Anna hopped lightly across the roof.

The sun was disappearing now, casting long shadows over the hulking stone towers. Guards' swords flashed like strange, night-blooming flowers. She crept along the castle ramparts, sticking close to the stone wall. Checking all the possibilities one-by-one. She slipped into Queen Brigid's quarters first, then the Royal Treasury. Sophie had explained the lay-out of the castle, as much of it as she could remember.

Still no map of Nyxos.

Which left only one possibility.

Anna crept closer to the King's quarters, tiptoeing along the window ledge. Wind whistled past her ears, sharp as an arrow. Grass loomed below. Her heartbeat was a fluttering bird in her chest, but she took deep breaths, letting the motion steady her.

Calm.

Sophie's first lesson.

Anna inched closer to the window, avoiding a white splotch of bird dung. She wondered what her fellow Nightweavers would say if they could see her now. Princess Annalise Cidarius, the rightful ruler of Wynterlynn, skirting around bird shit and trying desperately not to topple off a window ledge.

Rourke would have laughed his ass off.

The thought of him was bittersweet, and Anna shoved it away. She wasn't thinking about Rourke. Not today.

Anna peeked through the window, squinting into the dark chamber. No surprise there. Ryne had probably changed and was now on his way to the evening banquet.

Still.

She'd have to hurry.

Anna slid through the opening, landing silently on the stone floor. No guards inside the room. Good. She didn't want to waste any time incapacitating anyone. She scrabbled around the chambers, checking in a leather trunk and dusty books, behind leather riding crops and a rack of obscenely bright waistcoats. And then she saw it.

A golden chest beneath the bed.

Something pulsed inside of it. A strange, otherworldly presence, cold as a night breeze. She could feel it singing to her. The map of Nyxos. She was sure of it.

Anna fell to her knees, crawling towards the chest, and then swore.

A lock.

The sort that required a key.

She yanked out one of the jeweled pins in her hair, sending it tumbling down her back. Handy, those. They were sharp enough to double as a knife at close range — and a lock-picking device, now that she thought about it.

She jammed the pin into the lock, wiggling experimentally. There was a bright flash. Pain flared across her palm, and she bit back a cry. The jeweled pin clattered to the floor, the silvery blade warped and melted.

Damn.

A magical lock.

Anna popped her stinging finger to her mouth, sucking on the skin. She had seen these before, at Grim's Market. Only the person with the proper key could get in. That person being the swine that stole her throne, presumably.

Anna lowered her finger. She only had a few minutes before people would expect her at the banquet. Could she shatter the chest? But that would attract a lot of noise, and there were guards stationed outside the door—

She heard the click too late.

Anna sprang up just as the door opened. Revealing King Ryne Delafort, staring at her with an expression of pure astonishment.

"Who the hell are you?" he demanded.

***

The stone chamber smelled of blood and vomit.

Brigid stared at the young guard strapped to the table, his body writhing with pain. Hunter, one of the other guards had told her. His dark skin was slick with sweat, and there was a gag in his mouth to muffle the screaming. Vomit on his shirt. He was young — younger than she had expected, anyway. Hardly older than her son.

"What happened?" Brigid asked.

She made her voice calm. A queen's voice. A tall guard cleared his throat. "He attacked us, Your Majesty. But Hunter didn't know what he was doing. One minute, he was laughing about some card game, and the next..." He gestured at the table. "Well, you can see what happened."

She could indeed.

"The change was abrupt?" Brigid asked.

"Very."

She clasped her hands. "And nobody was within a few feet of him? You're sure?"

"I'm positive, Your Majesty. Nobody was standing near him."

She frowned. Well, if nobody was close enough to throw a web over the injured guard — if this man was telling the truth — then that left one possibility.

He'd drunk the somnium. Either he'd done it on purpose, or someone had poisoned him.

But why?

Brigid moved aside as a pregnant healer bustled through, crushing something with a pestle. Not for the first time, Brigid wished they had magical healers from Zarob at court. A Zarobian healer could have cured the guard — Hunter — within a few hours. Maybe minutes. But the kingdom to the south refused to have anything to do with the Delafort family after the War of Nightmares, when they executed the Cidarius family. There were no healers in Wynterlynn.

So they would have to rely on this.

Plants and science.

"Keep this to yourselves," Brigid ordered. "If this gets out, it will cause alarm. There's no use in panicking people until we know more. You may inform his family, of course, but please tell them to remain silent for now."

She would write to his family, too. Thank them for their son's bravery and make up some story about Hunter dying while squashing a Nightweaver uprising.

"Yes, Your Majesty," said the tall guard.

She touched Hunter's forehead lightly. "Poor boy."

Hunter thrashed at her touch, letting out a low, keening sound. His eyes rolled back. The healer rushed forward with her concoction, and Brigid could smell eucalyptus, lavender and something sharp and fresh.

Not a cure.

Just a treatment to soothe. To numb the pain, just long enough for Hunter to die peacefully. She wondered if the other anxious guards knew it.

But there was nothing to be done, Brigid thought, slipping from the chamber. Nothing to be done to save a man from nightmare magic. It was the deadliest force to have ever existed; it was why it needed to be eradicated.

She would never stop hunting them. She would never let up.

Not until all Nightweavers were dead.

Not until they all bled.

***

Anna froze.

Ryne leaned against the door, watching her with wary green eyes. His brown hair was mussed, and two red spots burned in his cheeks. His breath rattled in his chest. Fear? At finding her in his bedroom? But there were guards just outside the room, Anna realized. Of course Ryne wasn't afraid — he could shout for help and she would be dead within seconds.

The thought made her body go cold.

She sized him up. Ryne was at least six inches taller than her and well-built; she could see the muscles straining under his tunic. But he was leaning against the door in a way that suggested he needed it.

Good.

Anna could take him. Grab that sharp letter opener off the table and drive it straight through his stomach. Then his heart.

Could she do it quick enough, though? Kill Ryne before he made a sound, use his key to grab the map, and then dart out the window?

No. Anna was good, but not that good. Besides, Ryne might not even have the key on him. It was too great a risk to take.

Which left only one option.

"I'm a healer, Your Majesty." She bobbed a curtsy. "They sent me to inspect you."

Anna prayed that she was right. Prayed that Ryne truly was injured, that she had read his body language correctly. If not, they would jail or kill her in the next two minutes. The young king frowned. "Why are you dressed like that?"

"Like what?"

"That." He nodded at her white dress. "You're not in the royal livery."

"I spilled tonic on it," Anna lied. "And I don't have a spare." She kept her eyes trained on the floor. "I've only recently become employed at Stillwater Castle, Your Majesty. My things haven't arrived yet."

The truth. Sort of. Anna forced herself to remain calm, even as her entire body was shaking. Not with fear, but with rage. At this man that had waltzed into her castle and stolen her crown. Her usurper. Who she had bowed to.

Bowed to.

Magic sang in her veins. She could feel the pressure building, feel the black, gaping void expanding inside of her, like the darkest part of the night. Begging for release. But she kept her eyes fixed on the carpet, just as a good, deferential servant would.

Ryne didn't move. "You can tell my mother that I don't need help." Boots hit the floor. "Now, or ever."

Anna waited.

"Well?" His voice was sharp. "Off you go. You're dismissed."

Anna bobbed another curtsy. She forced herself to walk out the door, focusing on the stone floor. On anything but Ryne or that silver letter opener, gleaming with bright temptation.

***

Camille had forgotten how much food there was at the banquet.

Wooden tables groaned under slow-roasted chicken, crispy bacon, curried parsnips and a creamy mash that tasted of saffron. Green peas swam in a pool of browned butter. The smell of smoked meat filled the room, making Camille think of the forge and her father's anvil, scattering fiery sparks.

She had also forgotten just how many people could fit into the Great Hall. Seven hundred people crammed onto wooden benches, their chatter mixing with the violin music. One footman had the foresight to throw open the large glass doors, and some tables spilled out onto the stone patio. Moonlight coloured the guests silver, as if they'd been dipped in shiny paint.

Elsie was among them.

The other girl was holding court at the largest table, her red gown like a splash of blood. Several young men gathered around her, boasting and arguing over who got to cut a slice of ham for her. Next to Camille, Isaac was pretending not to watch her.

But he was.

Isaac was always watching Elsie.

Camille turned away, a lump in her throat. Penny nudged her elbow. "Don't be sad," she murmured. "Elsie is vile."

Heat crept into her cheeks. "Stop reading me, Penny."

"I can't help it."

"Still."

"You're too good for him, anyway," Penny said firmly, taking a bite of chocolate cake. Penny made it a rule to always eat dessert before dinner. "And I don't mean in station. I mean in personal merit."

"Who's Camille too good for?" a voice asked.

Her head snapped up. Isaac was watching them curiously, a chunk of bread dangling from his fingers. Those fingers had gripped Elsie's waist just a few hours ago. Her embarrassment intensified.

"Nobody," Camille said quickly. "I—"

"A stableboy." Penny smiled. "She's been sneaking out to meet him."

Camille gaped. "I have not!"

"I'm with Cami." Isaac chuckled. "There's no way she's having an illicit affair."

Her embarrassment gave way to irritation. Camille picked at her food. She had a very precise way of eating: the chicken, the parsnips, and then the peas. Everything done in a clockwise direction. Neat and orderly.

"This might be difficult for you to believe," Camille said, "but some men do find me attractive."

Isaac ruffled her hair. "That's not what I meant, Cami. I only meant that you're too well-behaved for that. The perfect daughter. The perfect princess."

Camille frowned. It was a compliment, she supposed, although it sounded horrid when he phrased it like that. "I'm not a princess."

"Close enough."

Camille sighed. She wished she was seated beside someone else tonight. Anyone else. She glanced at where Ryne was sitting further down the table, cutting his meat into small squares. He wasn't eating much, but he looked better. Healthier.

Thank the gods.

"Captain!"

They all looked up as a young guard approached the head table. Isaac sat up straighter, flashing a charming smile. "Tarquin. I was going to come find you. Fancy another game of cards after dinner?"

Only years of good breeding stopped Camille from rolling her eyes. Isaac was a ruthless cutthroat at cards, collecting rukka and jewels the same way that a spiderweb collected flies. But Tarquin's face was grave.

"Not tonight," Tarquin said. "I'm sorry to interrupt your meal, but there's something that you ought to know, Webb."

Camille watched out of the corner of her eye as Tarquin leaned down, whispering something in Isaac's ear. The smile slipped off Isaac's face. His gray eyes darkened, like smog hanging above a city, and she thought once more of the forge, of the way that the chimney would belch great black clouds.

She leaned closer as Tarquin left. "What is it?"

"It's Hunter." Isaac gripped his fork. "One of our guards. He's dead." He looked up, as if he'd only just realized to whom he was speaking. "Don't repeat that, Cami. I shouldn't have told you."

"He's dead?" Camille was aghast. "How?"

But Isaac turned away, and a moment later, Camille saw why: Queen Brigid had entered the Great Hall, her red hair gleaming in the candlelight. She sat up straighter. 

It was time for the names of this year's successful candidates to be announced.