Sleep does not come easily.

I lie atop the silken bedcovers, staring at the ceiling lost somewhere beyond sight, the candle guttering low beside me. The castle feels restless tonight. Or perhaps it is only me, my thoughts a tangled knot I cannot unwind.

Eventually, exhaustion drags me under.

At first, there is nothing but endless dark, the kind that presses in on all sides, leaving no room for breath or thought. Then, slowly, shapes begin to form. Pale trunks rising from a floor of mist, branches clawing at a sky the color of ashes.

The forbidden forest.

I know it even before my feet touch the strange earth, before the chill of unseen hands brushes against my skin. The trees sway though there is no wind, their boughs whispering to one another in a tongue I almost, almost recognize. The words curl at the edge of my mind like smoke, just out of reach, leaving only the unsettling certainty that they are speaking of me.

I take a step forward, the mist curling higher around my legs, cool and damp, clinging like unseen vines. The forest hums with quiet life, but it is not the kind I know. Every sound feels wrong, every breath a trespass.

From somewhere deeper within the trees, a figure stirs.

I see it only as a darker shadow among the gray, shifting between the trunks with the slow certainty of something that belongs here far more than I do. It watches me, though I cannot see its face. I feel its gaze all the same, heavy and patient, a silent summoning.

My heart pounds hard against my ribs. Some part of me knows I should not move closer, that nothing good waits for me beyond that veil of mist. Yet my body does not obey. I take another step. Then another.

The figure lifts a hand, beckoning.

The trees groan around me, their branches twisting lower as if bowing to the unseen will that calls me forward. I want to scream, to run, but no sound leaves my throat.

I blink—

—and I wake.

The canopy above my bed comes into focus, blurred by the remnants of sleep. My body is slick with sweat, my nightgown clinging uncomfortably to my skin. The candle has long since guttered out, leaving only the cold gray light to seep through the cracks of my chamber.

I sit up slowly, pressing a hand to my chest to steady the frantic beat of my heart. The dream clings to me, sharper than any nightmare I have known. It should have faded the moment I opened my eyes. Instead, it lingers, coiled in the back of my mind like a living thing.

A dream. Nothing more.

I force the thought into the silence, gripping it tightly even as doubt gnaws at its edges.

Shoving back the covers, I swing my legs over the side of the bed. My bare feet meet cold stone, grounding me. I draw in a slow breath, willing my body to calm.

It was only a dream. I tell myself this again and again as I rise and cross the room, lighting another candle with shaking hands. The tiny flame sputters weakly before steadying.

The forest is far away. The castle walls hold firm around me.

Yet, when I glance toward the distant window, a shiver crawls down my spine.

Because in the far-off mist beyond the bridge, just before the shadows swallow it whole, I could have sworn I saw a figure waiting.

Still beckoning.

***

I smooth the skirts of the black gown Nevira forced me into, my fingers brushing over the fine embroidery stitched in silver thread. It clings closer to my body than I would like, the fabric too rich, too soft, reminding me with every step that I am meant to be on display tonight.

Nevira stands a few paces behind me, silent, waiting. I glance at the door to my chambers, already ajar, the corridor beyond glowing faintly with the cold candlelight that never warms these halls. I hesitate. There is a part of me that wishes to refuse, to stay hidden behind the safety of stone and shadow, but I know better.

Malphas asked.

No. Malphas commanded.

And while I chafe against the invisible chains he winds around me with every word, every look, I am not foolish enough to test him without reason.

Squaring my shoulders, I step into the hall.

Nevira follows at a respectful distance as I make my way toward the grand assembly chamber. I have memorized enough of the castle now to find it without aid. Still, it feels different tonight, the shadows deeper, the walls listening.

When I reach the heavy double doors, two sentries dressed in polished obsidian armor swing them open without a word. The sight beyond makes me pause.

The hall is filled with demons.

They crowd the space in clusters, their laughter low and sharp, their movements elegant and predatory. The chandeliers overhead burn with cold blue fire, casting long uneven shadows across the glossy floor. Black banners etched with silver sigils hang from the rafters, whispering tales of ancient bloodlines and forgotten wars.

At the far end of the room, upon his raised dais, sits Malphas.

He wears black as always, but tonight his coat is adorned with intricate silver fastenings that catch the firelight when he moves. His posture is relaxed, yet there is no mistaking the iron in his bearing. He rules this room, this court, this realm, and every creature within it bows to him in ways both seen and unseen.

His gaze finds me the moment I cross the threshold. I feel the weight of it, heavy and sure, rooting me to the spot.

A slow smile curves his lips, one that promises nothing good.

He lifts his hand slightly, a subtle summons.

I move forward, careful to keep my steps measured, my chin high. The gathered demons part before me like a tide, their whispers following me with every stride.

"Is that the mortal?"

"How does she still breathe?"

"She must have bewitched him. There is no other way."

The words slide over my skin like knives, but I do not flinch. Let them talk. Their voices mean nothing if I do not give them the satisfaction of seeing the wound.

I reach the dais and pause at the foot of the steps. Malphas waits, his hand extended toward me in silent expectation. For a brief moment, the entire hall stills, holding its breath. Tonight is eerily similar to the luncheon I attended when I had first arrived.

I place my hand in his.

His fingers curl around mine, firm and cold. He draws me up the steps with casual strength.

I sit in my smaller throne, as I had before, smoothing my skirts with a grace I do not feel, and fix my gaze somewhere over the heads of the assembled court. 

This crowd differs from the one from before. I can feel their resentment rolling toward me in slow, simmering waves. They resent my presence, resent the way Malphas looks at me, resent the place I have been given without blood or battle to earn it.

Good. Let them seethe.

Malphas leans closer, his voice pitched low for me alone. "Smile, little bride. They are trying to find a crack."

I turn my head slightly toward him, allowing the barest curve of my lips to form. "Let them try."

He chuckles, low and approving, and settles back into his throne.

The court resumes its movements, though the tension lingers, a slow tightening of the bowstring that waits for a single arrow to fly.

It does not take long for someone to test it.

A figure detaches herself from the shifting crowd and ascends the dais with the ease of one used to moving through dangerous waters. She is beautiful in the way poisonous things often are. Her skin a polished ivory, her hair a waterfall of silver bound with black thorns. Her gown clings to her form like a second skin, dark red trimmed with black, her every step calculated to draw the eye.

She does not bow.

Instead, she offers Malphas a shallow incline of her head, her smile razor-thin.

"My lord," she purrs, her voice honeyed and cruel. "You honor us with your presence tonight. And such... charming company."

Her eyes flick to me, sharp and assessing.

I meet her gaze without blinking.

Malphas regards her with cool indifference. "Lady Veyra. I was beginning to wonder if you had lost your voice."

She smiles wider, the expression showing far too many teeth. "Never, my lord. Especially when there is such interesting sport to be had."

She turns her attention fully to me now, her head tilting slightly, as if considering a strange creature brought in from the wild.

"You must forgive us, lady mortal. We are unused to such fragile things enduring here for long."

A murmur of laughter ripples through the court.

I smile sweetly. "Fragility is often mistaken for weakness. A mistake many do not survive long enough to repeat."

A few of the closer demons catch the insult and stiffen. Veyra's smile falters for half a heartbeat before she regains it.

"Of course," she says lightly. "Yet it is curious how swiftly mortals crumble when they realize the rules of their world no longer apply."

I tilt my head, letting my voice carry just enough to reach those listening too closely. "Rules are for those who lack the strength to make their own."

That earns a sharper rustle from the court. Even Malphas's mouth quirks slightly, though he says nothing.

Veyra's eyes narrow, the first real crack showing in her carefully painted mask. She steps closer, invading my space with a practiced sort of malice.

"I wonder," she murmurs, loud enough for all to hear, "if your lord would find you so diverting were you not such a novelty. After all, trinkets lose their shine quickly in this court."

The implication hangs heavy between us.

That I am temporary. Replaceable. That whatever favor Malphas shows me is fleeting.

I lean forward slightly, resting my elbow on the arm of my chair, my chin against the back of my hand as if truly considering her words. It appears that no one understands my lack of desire to be here.

"Perhaps," I say, keeping my tone light, almost bored. "But trinkets are rarely capable of cutting the throat of the hand that underestimates them."

The court goes utterly silent.

Veyra stares at me, something furious and raw flickering behind her eyes.

Malphas shifts beside me, the movement slow, deliberate. His voice, when it comes, is a lazy drawl that does nothing to hide the sharpness beneath.

"You would do well to remember," he says, speaking to the room at large though his gaze lingers on Veyra, "that fragile things are often the most dangerous when cornered."

Veyra lowers her head, the gesture a mockery of submission. "Of course, my lord."

She retreats, her steps measured, her gown whispering across the stones like a serpent withdrawing its fangs after a failed strike.

The court resumes its murmurings, but there is a new edge to it now. Less scorn. More wariness.

I sit back against the chair, feeling the tight knot in my stomach slowly unwind.

Malphas says nothing, but I feel his gaze on me, weighing, considering.

When I dare to glance at him, I find him already watching, a slow, almost imperceptible smile curving his lips.

Pride. Amusement. Something warmer and far more dangerous.

It unsettles me more than Veyra's veiled threats ever could.

The gathering drags on, a parade of flatterers and sycophants, each trying in their own way to win back the attention that my presence seems to have stolen. I remain silent, offering little more than polite smiles and empty stares, letting their desperation wash over me like river water over stone.

When at last Malphas rises, signaling the end of the evening, I stand with him, my spine straight, my chin high.

He offers me his arm without a word.

I place my hand there, feeling the strength coiled beneath the fabric, the steady pulse of power that never truly sleeps.

Together, we descend the dais, the crowd parting before us once more.

The whispers follow, but they taste different now.

Not scorn.

Respect.

Or perhaps fear.

Both suit me fine.

As the doors close behind us and the noise of the court fades into memory, Malphas leans down, his mouth brushing close to my ear.

"You are learning, little bride," he murmurs, voice low and dangerous. "Good. You will need every weapon before this game is done."