by Emily Inskip
Suddenly Nadia found the mosaic tiles on the floor extremely fascinating. “Nothing, it’s just . . .”
“Just?”
“Well, it’s just you seemed like you were getting along well with Prince Aedric, I only assumed . . . never mind.”
Amara threw her head back in laughter. So everyone in Winvaris really did think something was going on between them.
Nadia brought her hands up to her face as though shielding herself from the mortification. “Oh Gods, I’m so sorry.”
Amara grinned. “I’ll take it as a compliment. Although I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I’ve seen the way he looks at you,” Nadia only said, shrugging.
Amara was quiet for a moment. It’s better to have someone to ride out the silence with. Aedric was a man she had yet to work out. He shared almost as little of himself as she did. Amara knew there was something beneath the mask he had built up for himself. Beneath the smirk and swagger. It was all a defence, and one that she was familiar enough to see through. She just needed to work out what it was. What haunted the prince so badly?
“Lady?” Nadia asked at last, pulling her back to reality.
“He looks at me as he looks at every other woman in the castle, I assure you.” She lazily stretched her arms out above her head. Her newly strengthened muscles flexed as she tilted her chin up, allowing the smooth length of her neck to arc.
As she cast her gaze upwards, Amara couldn’t help but notice the ceiling marble tiles shimmer with veins of gold. Was there not a single part of this castle that was not decadent?
Amara remembered the damp beams of her old apartment, the rusty gas lamp and too-narrow cot. Now, she marvelled at the chandelier that floated like a jellyfish in the centre of the room, limbs of sparkling glass draping downwards. She wondered how long she’d be able to enjoy these privileges.
A shudder skittered up her spine at the thought of the Bloodmoon. Only a few days away. An event that could change everything.
Amara sat forwards. Before Nadia had arrived, she’d just had enough time to slip into a somewhat acceptable dress, glad to be rid of the silky nightgown she’d been forced to wear all morning. Gods, it had already been such a long day. So much information in so little time. And although Amara had talked to many people, she had never felt so alone. Maybe it was the knowledge that Fenn was out of reach, his location unknown. Or maybe it was because Amara was simply bored of the silence and secrets that she now lived among.
But if she only had a few more days to live, she may as well enjoy herself.
“Are you busy?” Amara asked abruptly.
As much as Amara wanted to deny she had any friends, she seemed to like having the witch around. In fact, Nadia was probably the most bearable person in Winvaris. In the end, they were more similar than she’d first thought. Both cursed with a gift they never wanted. Both lost in a world that had taken so much.
Nadia hesitated before tugging at her sleeves. “I have a few errands to run . . .”
“How would you like to have tea?”
Her dark brow furrowed. “Tea?”
“Is there something I’m not making clear?” Amara tilted her head, awaiting an answer.
“You want me to have tea with you?” A combination of confusion and amusement spread across Nadia’s face. Her bundle of brown-gold curls escaped the bun above her head as she let out a short laugh.
“I mean if you don’t want to . . .” The faintest smile touched Amara’s lips as she rose to her feet in one swift movement. And as she went to move away, she felt a wisp of power curl against her. An invisible force making it impossible for her feet to move.
“Yes,” Nadia blurted, “I want to.”
“You’re stronger than you look, witchling,” Amara said, before breaking free of the hold around her legs, that unseen force shrinking away, dissipating into the air.
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly, heat rising in her cheeks. “Sometimes I find it hard to control.”
“Don’t apologise for your strength.” Amara shrugged as she strode towards the tea service.
“Sorry,” Nadia murmured.
Amara threw an incredulous look over her shoulder and Nadia chuckled, moving over to help with the delicate porcelain saucers.
She set out two blue-patterned cups from the cabinet, her dark eyes still gleaming. “I’ve never had tea with a guest before,” Nadia mused.
“I’m not a guest. I’m a friend.” The unfamiliar word snagged on Amara’s tongue, but she grinned as she poured the steaming water, filling the ornate china to the brim. A servant had arrived earlier whilst Amara had been changing. She’d delivered the tea along with a couple of fruit scones and a bowl of summer berries grown in the south. Both of which still sat untouched on the low-lying table beside the chaise.
“Help yourself.” Amara jerked her head towards the uneaten food.
Nadia’s eyes widened as she took in the ripened berries, glistening red in a neat pile. “You’re sure?”
Amara didn’t bother to reply, she only shook her head. The quicker Nadia could realise she was more than just a servant, the better.
As they went back to sit down, now clutching their piping hot mugs, Nadia reached forwards and pinched a handful of the berries before popping them in her mouth.
“Gods,” she sighed, bobbing her head as she swallowed the entire mouthful.
Amara nearly choked on her drink. “Better than the gooseberries?” she laughed.
“Better than the gooseberries,” Nadia affirmed before reaching for another cluster of them.
Within a few minutes, the entire bowl had been devoured and a pinkish tinge stained the corners of Nadia’s lips. In some ways, Amara could almost see herself in the girl. Except the berry juice would be blood, and the fruit were those she had killed.
So maybe they weren’t so similar. But Amara still delighted in the fact that Nadia wolfed down the food like an eager vampire.
It was only in that moment that Amara really realised just how thin Nadia was. Her limbs were gaunt, as though they were twigs Amara could snap between two fingers. Her dark skin stretched tight across her bones. It still carried a glow, no doubt from the magic that laced her veins, but it wasn’t from good health. Amara studied her face, the planes of sharp angles and hollows. She cringed.
“They don’t feed you well here,” Amara said. Her gaze darkened.
Nadia reached into a pocket within the pleats of her skirt and fished out a slightly dirty handkerchief. “They pay me to work, not sit around and eat.”
Amara didn’t fail to notice her slender fingers, the bones of her knuckles protruding like sharp stones as she dabbed the fabric to her mouth.
“From now on you’ll eat the food that is delivered to me,” said Amara gravely. She remembered the hunger from when she worked for Fassar. The stale bread and cup of water that was meant to last her the day. The constant migraines and blurry vision, jittery hands and light-headedness. She had wasted away, her limbs too tired to work, muscles running on nothing but sheer fear of being punished if she collapsed.
Nadia wasn’t as bad. But Amara couldn’t deny the twinge in her gut as she watched her devour a single berry like it was the best thing she’d eaten all month.
“You can start with the scones.” Amara practically shoved the plate onto her lap. “There.”
Nadia looked down at them with pursed lips. Amara could read the longing in her eyes but the servant still stuttered. “Are you sure? I can’t possibly accept all of this—”
“I insist,” Amara urged. She’d barely touched her tea in all the time they had sat there and it was beginning to grow cold.
“Thank you,” Nadia said, taking Amara’s hand in hers.
Amara blinked at their joined hands. She blinked again as Nadia squeezed her fingers gently before biting into one of the fluffy golden scones.
Is this friendship? She didn’t know. But as she watched the other girl eat, Nadia busy savour
ing every mouthful, something dark and ancient began to crumble down within her.
And Amara wondered if it was possible that she had felt her heart beat once more.
24
Amara tossed and turned, her mind racing, unable to sleep. But this time it wasn’t from nightmares, it was Fenn.
She’d read his letter once Nadia had left. He had travelled west towards the neighbouring country of Kilohan, known for its harsh winters and short days. Perfect for a vampire avoiding the sun. He’d settled in a camp around the border, taken in by a tribe of Kilohan fishermen working on the iced-over lakes that encircled the land.
He is safe, she forced herself to believe. But no one is ever safe from Fassar. Not really.
Even though she knew she should, Amara couldn’t bring herself to burn the delicate letter. It was her only reminder that Fenn was still out there. That she wasn’t alone. She clenched the note in her hand, sparing one last look at the sprawling handwriting before tucking it behind one of the rich tapestries that swathed the walls.
Amara had written back almost immediately. She’d told him about the castle, playing hide and seek with a red-headed princess, and dancing with the Prince of Esteria. But she pointedly left out any information about the Bloodmoon. Amara didn’t want to worry him. And stating that she was about to consider completing a ritual which was practically a death sentence, wasn’t exactly a calming thought.
By the early hours of the morning, she had broken out into a cold sweat. Amara abandoned the fool’s wish of being able to sleep and strode into the lounge area of her suite. She didn’t bother to light the gigantic, gilded hearth that took up most of one wall. Why bother? She could see fine enough in the dark.
Amara paced, bored and agitated. And she had the sudden need to stab something.
It didn’t take her long to find the butter knife that was left on the table beside the empty plate dusted in scone crumbs. Amara smiled as she took it into her hand, savouring the familiar weight of a blade . . . If you could call it such a thing. She tossed it into the air, watching the slash of silver whirl upwards, spinning in a blur before landing back into her palm handle-first.
And that was how the rest of the night went. Amara flung the knife, carefully twirling it around her fingers, seeing how many times it could rotate until she caught it again. She sharpened it on the hard stone of the balcony railing, refining the once blunt edge into a glistening silver dart. It was almost as lethal as the daggers she was forced to leave behind before arriving at the castle. She tested the knife, pressing her thumb against the metal point. It didn’t take long to pierce her skin. Blood blossomed from the tiny cut, then disappeared as fast as it arose. Perfect.
Just as the sun spilt over the horizon, Amara slipped her new weapon beneath her mattress, securing it in place between the wooden panels. Who knew when she might need it?
Amara was just about to settle into her bed once more when the flurry of female voices flowed past her room. Excited laughter streamed from the corridor and against her better judgement, Amara was curious.
Who else is up at sunrise?
She found herself moving towards the door, throwing it open just in time to catch Lady Myria, along with a crowd of girls fanning themselves in their best gowns.
“What’s going on?” Amara said, squinting in the light of the corridor after so many hours in the dark.
Lady Myria’s smile dropped as she noticed Amara in the doorway, her eyes narrowing. “It’s Competition Day,” she said flatly, as though Amara should understand exactly what Competition Day was.
But instead, she stared back at the lady blankly.
“Don’t you know anything?” Lady Myria snorted. The surrounding ladies giggled at that, gazing at Amara from behind their laced fans.
Finally, Myria sighed. “Today is the day that Prince Aedric challenges every guard in the castle to a sword duel. If any guard beats him, they win a promotion. It’s a way of picking out the best fighters or for a lowly guard to prove himself.”
Amara scrunched her brow. “Surely that is assuming the prince is the best.”
“Well, that’s because he is,” another lady swooned.
Amara just rolled her eyes. “Why are you all up so early?”
“Because it’s about to start,” Lady Myria huffed as though she were growing bored of Amara’s questions. “Every year, the competition begins at sunrise. Although, it doesn’t usually last long. Prince Aedric is very efficient at taking down his opponents. He’s not lost a duel in years.”
Amara pursed her lips. She wanted to see for herself if Aedric really was all that these ladies think he is. She found it hard to believe.
Lady Myria ran a disapproving look over Amara from head to toe. “If you’re going to come, I’d suggest it’s not in your nightgown. If that’s even what you can call that scrap of fabric. Wear your best dress and at least try to look acceptable.”
Amara didn’t bother to reply before turning and slamming the door in her face. She heard a furious gasp from the corridor; then a chorus of marching feet as the group of women scurried away.
Try to look acceptable. Amara wondered if it was acceptable to tie the lady to a tree and wait for a pack of wolves to ravage her.
25
Amara didn’t shy from the glares that fell upon her as she strutted into The Octagon. It was a hall of magnificent splendour with a cavernous domed ceiling, all eight walls adorned with golden filigree, curling up like a cage of flames. Apparently, it had been a popular space for theatre and royal performances centuries ago, with a risen stone platform in its centre. Amara had heard tales that the entirety of Winvaris had been constructed around that one podium. It was a symbol of strength and longevity, crafted from the very mountain rock beneath the castle’s foundations.
Now, the room was bustling with people. They swarmed along the walls, packing into every little crook and alcove just to catch a glimpse of the action taking place.
In the centre of the platform, the Prince of Esteria parried and dodged, his sword swinging in tight, precise motions. In a heartbeat, his opponent was quickly knocked to his knees, spitting blood onto the dark grey stone. The surrounding crowd roared with cheers, clapping and stamping their feet. Amara spotted Lady Myria amongst her gaggle of preening maidens around the outside of the podium, their brightly coloured gowns and peacock feather fans stuck out like a sore thumb. They were a sea of dyed fabric and animal fur, rouge cheeks and bright lips. It was like attending a menagerie.
But as Amara entered the hall, forcing her way through the crowd until she settled against one of the eight walls, no one paid attention to the ladies with the silly fans.
Amara could sense the muttering like a flitter of gossip around her. She felt the sneers, the gawks and gasps. For, in the end, Amara hadn’t bothered to wear her best gown. Because she found her loose white tunic and brown leather slacks were much more comfortable.
Amara pretended not to notice the disapproving looks from the royals. Instead, she stared straight forward, just as another guard stepped into the ring.
He was young, built like a bulk of muscle, an arrogant grin spread across his face. He sized up Aedric, rolling back his broad shoulders as he began to circle the prince. If Aedric was worried, he didn’t let on. He flipped his sword in his hand, the large gemstones glinting as they caught the crimson light of sunrise.
Finally, the crowd stopped wondering about Amara’s fashion choices as the young guard drew his weapon. The rustle of turning bodies echoed around the room as they spun in unison, their heads craning towards the two men. Their eyes were wide and expecting. Was it possible Aedric had some worthy competition?
Within a moment, everyone had fallen silent. The people held their breath.
Then the fight began.
The clash of metal rang through the silence as their swords collided. And then the men were moving. It was a tangle of limbs and metal.
Yes, the young guard was strong. The power he thrust into ea
ch strike was enough to knock any man off his feet. But Aedric could counter that. He was fast on his feet, his steps gracing the podium as though he were dancing to music only he could hear. There one second. Gone the next.
As the young guard took his next swing, Aedric was already moving. He ducked easily past the blade and feinted left. Before the guard knew what was happening, Aedric was behind him. Amara raised a brow as she watched the prince slam his foot behind the knee of the guard. A crack echoed through the room as he landed hard against the stone, grunting in pain. But that noise was short-lived as Aedric rammed the pommel of his sword into the back of the guards head. He was out cold.
Another wave of applause filled the Octagon. Surprisingly, Amara even joined in.
Maybe the ladies were right? Maybe the prince was the best fighter in Winvaris?
Aedric ran a hand through his golden hair, chest panting, sweat glistening on his forehead. How long had he been fighting?
A couple of healers from the castle infirmary arrived to carry out the fallen guard. They rolled him onto a stretcher and quickly hurried away, the dense crowd parting to allow access towards the door.
“Who’s next?” Aedric called, eyeing the bench of slightly terrified guards.
No one stepped forward, each of them looking shamefully towards the floor, shifting awkwardly where they were sat.
It didn’t take long for people to grow bored, shaking their heads and beginning to boo. Some even turned their backs, readying themselves to leave the hall completely.
Aedric looked expectantly towards his men, but none of them registered it. Their faces had grown pallid, fingers trembling as they sat still, making no effort to move, let alone stand up and face the prince in combat.
“No one?” Aedric called.
There was silence for a while, then—
“Me,” Amara called from amongst the crowd.
Almost immediately, every person in the room had turned to her. Their jaws hung low as they stared, not knowing what to think. Frantic whispers were passed around the room. People began to edge away from her, forming a pathway towards the stone podium in the centre.