never met before. It felt wrong that she knew so little about Sophie’s friends and family, and she made a point of introducing herself, feeling shy at first, but glad once she had done it, and they shared their memories of Sophie while waiting for the ceremony to begin.

“This is for you,” she said to Sophie's beau, Tom, handing him a flat jewellery case.

“This is beautiful,” said Tom, examining the laurel wreath inside. “But this is not Sophie’s.”

He tried to hand the case back, but Leyna shook her head. “Please, it’s a gift. I know you and Sophie were saving up for a wedding.”

Tom smiled. “A wedding, and a house…and a family. But with all due respect, m’lady, you don’t owe me anything. I cannot accept this.”

“Please,” she begged. “Sophie was a good friend to me. I should have done more for her. And I should have given her something like this a long time ago.”

Tom bit his lip, his hand wavering as he shut the box.

“Please, Tom, I insist.” She swallowed as her voice grew shaky. How strange it was, to speak of Sophie as if she wasn’t here. As if she were gone. “Please. I have no need for it.”

The last part wasn’t exactly true—her mother had spent money they didn’t have to buy it. But this was the least she could do for her friend.

As she turned away from Tom, she caught her mother’s eye and froze. Lady Saunders was stunned. And then, her face softened, and she smiled at Leyna and opened her arms wide. Leyna ran to hug her, and it felt good to be wrapped in her mother’s warmth.

She found Grace, and they linked arms. As they waited for the funeral to begin, she kept a hopeful eye out for Finnigan.

“Alice would have love this,” sighed Grace, gesturing at the wide pergola intertwined with flowers.

“Whatever happened to her?” Leyna asked.

“Oh, little Alice. She was younger than me, and fell sick around the time I received my offer to join the Wizarding Guild. I’m not from a rich family, you know. My grandparents were well off, but the family fortune was lost after the wars. But my father had connections, and a philanthropist—an elderly noblewoman— sponsored my tuition at the Guild. I was beyond fortunate to have the opportunity. But when my sister fell sick…”

She trailed off, but Leyna suspected the answer. “I’m guessing the Guild didn’t let you defer the course?”

Grace shook her head. “No, no they didn’t. They said I could leave, but that my position would be given to someone else. So I started the course, just like you did. And I missed out on her final months. I did get to visit her once, towards the end…but I wasn’t there when…when she…”

When she passed, Leyna thought, pulling her friend close. “I’m so sorry.”

Grace sniffed. “I felt so guilty. That I chose my career over her, even if I was doing it for my family. I’ll never get that time back with her. And she needed me, Leyna. She needed me to be there, by her side, and I wasn’t…” She sighed shakily. “We keep losing people, don’t we? And now, with Sophie gone… gosh, I’ll miss her…”

Leyna swallowed, and found she could hardly talk as her throat closed over, but this did not stop the hot tears from rising in her eyes until she could hardly see.

“We won’t lose each other,” she promised Grace, and they stood together as the ceremony began.

When it came time for her to speak, it was difficult to get the words out. She lay her bouquet onto the casket—white flowers from local florist, except she’d switched out much of the greenery for mint cuttings she’d picked herself. She had risen early, prepared to visit the mountain woods to find the mint leaves Sophie had spoken about, but her journey was diverted. An incidental conversation with a stable hand had led her to the vegetable gardens outside the kitchens, where the gardener had proudly shown her the vast collection of mint.

Leyna had frowned at the large square of earth that had been dedicated to just that herb alone. “I thought the mint didn’t do well this year?”

The gardener had scoffed. “Where’d yah hear a thing like that? They’re thriving! Putting the parsley to shame. Even the rosemary’s not done so well. Funny, ain’t it? It comes down ter the soil, yah see…”

When she explained why she was looking for mint, the gardener had been more than happy to relinquish several long stems, and Leyna had left wondering why Sophie had lied about the castle’s mint garden failing.

Had the mint leaves been an excuse to go into the mountain woods?

Leyna was so consumed by her thoughts that she didn’t notice Patrick until he’d pressed a card into her hands.

“What’s this?” she asked, but the bearded guard withdrew without answering.

The white card was small and said:

Dear Leyna,

Please give me a chance to explain.

Tomorrow morning, at first light, I’ll be waiting with hope in the place where your delightful perfume lingers.

Your Secret Admirer

She reread the card several times before clutching it to her chest.

He was alive. Finnigan was alive, and he wanted to see her, and that was enough.

She read the card again and chuckled at the needlessly cryptic message. It was easy enough to decipher, at least for her: he wanted to meet her in the Trophy Room where he’d once caught her spying thanks to her mother’s generous application of perfume. A gentle wave of hope washed over her, but she tried not to dwell on what the card meant.

Back in her bedroom, Floofy was full of energy, scurrying down her body and zooming around her feet in circles.

At first, it seemed he was simply excited, but it soon became apparent that he was searching for Sophie.

“She’s not here,” she said sadly, kneeling down to pat him, but he wouldn’t sit still, running from room to room, sniffing as he tried to find the maid. When he couldn’t find her, he went still, his body downcast.

She sighed and topped up Floofy’s water bowl from the jug by her bed—the last trickle of water flowed out. With no one to refill it, the jug had been close to empty.

Suddenly feeling cold, she lit the fire and shut the curtains, wanting time to be alone with her thoughts. As the fire crackled to life, Leyna eased herself down on the floor near the hearth. Her back was propped up against an armchair, and she folded and unfolded the card repeatedly, lost in thought. Her heart ached for losing Sophie, and these thoughts mingled strangely with her longing to see Finnigan.

She had never expected for him to disappear like that. Or to find his bed in the hospital ward empty. A part of her had feared he'd died—that something had gone wrong, and his body had simply been taken away.

Knowing he was alive was a relief, but now that she had processed that, a fresh fear emerged—that if he so chose, Finnigan was capable of vanishing from her life without so much as saying goodbye, and there was nothing she could do to stop him.

Drawn by the fire’s warmth, Floofy fell asleep behind her on the armchair’s velvet seat, his eyes closed contentedly against the bright orange glow. He was far too small for the large chair, and yet somehow seemed to occupy all of it as he sat curled in its centre.

Growing sleepy, Leyna took a pillow from her bed and arranged a spot for herself in front of the fire, feeling less alone as the heat washed over her. She shut her eyes, the card still held loosely in her hand, and waited for the hours to slip by until the dawn.

Chapter Forty-Three

Huskarl

ENTERING THE WAITING ROOM, she was taken aback to find a grey-haired servant wiping the piano, but he didn’t look up, and she continued into the Trophy Room. Finding herself alone, she left the door ajar.

The soft predawn light filtered in through the windows, and hundreds of trophies and plaques sat dully in the glass cabinets, waiting for the sun to light them up to their full potential.

Leyna found the plaque she was looking for. It was large and mounted on the wall, and bore the names of guards she recognised, including Beatrice’s. She'd found the metal plates in the chamberlain’s drawer and had arranged for them to be restored. She stood staring at the plaque for a long time, lost in thought.

When Finnigan didn’t arrive, she wandered the aisles.

Where is he?

Through the tall windows, the early gold rays of sun crept in, reflecting off the glass and polished metals. A new worry snaked into her mind.

What if he isn’t coming? What if he changed his mind? What if he can’t forgive me?

The last possibility was the one she dreaded. Was she still deserving of love? Did she even deserve forgiveness? Because of her, Finnigan might never cast magic again. And if his powers did return, would that absolve her of the guilt in making him drink the potion?

She straightened her uniform anxiously. Even though she was off duty, she’d felt compelled to wear it, as if it would help protect her from whatever emotions would ensue from the meeting. Even the banderole was pinned to her shoulder.

Just another few minutes, she decided, after circling the room several more times.

As she lingered in front of the cabinet, she heard it: a peaceful melody was playing softly, the notes so quiet that, at first, she thought she’d imagined it. The sleepy music was drifting in through the waiting room. Curious, she followed the melody back to the waiting room, where the grey-haired servant sat at the piano with his back to her as he played, the tails of his coat draped over the stool. The chairs lining the walls sat empty, but the servant seemed content to play without an audience.

He must be playing for himself, she thought, her eyes half-closed as the soft notes eased her soul. And perhaps…

She edged closer to the piano, the serene music at odds with the niggling suspicion that was growing inside her.

And perhaps he is playing for me.

She reached the wooden piano and rested a hand on the ornate surface.

The servant continued to play slowly, but his piercing blue eyes glanced up at her, a tentative smile lifting his bushy grey moustache.

“Hello,” said Finnigan.

She swallowed as she took in his appearance, her skin tingling with a mix of emotion—recognition, joy, and doubt.

“The moustache brings out your eyes,” she said.

He missed a few notes as he reached up to pluck the grey moustache away. “Better?”

She stifled a giggle. “Why not just meet me last night? Why wait until dawn?”

“I wanted to see you last night, but the dawn seemed more poetic—new beginnings, and the like.”

It probably wasn’t the real reason, but she didn’t push the subject. Finnigan’s voice was nearly back to normal, but it was huskier than it had been, and she wondered if that was a permanent change.

It was difficult not to stare as he played, and she was grateful for the piano between them. A part of her longed to embrace him, but there was a flurry of emotions that she wasn’t yet ready to face fluttering in her stomach.

“Is your magic back?” she asked, even though she knew the answer. The headmaster’s flask had worked, although it had taken her the entire night sitting beside Finnigan in the healing ward to find a way in. Holding his hand, relaxing her mind and body, and with the help of a healthy dose of expensive brandy to loosen her up, she was finally able to discover a way to link to his magic.

Except the house where his magic lived was boarded up, and she couldn’t find a way in. Peering through the slats, it was impossible to tell if the house was empty, or whether his inventory of magic spells was still inside, but she was certain that, like her, he couldn’t access any of it.

She waited, curious whether he would admit that.

“No magic yet. I think it will take some time before it returns.” He smiled at her, as if she was the one that needed reassuring. “Don’t worry, I can manage just fine without it.”

She knew he could; he was resourceful and multi-skilled, but that didn’t ease her worry.

Finnigan lifted his gaze to meet hers, never missing a note as he continued to coax the gentle melody from the piano. “I’m glad you came.”

“So am I. But why did you disappear when you woke up?” Her fingers traced the engraved surface of the grand instrument. “Was it because your magic was gone?”

“Yes, partially. That and a hundred other reasons. I just needed some time alone.”

“Finnigan, I’m so sorry.” Tears pricked her eyes. “I’m so sorry for what happened. For making you drink that horrible potion.”

His brow furrowed. “Leyna, it’s alright. I’m sorry.”

She gave a throaty laugh. “You have nothing to apologise for.”

“Yes I do.” His blue eyes found hers. “I’m sorry for attacking you in the dungeon. You were right to try to stop me—Jill and I would both have died in the door. If I hadn’t lost the duel against the chamberlain and the Renegátok…”

“You would have come to your senses.”

He shook his head. “Actually, I was nearly at the door. I’m quite sure I would have tried to go through.”

“So who stopped you?”

“The captain.” He grinned at her surprise. “Never underestimate a blade. Just because we have magic does not mean we’re without weaknesses.”

A tense silence passed, and she could tell they were both thinking the same thing: he had said we have magic, but right now, only one of them did.

“I’m so sorry you lost your powers.”

“Hey,” he said, an oddly cheerful expression lighting up his face, one that she suspected was for her benefit. “Don’t give up on me just yet.”

“I wouldn’t give up on you.” She looked down shyly at the white-and-black keys. “Not ever.”

Finnigan inhaled deeply, lifting one hand to brush her fingers while the other continued to play. His touch was warm and exhilarating, awakening tender sensations that made her body go still, but her gaze continued to follow his other hand as the long, elegant fingers pressed down on the keys.

“I was worried for you,” she whispered. “When I returned to find your bed empty in the healing ward, I feared the worst…”

“I’m sorry I worried you.” His voice was low and gravelly. “I didn’t want you to come back and find me injured like that. I wasn’t sure if you’d want to be with a magicless wizard.”

His vulnerability startled her. “Finnigan, how can you say that? Why should that matter?”

He shrugged. “I thought it might matter to you.”

“It doesn’t.” She took a steadying breath, gathering her courage to finally say the words. “Finnigan, I love you.”

He froze as if stung, and even the music stopped. The room was quiet.

“I love you,” she repeated, because he needed to hear it again, and because she found herself wanting to say it. “All the parts of you.”

Because she realised that’s what his identities were. Not false personas or deceptions—not at their core, anyway. They were fragments of him. And loving him meant accepting each facet, including the loud gaudy ones that shined, and the quiet ones that gleamed.

He lifted his head and offer her a lopsided grin. “Is that so?”

She pushed his shoulder back lightly, and placing her arms around his neck, lifted her leg and climbed to straddle him. “Yes, that is so,” she said, and leant in to kiss him.

He returned the kiss—hesitantly, tenderly, hopefully, his hands finding her waist, the palms warm through her clothes. Their kisses were soft and careful as they explored the bond between them, which had always been there, hidden beneath the surface. Doubt melted away, until it was only them, real, honest, and flawed, unhindered by titles and pretence. Finally, she could see him. And she felt— rather than hoped— that she was enough, that she was wanted, and that certainty was good. Of all the moments they had shared, this was the one she would cherish the most.

Gradually, she drew back, ending the kiss.

“Oh, thank goodness for you,” he sighed, brushing the hair from her face.

She mirrored the gesture, but reached to touch his neck, where a burn mark peeked out over the edge of his collar. He flinched as she grazed the wound, then relaxed.

“We need to stop meeting in hospitals,” he said.

“Or Trophy Rooms,” she added.

“Actually, I didn’t mind the Trophy Room.” Finnigan gave her a come-hither look, and she batted at him playfully.

“Well, this isn’t the Trophy Room,” she said, shuffling around so she was facing the piano and perched on the wide stool beside him. The black-and-white keyboard stretched before her, completely foreign. She longed for music, but had never learnt an instrument. “Play for me?”

“Gladly,” he murmured, his breath warm in her ear. He shuffled over on the stool and shifted down an octave to play the same melody, this time deeper. “Leyna, I feel I owe you an explanation about…about quite a few things, in fact. Including the Brotherhood.”

“Shh,” she smiled. “Just play, please?”

He gave a soft chuckle but did as she bid, and she suspected he stretched out the music on purpose, repeating the peaceful chorus multiple times before finally ending the song.

“That was beautiful,” she said, unable to express how full her heart felt.

“Thank you.” He traced his hand along the keys, no longer playing. “I wish I could say I wrote it for you, but it’s an old favourite of mine. My mother used to play it—she wrote this one, actually. My uncle kept her sheet music."

“You never knew your parents, did you?”

“Unfortunately, no. I can only guess about my father. But as for my mother…I memorised her entire collection. The one I just played, however…” his fingers wavered slightly, as if itching to play, “that one makes her feel real. I can close my eyes and pretend that she’s the one playing it for me.”

“I’m sure she would,” she said. “Perhaps she wrote it for you?”

“Perhaps,” he smiled. “She dated the sheet—she wrote it while pregnant with me. My parents were both wizards, and they were conscripted to fight. First, my father, who was called away before I was born. And then, when I was less than six-months old, my mother. Neither of them agreed with the war, nor did they want to fight, but duty called.”

Leyna shook her head sadly. “I can’t believe the Crown conscripted a mother to fight…especially with two young children.”

“Different times—and she was a talented wizard. They needed every last person they could get.” He gave a long sigh, then gently closed the piano’s fallboard to cover the keys. “I like to think she didn’t die in vain. But so many were lost, right at the end, right before the fighting stopped.”

“Before the treaty?”

He nodded, then stood and stretched.

She remained sitting, using the opportunity to wipe her eyes. “So how did you get involved in the Brotherhood?”

“My uncle trained me from a young age, and I went along with it because it sounded so appealing—a chance to do good, he said. A chance to see the world. And he was right. It was all those things.”

“But it’s not what you wanted?”

“Actually, it was exactly what I wanted. Jill has been begging for me to leave the profession for years, but I couldn’t let it go. I didn’t know how to be anyone else but the identities I assumed. And I was content. Happy, even. I was good at it, and I enjoyed it.”

“And now?”

“And now I’m ready to move on.”

His answer startled her, but the mention of Jill was more pressing. “How is Jill? And Toby?”

“They are both well and living back home in their cottage. The Brotherhood shielded Toby from much of what happened, so thankfully, he was none the wiser. As for Jill, she is much improved, but she needs time to recover after being imprisoned.”

Leyna stared at her hands. “The dungeons are an awful place. It must have taken a toll on her.”

“It did.”

They avoided addressing the elephant in the room—the impossible dilemma they’d both had in the dungeon on whether to release Jill, or at least, their disagreement on how to go about it.

“So what was the reason you wanted to meet me?” she asked.

“Besides desiring the pleasure of your company?” He bowed as if he were about to ask her to dance, but his eyes were serious when he straightened. “I’m here for two reasons. The first is that my uncle sent me.”

“Oh.” The small flame of hope within her wavered. “What does he want?”

“He wants you to join the Brotherhood, if you are willing. If you accept, he would need you to stay on at the castle as a huskarl indefinitely.” Finnigan avoided her gaze, and it made her nervous.

“And…what was the second reason you wanted to meet with me?”

His eyes lifted, and the piercing blue found hers. “The second reason—the main reason—is to ask you to come with me.”

She didn’t know what he meant, but a warmth radiated through her body all the same.

“Go with you where? Is it…is it a mission for the Brotherhood? Or…”

Finnigan shook his head. “No. I’m actually leaving the Brotherhood…leaving my life as a spy behind. And in fact, Leyna…” he moved to where she was sitting and took her hand. “I’m leaving Rosaria.”

She froze, and her hand felt strange in his. “You’re what?”

“I’m leaving to go to Kormend. I miss it, and it was the only place I ever truly felt happy—apart from our time together. And in getting to know you, I’ve realised that it’s time I stopped leading the lives of others and start living my own.”

Her heart drummed against her chest as she tried to make process his words.

“You’re leaving Rosaria…to go to Kormend? Why?”

“I miss it. Leyna, it’s a beautiful place, and I’d love to share it with you.”

“How long are you going for?”

He shrugged. “Who knows? I thought I’d play it by ear. Please, won’t you come with me?”

“I, err…” she gave him a quick smile, but a heaviness had settled over her. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Finnigan, I don’t think you realise what you’re asking. If you’re leaving for a long time…possibly leaving Rosaria for good… then I’d have to walk away from being a huskarl. I’d have to give it up, and even if the lord regent lets me do that, it’s not something I can change my mind about later.”

“I see. And is your huskarlship the only reason?”

“Yes. I-I mean no.” She looked around unseeingly, trying to find the words so he would understand. “I can’t just leave everything behind. My family, my friends, everyone I grew up with…they’re all here. Even Floofy.”

“Bring Floofy,” said Finnigan, his smile twitching.

“And Seth,” she added. “I can’t leave Seth.”

He shrugged. “Bring him too.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she laughed. “He’s the prince.”

“Leyna…” Finnigan took her gently by the arms and pulled her closer, and she didn’t resist. “In all seriousness…”

Is he going to kiss me?

She eyed his neck, his jawline, his lips. His gaze wandered too, but then settled on her shoulder. He gave a long, deep sigh.

“Well, if you’re determined to be a huskarl, then I don’t wish to interfere. But perhaps it’s time you wore that banderole properly. May I?” He reached for her shoulder.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Fixing your banderole,” he explained, raising his hands with palms facing upwards. “If you’ll let me? Here—” In a swift movement, he unpinned her banderole and pulled it free, the glossy blue fabric glistening as it rippled between them.

“It goes on the right side,” he said, re-pinning it deftly to her other shoulder.

“Are you sure?” She watched warily as he smoothed the long sash down her back. “When I paid homage to the king, it was pinned to the other side.”

“Then it was pinned to the wrong side.”

She wasn’t sure how she felt about being corrected on how to wear her banderole. Somehow, it felt too personal. “What does it matter what side it’s on?”

“It matters a great deal,” he said. “Especially if you value symbolism. The huskarls of the Royal Guard are sworn to protect the king and his family, and you are granted unprecedented powers to do so. Now, picture this: if the king is the head, then the huskarls are at his right side—his right-hand men, so to speak. So by wearing it on your right shoulder, it represents your closeness as his right-hand man—or woman. Are you following me?”

“Yes.”

“But it also serves as a warning, which is this: just because you carry out the king’s will, does not make you the king. You are not the head—you only follow orders.”

Leyna wasn’t sure she liked the explanation. “Fine, but what was wrong with wearing it on the left?”

Finnigan crossed his arms. “Why…then it doesn’t mean anything at all, does it?”

She raised her hands in frustration. “So why did it matter how I wore it?”

“Because it should mean something. And I believe it means a great deal to you.”

“It does,” she admitted. “It means a great deal to me, but…so do you.”

His arms were still crossed, but she threaded her arms through them until he relaxed, and they embraced. She pressed close, leaning her head against his chest. It was safe and warm here, with his arms wrapped around her. For a long time, he held her, and she clung to him.

“I don’t want you to go,” she said, drawing her head back just enough so she could peer at him. “Finnigan, please. Stay with me. I’ll consider what you’ve said, but…but I’m not ready to leave just yet.”

He made a hoarse sound. “Leyna, I want you in my life. But I need to do this. You were right. I need to find out who I am. And I understand if you need to stay.”

She turned her head to the side and leant it back against his chest. “Why can’t you do that here? With me?”

“Because…there are people there who can give me answers. People from my past.”

“I don’t want you to go to Kormend,” she mumbled, not caring if she sounded childish. “And I don’t want to go to Kormend. My whole life is here, and I’ve made commitments. I have responsibilities that I can’t just walk away from.”

“I know you do. And I understand.” He stroked her hair, and she closed her eyes, nuzzling closer, fingers desperately holding on, afraid that she would lose him. “You know, with my help, we could easily convince the lord regent to absolve you of your oath. He might be more obliging than you think, especially after everything that’s happened of late. He owes you a great deal. And then, you could quit being a huskarl, and come away with me. And…” he broke off.

She waited for him to continue, feeling both giddy at the prospect of leaving, and fear of what she would leave behind. Perhaps, if he gave her a few days to think about it, she would be ready to say yes. She would have preferred to do both, if such a thing were possible; to simultaneously stay close to her friends and family while being a huskarl at Rutherford Castle, and to throw caution to the wind and follow Finnigan on an adventure somewhere far, far away.

But as she opened her mouth to say she would consider it, he spoke up: “Leyna, I love your dedication. I admire it. You’ve inspired me to find something I’m passionate about as well.”

He took a step back, arms by his side, and laughed as he stared down at his feet.

“What’s so funny?” she asked, confused by his change in demeanour.

“Oh, nothing…only, I feel I gave you a hard time when we first met. I could see how driven you were, and if I’m being honest, I think I was a little envious.”

“You were envious of me?”

“I said a little envious.” He winked. “And I think it’s wrong for me to interfere with your career, especially when I don’t even know what I’m doing with my life.”

“It’s not like you to not have the answers,” she teased.

He snorted. “It’s not like Jester or Cornelius to not know the answers. But as for myself, I need to spend some time figuring things out…”

She stepped close again, this time cupping the side of his face. “Then stay with me. We can figure it out together. There’s no need to leave the kingdom!”

“Maybe you’re right.” He turned his face into her palm and kissed it. “The only thing I’m truly sure about is that I love you.”

His lips and teeth grazed the skin of her palm and sent a pleasant shiver through her arm. She shut her eyes, hoping he would kiss her again, that he would pull her close, and run his hands along her waist and into her hair…but he didn’t.

Instead, he gave a soft snort and turned away.

“Finnigan? What is it?”

He was shaking his head again as he walked away, his hands sliding along the piano’s smooth fallboard as he walked past the instrument.

“Finnigan?” He looked as if he was on the verge of something—like he was preparing himself for something that made him nervous. For a brief second, she allowed herself to believe that maybe…just maybe, he was going to propose. Was that likely? The possibility frightened her, and her breathing grew shallow as she waited, twisting her hands.

Finally, he turned back, and his expression looked pained.

“Are…are you alright?” she asked tentatively.

“Yes, I’m fine.” His smile was disarming as he closed the distance between them. He took her hand, lifted it to his lips, and pressed a soft kiss against it. “And you will be, too. More than fine.”

He turned and left the room, and she was so stunned by his sudden departure, so convinced that he would turn back, that it took her longer than it should have to realise that he wasn’t coming back.

She rushed after him, but the corridors were silent, and she called out to him, using every name she could think of—Finnigan, Cornelius, Jester, Lord Brighton…the unnamed servant playing the piano—uncaring who else heard. It only mattered that he heard, and that he knew how much he mattered to her.

I love you! She wanted to yell. Come back! Don’t leave me!

Why hadn’t he waited for her answer?

Leyna sprinted through the corridors, desperate to find him. She didn’t want to go to Kormend, and she didn’t want him to go either, but if he was set on going…maybe she would consider it.

She couldn’t bear the thought of being apart from him, not after everything they had been through. At the very least, she wanted more time with it, so they could figure out these emotions together. How can he do this? Abandon this…abandon us?

Hurt radiated through her, and she may as well have been bleeding for the grief pouring from her soul.

Not only had Finnigan given her an ultimatum, but he’d given her no time to consider it properly. That was the worst part. He had decided without her, and it was like a new form of betrayal. Why? Why leave so suddenly?

Yesterday morning, exactly a day ago, he had still been unconscious when she woke on the bed beside him. Now, he was uprooting his life—trying to uproot hers at the same time—because he wanted to do some soul-searching, to find out who he was.

But perhaps, if she'd made it more clear how much he meant to her, then he would know that he was enough too, and he wouldn’t have to go.

Her heart was racing. Time was running out. If she didn’t find him soon, she would lose him, possibly forever.

Try as she might, there was no trace of Finnigan Dobay or any of the Brotherhood members.

He was gone, and all that remained was what life would have been like if they’d never met at all. It was a scorching day, and the shady walkway that ran through the garden rang with the sound of laughter as children played. Even the prince was laughing, but for all the warmth that surrounded her, she felt cold and empty.

Leyna stood with Quinn, watching over the prince.

Somehow, Seth had convinced the steward to play catch with him under the guise of practising magic. The prince took turns throwing either a real apple at the steward, or the illusion of an apple that he conjured, and the steward had to guess which was the real one and only catch those.

The interaction was sweet, especially as it was usually obvious which apple was the illusion, but the steward humoured the prince by trying to catch these as well.

As they played, Steward Marek seemed a different person, less burdened by troubles, and the scene reminded Leyna of a father and son playing.

“Was he like this when you were young?” she asked Quinn in an undertone.

He pressed his lips together into a thin line. “No…well, sometimes. He was stressed a lot. We never played catch.”

Quinn's brow furrowed, and Leyna felt sorry for asking. But after a minute, he gave a soft laugh and said: “Actually, he used to take me fishing.”

She smiled, pleased he had good memories of his father, but couldn’t help but ask about the black-eye she’d once seen him with.

“That wasn’t my father,” said Quinn, his face darkening. “It was my mother. She wanted me to go back to Kormend with her, back to the Renegátok. I said no, and she was disappointed with me.”

Her eyes widened. “Your mother is in the Renegátok? And she hit you?”

He gave his head a small shake in reply. He wasn’t denying it, but rather, he wasn't ready to talk about it.

“It’s alright,” she said softly. “We can talk about it another time.”

"Thank you."

The stiffness of the moment was interrupted when an apple came sailing past. They both ducked in unison, and as a glowing green apple narrowly missed their heads, Seth laughed gleefully, pleased that his illusion had provoked a reaction from them.

When Leyna returned to her bedroom later that afternoon, a strange scent lingered in the air. It was tantalising, smoky, and hinted at cinnamon.

Leyna froze, then hurried to search the sitting room and bathroom. But Finnigan—if he’d truly been here—had already left. Her heart pounded as she returned to the bedroom. What was he doing here? She sniffed the air, trying desperately to catch a whiff of the perfume.

“Maybe I imagined it,” she sighed, feeling her momentary hopefulness vanish.

Tucked inside her collar, Floofy had remained quiet and well-behaved, but as she sunk onto the bed, he poked his head out and made a joyful noise before launching himself onto the mattress.

“Home sweet home,” she agreed, but as she flopped back, her head landed on something that crinkled. She thought little of it until Floofy tugged at whatever the object was, trying to pull it out from underneath her head. She sat bolt upright and twisted to see him dragging a plain white card by its corner.

Carefully, she opened the card, and immediately recognised Finnigan’s handwriting. Her heart beat faster.

Dear Leyna,

Please forgive my intrusion.

I hoped to find you in your room, but perhaps it is better this way, or I might lose the willpower to leave for this journey I have set for myself.

I came because I wanted to say goodbye, to not leave things the way I did the other day. You must wonder why I behaved so erratically, or why I left so quickly, and I know I owe you an explanation.

Truthfully, a lot has gone unsaid between us.

Leyna, I admire you so much. It is easy for someone like the jester to mock your bravery, or to make light of your achievements, but the fact remains that in these past months, when the world has near gone mad and threatened to fall apart around us, it is you who has been constant.

As have my feelings for you.

I’ve said before that I have loved you from the moment you stepped forth to protect the king at the feast, but you should know that even from the very start, you left an impression on me, and my affection for you has only grown with time.

Your determination to do what is right resonated with me, and I could only watch, fascinated, at your uncompromising dedication to your career.

So I had to walk away. I realised it wasn’t fair to ask you to abandon your life here, not when you’re at the height of your career. Rosaria needs people like you.

There is so much you deserve to know, and so much I dare not convey in a letter…except, perhaps, the most important fact of all: which is that I love you, earnestly and sincerely, with all my heart.

I have no plans to return, and yet, my thoughts are filled with you, and I only wish I could see you one last time, but I dare not tempt myself. I hope that, one day, our paths may cross again and that you will find it in your heart to forgive me.

Thank you for inspiring me to dream and for helping me find the part of me I had lost.

Yours faithfully,

Your Secret Admirer

The Saunders monogram was pressed into the lower edge of the paper. He wrote this here, at my desk. How long had he been here, waiting? She brushed the words, trying to smudge the ink, but it was dry. Perhaps she had just missed him? It was impossible to tell.

Meanwhile, Floofy was nibbling the corner of the page. She gently pried him off and placed him back on her shoulder, where he licked her neck affectionately.

“Yah?” asked Floofy.

“We’ll find him,” she promised, folding the letter carefully and taking it to her sitting room. She retrieved the small ashwood box Floofy had come in—the one carved with roses—and tucked the letter inside the box before placing it back on the shelf.

The carved elephant caught her eye. It had been a gift from Bancroft for her first birthday at the castle, and said as much on the elephant’s side where it was engraved: Happy Birthday, Love from Bancroft.

Not that long ago, Finnigan had sat on the chaise, holding the sculpture in his hands. Had he seen the engraving?

She hesitated, then reached out to touch the sculpture. As she did, the breath was sucked from her lungs, and she nearly dropped the elephant as a vision flashed in her mind.

It was a memory—a memory that wasn’t hers—of a bright sunny day. She recognised the castle yards, which were full of carriages, horses and people. It was the day the king had left.

She spotted Bancroft looking magnificent upon his fine steed, which picked its knees up elegantly as they rode past. The esteemed huskarl was waving to someone, and when he called out, “Hey kiddo!” she realised he was calling her.

Because there she was, Huskarl Leyna Saunders, leaning against the wooden fence over there with Grace. Her blonde hair was loose and fell below her shoulders in a gentle wave, and the compulsive tapping of her injured leg—she had not realised she did that—had vanished upon seeing Bancroft. She beamed as Bancroft approached, her smile stretching from ear to ear, and as they talked, she seemed in awe of the huskarl, and perhaps she did it unconsciously, but she reached behind to touch her banderole, as if checking to make sure it was still there.

She had no idea Jester had been watching, nor how beautiful he thought she looked with her face free of worry lines.

The afternoon had turned chilly. Leyna sat on her parents’ balcony, Floofy warm on her lap as she sat huddled in one of her mother’s shawls.

The smell of tobacco reached her nostrils, and she turned to see her father standing in the doorway, staring straight ahead with a faraway gaze.

“Papa?” she asked tentatively. “Can I speak with you?”

“Of course, my dear.” He seated himself at the table, feet spread wide and elbows on his thighs as he puffed on his pipe. “What’s troubling you? Tell me all.”

“Oh, Papa, I’m so lost,” she said, wringing her banderole in her hands.

“Is this about the demons? Because they’re all gone now—except for the spectators.”

She shook her head.

“Or is this about the chamberlain and the wizards in the black masks? Because they’re locked away, my dear. And you know better than I do how much security has tightened.”

“No, it’s not that.”

“Or is this about that Lord Brighton fellow?”

She dropped her gaze. "It's about everything, Papa. I keep losing people. Bancroft, Lord Brighton, Sophie…just like I lost Tash. I don't want to lose anyone else.”

“Aha. I see.” He pulled deeply on his pipe. “You should know your mother has hired a new maid.”

“Oh.”

“It was time, you know. Your mother needed the help, and she held off placing an advert for long enough as it is—”

“It’s alright, Papa. I understand.” She rubbed her hands. “I just wish I knew what Sophie was doing in the mountain woods.”

He straightened in his chair. “I can answer that. She was running an errand for me.”

“An errand?”

“Yes. Sophie was delivering a message for me. She’s been kind enough to do that for me over the years.”

“What kind of message?”

He returned to his pipe, puffing thoughtfully. “For the Brotherhood.”

Her muscles went rigid. “You’re a member?”

“No, not exactly. But I’m an asset. And over the years, Sophie has been helping me. I do feel guilty though, in hindsight.” His bushy eyebrows slanted sadly. “I knew there might be demons in the woods, and she was terrified of them, but it never occurred to me they would attack her. I blame myself for putting her in harm’s way.”

Leyna chewed her lip as she considered this. “I don’t think you did, Papa. I…I still don’t trust the demons, I never really did. But their contracts did seem to work. I don’t think they would have attacked her without reason. So, unless Sophie provoked them, or someone gave the order…” She gave her father a sidelong glance. “What was the errand? Could it have had something to do with why the demons attacked her?”

He shook his head.

She sighed. Great. More secrets.

“Being a huskarl isn’t what I expected it to be,” she blurted. A weight lifted as she said the words aloud. “It’s been difficult in ways I didn’t expect. Like arresting people, watching them be executed…only to find out that some of those people were innocent all along…”

She broke off. More than a few of the so-called traitors the Arrest Unit had captured were innocent, or at least, they’d had nothing to do with the Court Massacre. Some were indeed criminals, but the larger proportion had committed minor crimes at best, and most were guilty of nothing more than opposing the chamberlain in some form. The Crown had pardoned many of the prisoners and even issued apologies in some instances.

For some prisoners, like Beatrice, it was too little, too late.

“Maybe I’m not cut out to be a huskarl,” she sighed. “I thought it would be as simple as following orders and ensuring others abided by the law. But what do I do if I’m ordered to do things that aren’t morally right?”

“Leyna, I know you will always try to do what is right. But your gut feeling is telling you something—perhaps you should trust it.”

What was her gut feeling telling her?

“I became a huskarl so I can protect the royal family, and to…” she hesitated, realising what she was about to say was something she’d never shared with her parents, “and to make Tash proud.”

Lord Saunders blinked. “Tash? Our Tasha?”

“Yes. I thought I could follow her dream.”

“And what dream is that?”

Leyna’s lips parted in confusion. Did she really have to explain something so obvious?

“To…to uphold the law. To keep Rosaria safe. And I figured, if Tash had wanted to serve Rosaria as a city guard, then I could accomplish even more as a huskarl. I thought that even though she’s gone, I could achieve that for the both of us.”

Lord Saunders stared at her blankly for a moment before realising his pipe had gone out. He mumbled to himself as he relit it.

“Papa?” she prompted. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

He sighed, releasing a puff of smoke in the same breath. “There’s something you need to know about Tash, my dear. She was never in the city guard.”

Leyna snapped her head to look at him. “What do you mean? I remember her uniform! What was she then, a Brotherhood member?”

“No. She was a highwayman.”

Leyna was glad she was sitting down. “No, that can’t be. Tash is the reason I became a guard…it’s the reason I’m a huskarl, I…” she shook her head as reality warped around her, as the pillars of her dreams began to tumble.

“She fancied herself as a heroic outlaw,” Lord Saunders said. “Stealing from the rich to give to the poor. I tried to talk her out of it on many occasions, but she was in love with a young man in the band.”

“But the crossbow bolt,” she whispered. “You told me a highwayman killed her.”

“Yes, but it was an accident. The man loved her, Leyna. He was distraught—he came to my doorstep to apologise, to confess.”

“Who?” she demanded, hackles raising. “What was his name?”

“I’ll tell you one day—when you aren’t so angry.”

She crossed her arms, then uncrossed them again. “What about Mamma? Does she know?”

“Yes, she knows. I have few secrets from your mother. I spent much of our coin to…make it all go away. Prevent a scandal.”

She began to laugh as she raked her hair with her hands. All these years, she’d been trying to fulfil her sister’s dream, but if Tash had never been a city guard, then where did that leave her? Did she still want to be a huskarl for her own sake?

And who had Tash been? A criminal? Or a hero? Pain flashed as the fond memories of her older sister were ripped from her. She would have to rethink who her sister was all over again. Had she still been a good person?

Leyna jerked her head up to look at her father. “Is that why you and Mamma sold the house? Because of money?”

“No. We were truly doing what we thought was best for you. And we could not have been prouder when you became a huskarl.”

Dazed, she stood and shuffled around the table. Lord Saunders spoke again. “I noticed you’re wearing your banderole on your right shoulder now.”

“Yes…yes, I am.” She hesitated. “Someone pointed out it should be worn on the right, but I didn’t really understand why.”

Her father smiled. “It matters because the banderole is a symbol, and that should be respected. Symbols have power. They remind us of our loyalties and beliefs.”

Leyna nodded slowly. A part of her had seen the banderole as a status symbol, as a way for people who saw her to know that she was a huskarl. Beyond the Rutherford colours, which were self-explanatory, she hadn’t realised it held a deeper meaning.

Just like she hadn’t realised that following her duties would chip away at her soul, devouring the innocence that she sought to protect in others. Like Sophie’s kindness, and Grace’s carefree giggles, and Seth’s boyish innocence as he dreamt of riding a lion.

And they finally had a chance at that world again…the one where demons didn’t roam the castle grounds, and people didn’t go missing. A world where she could enjoy the fountains and flowering gardens as Floofy frolicked amongst the green clovers. A world that she could share with the people she loved.

“It was the chamberlain who placed it on my left shoulder,” she blurted.

“And Quinn’s,” said Lord Saunders. “I’m not sure if you noticed…Quinn’s was on the left as well. But not Grace’s. I wonder why that is?”

It’s because I’m predictable and obedient. And because he could intimidate Quinn. But not Grace…she would never have chosen the rules over her friends. That’s why the chamberlain didn’t choose her.

But it hadn’t stopped him from trying to manipulate her to move Quinn out of the dungeon. And it had nearly worked.

Leyna gripped her knees, feeling sick. It was as if the chamberlain had visually marked her and Quinn as his pawns—and she’d been none the wiser.

She would not think about Percy. Instead, she leant against the stone rail and inhaled deeply. The air was cool. There would be more warm days, but with autumn approaching, she was determined not to waste them. The captain had relaxed her schedule, which was just as well as her hands were still raw and itchy—she hadn’t had the heart to return to the healing ward. It reminded her too much of Finnigan.

A sharp pang echoed through her. He’s gone.

“Papa,” she began, glancing back to where he sat cross-legged in his chair. “What do I do?”

He gave her a knowing look. “I think you should find whoever showed you how to wear that banderole correctly.” He paused, as if pondering his words. “You know, ever since your courtship began with Finnigan, you’ve seemed happy. That’s nice for a father to see.”

Her lips parted in surprise. “How do you know his name?”

“I may not be an active member of the Brotherhood, but I used to be.”

Biting her nail, she turned back to the gardens below, thoughtful. How had she not known this about her father? Lifting her chin, her gaze shifted across the yellowed foothills, up through the dense green forests, and over the tall peaks of the blue and purple mountains.

Where was Finnigan? What was he doing right now? Had he already arrived in Kormend? The world beyond the mountains felt like a dream, the peaks half-hidden by sun-touched clouds.

“Papa, what’s Kormend like?”

He didn’t answer straight away, and as the minutes passed, she turned around to see that he’d left.

She was alone on the balcony. Taking a steadying breath, she returned her gaze to the mountains. With every minute that passed, its colour shifted, turning a deeper, darker purple as night fell.

“Yah?” asked Floofy, appearing at her shoulder.

She smiled and stroked his fur. “We’re going on an adventure,” she explained, and Floofy cooed his approval.

Because Finnigan had to be out there somewhere, and he’d taken a piece of her heart with him.

Table of Contents

Copyright

Preface

Preview of Cover Art

1. The Maze

2. Injured

3. The Awards Ceremony

4. Senior Prank

5. Medical Bay

6. Visitors

7. Viva Voce

8. A Trio of Two

9. The Jester

10. Royad

11. Rutherford Castle

12. The Oath

13. The King’s Feast

14. The Goblet

15. The Trophy Room

16. A Secret Meeting

17. The King Leaves

18. Prince Seth

19. The Demon Book

20. A Secret Admirer

21. Death Knell

22. The Fallout

23. The Arrests

24. The Chase

25. Guilty

26. The Investigator

27. The Kitchens

28. The Market

29. The Tea Party

30. Jester’s Room

31. The Boy

32. The Courtship

33. The Chamberlain

34. The Executions

35. Professor Maisy Fry

36. The Dungeon

37. The Demon Door

38. Betrayal

39. Shared Ambition

40. Potent Loyalty

41. Blood and Lies

42. Awakened

43. Huskarl

Table of Contents

Copyright

Preface

Preview of Cover Art

1. The Maze

2. Injured

3. The Awards Ceremony

4. Senior Prank

5. Medical Bay

6. Visitors

7. Viva Voce

8. A Trio of Two

9. The Jester

10. Royad

11. Rutherford Castle

12. The Oath

13. The King’s Feast

14. The Goblet

15. The Trophy Room

16. A Secret Meeting

17. The King Leaves

18. Prince Seth

19. The Demon Book

20. A Secret Admirer

21. Death Knell

22. The Fallout

23. The Arrests

24. The Chase

25. Guilty

26. The Investigator

27. The Kitchens

28. The Market

29. The Tea Party

30. Jester’s Room

31. The Boy

32. The Courtship

33. The Chamberlain

34. The Executions

35. Professor Maisy Fry

36. The Dungeon

37. The Demon Door

38. Betrayal

39. Shared Ambition

40. Potent Loyalty

41. Blood and Lies

42. Awakened

43. Huskarl