Page 27 of Wicked Prince of Shadows
I stepped down the stairs to a spot a few feet away from them, not pretending I couldn’t hear them.
"Ah, the bride arrives," the stranger said, his voice like stones grinding together. His eyes were practically silver white, the one behind the monocle barely open and seeming to have no pupil. The unsettling intensity of his gaze and discomfort of his having stitches over his eye only intensified as I drew closer, the smile not reaching his eyes. Yet still, despite his unsettling appearance, he struck me as sincere. “I see you have been hard at work.”
I approached cautiously, staying out of arm’s reach. "Have I passed your test?"
The Hollow King's jaw tightened. With a slight bow of his head, he lifted his arm to indicate the dark-robed man beside him. "This is Maltric, my chief advisor.”
“A pleasure.” The advisor tilted his head forward, his words clipped. “I did not expect the descendant of Tanith to work with such vigor. You have not left one planter untouched.”
“Because I’m not her descendant,” I said flatly.
For once, the Hollow King appeared uncomfortable, a muscle in his jaw ticking and the stitches in his face tightening. He then lifted his chin before returning his focus to Maltric. “She remains insistent on that point.
Maltric cleared his throat as fine lines formed over his broad brow. “I certainly hope for your sake that isn’t true, princess. You’re far too young to die so horribly, but you would not be the first.”
My eyebrow arched as I stared him down. “Well, don’t let the horror keep you up at night. Now, if you’ll excuse me,gentlemen, I apparently have a garden to slave away in.”
I turned without waiting for a dismissal and made my way back to the tier below, the weight of their stares clinging to my back like dust I couldn’t shake.
Fine.
Let them watch. My shoes scuffed the ashen stone, and my breath quickened. I needed space. Needed to work, to think, to figure out what the Maker-damned hells was going on with these plants.
I moved from planter to planter as I tried to make sense of what had changed overnight. Clearly something in my magic had connected, but it didn’t look anything like what it did back home. Each planter and pot had stirred in some way. But not it wasn’t in the same way.
Some planters showed small growths—a few twitching black stems or pale tendrils pressed low to the soil, reluctant and new.
Others had surged ahead.
The broadest planter near the fountain held a thick nest of curling grey leaves, mottled with white-veined patterns like frost over old stone. Another had birthed a wide cluster of ash-blossoms, petals thin as paper, stretched open toward the sky like they were starving for light. Beneath the leaves hung grey teardrop shapes.
Frowning, I touched the base of the teardrop.
This was the planter I’d cut myself on. I turned, trying to remember the others where I’d gotten cut. My attention snagged on a small black-barked tree in one of the other pots I’d cut it on.
Tight buds swelled along the twisted black branches, their matte charcoal skins veined with silver-grey, hinting at the fruit to come. Smoke-colored leaves curled protectively around each one, shivering faintly as if the tree itself was holding its breath. No trace of the blood or any stains at all.
I turned then, remembering the large square pot the deathbeak had fallen into.
A thick, shadow-veined stalk coiled up from the planter, its surface slick and mottled in shades of black and ashen grey. At the top, a bulbous bud twitched. That was odd. That bud was bigger than my head already. Two smaller ones lay on the edge of the pot, but each one was easily larger than my hand.
I walked closer, climbing the staircase until I reached the nearest level. What even was that?
“You’re Thabine?” A boy with amber eyes hopped out in front of me.
I jumped back, nearly falling over the edge. The boy was perhaps four feet tall with ash-grey skin and hair as white as bleached bones. The utter delight in his face was so sincere it almost erased my shock. “Hi…um, who are you?”
“Osric. Nice to meet you, Thabine.” He stepped closer as he looked me up and down as if he found me curious. “I’m an artist.”
“It’s—it’s Sabine.” He must have overheard the Hollow King speaking. That seemed odd though. The Hollow King didn’t really strike me as the sort of person who would enjoy having children around. This boy looked barely eight years old, but it was hard to say how fast anyone aged in this place, if at all. Hemight be seven hundred years old, and I could just be making a fool out of myself. “What are you doing out here, Osric?”
He tilted his head at an exaggerated angle, his brow furrowing. Then he pointed at the strange buds behind me. “Can we eat these when they finish growing if they're fruit? We never get fruit anymore.”
“Maybe. I don’t know. These aren’t like any plants in my home.” I folded my arms as I studied him.
He wrinkled his nose as he sized up the plant, then looked back at me. “You must be hungry though. You didn’t come to dinner last night, and you didn’t eat breakfast.”
I raised an eyebrow at him. “And how do you know I didn’t eat breakfast?” Dinner was also a big question, but maybe there were other people who were supposed to be there and noticed.
