Page 42 of Wicked Prince of Shadows
“Given what you believe, you’re a reckless woman.”
“Only when it comes to things that don’t involve heights or the ocean.” I fished out a few pomegranate gems and offered them to him. “And to be clear, I’m not saying I'll sacrifice myself. I’m offering to help you find another solution, and I have an idea for how to determine if perhaps my being made a royal first will fix this.”
He took it and placed it on his tongue, watching me. “I’m listening.”
“Doctor Rasoul was made a royal before he came here. He said he was a commoner at first. If something in the blood changes when you become a royal, wouldn’t that show up in his blood and then appear in whatever plant he bled over?”
He tapped his finger on the back of his hand. “We will need to get a plant from one of the other gardens. One that you haven’t touched. Preferably one with seeds that will bear white flowers or white fruit if there is common blood. It will be easier to see.”
“Whatever you think would be best.” I turned the pomegranate over in my hand, then looked back at him. “Why did you pick a pomegranate then if they grow black here?”
“Pomegranates are typically shared at weddings between the bride and groom. It seemed…fitting.” He stood, towering over me once more. For a moment, he looked down at the scars on his arm and the fresh stitches. “I was ready to kill you and not shed a tear. Now…I find myself hopeful you survive.”
I shrugged at him, finding myself smiling and shifting my weight back. “Don’t get too attached. I’ll still find ways to antagonize you. Now. I don’t suppose you have a place where this curse is written down or something? I’d like to be able to look at it and see if I can understand anything else about it.”
“The tablets you reached when the chitter hounds attacked contain the original inscriptions, but we have copies here.” His gaze fell across the scattered pages and volumes. “Somewhere.”
I glanced around at the chaos he'd created. Finding anything specific in this mess could take a while. "Well, that's going to be fun to find." I set the pomegranate down carefully on the small table beside the medical supplies. "But we have time, don't we? A few more days?" How long had I been here? It felt as if it had been forever.
“Three. Three before the Witheringlands end.” He strode over to the mass of papers and parchment, rifling through them with his clawed fingers. “And Doctor Rasoul’s blood may take longer to reveal itself than yours because he doesn’t possess magic that makes plants grow unless he has been hiding quite a lot.”
The tightness in my chest choked my breath. Nothing like the threat of too little time. “What am I looking for then?” I crouched beside him.
“I usually kept it out. Somewhere in the papers. It’s not just writing.” He looked up at the moon, then swore. “If it tore, it might not be there…”
“What do you mean if it tore?” I glanced up at the blood moon as well. It was almost at its zenith for the night. It felt like I was missing something.
He grunted as he rifled through more papers. “Things…heal in this place. If you can call it healing. But the magic takes something every time this happens, and it happens at midnight each night. The more something is damaged, the more it loses. Our walls were once covered with colorful murals and tiles. The gardens overflowed with flowers and herbs of all types. Every time the behemoth or anything else attacks that destroys sections of the palace, the walls and architecture and furniture are restored but with less of what made them what they were. The magic of the Witheringlands works with ours to restore the palace and provides enough to meet our needs. Barelysometimes. More generously in others. But it always takes color and vibrance."
His tone grew more plaintive as he spoke. "The Hall of Memorials once held portraits of those who served, and now there remains nothing but blank canvases. The charcoal sketches and ink drawings have longer in comparison, but when they are destroyed and reformed, they too lose their depth and nuance. Color fades no matter what, but even the distinguishing features are erased into…nothingness. Torn pages may not be restored with all their text. Broken tablets may not have all of their marks. It erases what separates us and drains us of our lives until some things turn simply to dust and ash.”
An uncomfortable sensation twisted within my stomach.
He continued sifting through pages, setting some aside and stacking others in front of him. “It’s been crushing for all those with artistic magic like Osric. There was a time when we tried to best it by working in more textures and layers. Carvings and embellishments provided some sort of connection. But those started to be erased as well. The paintings I mentioned before…some frames soon became no more than blocks. Each time something is destroyed, its restoration is flatter and duller.”
A shiver swept down my spine as I tried to imagine the palace not stripped of its beauty and individuality. All I saw in my mind were blank canvases, dull stone, empty walls. A kingdom bled of its life.
“Like it’s being hollowed out,” I murmured. I curled my fingers into the folds of my skirt, knuckles lightening as I held back what I wanted to say.
His head lifted sharply, eyes flashing. The intensity of his stare pinned me where I crouched, heat rising beneath my skin. “Exactly that.” His voice was low, roughened.
He leaned closer, his shadow spilling over me, his claws rasping faintly against parchment as he sifted through anotherstack. The scent of smoke and pomegranate clung to him, sharp and heady in the close air.
My lashes lowered, my gaze dragging to his mouth before I snapped it away. He was handsome in a sharp way.
It was hard not to wonder how he might have looked when he wasn’t cursed and hollowed. Perhaps in those days he also had claws and smoky skeletal wings. Perhaps his eyes were a different shade, a deeper, richer amber. I could imagine him dressed in vibrant colors instead of somber darkness. His hair might have been a different shade too—perhaps a rich brown or deep auburn instead of the stark black it was now.
His smile would have likely been less barbed, his manner more unguarded. Still casually arrogant most likely but the kind of person easily moved by another’s weeping plight.
I realized I was staring just as he looked up at me. His gaze locked on mine—still and unreadable, but something had shifted. The usual bite wasn’t there.
No mocking smile.
No cruel flicker.
Just a long, quiet look that made my pulse stutter.
Heat crept up my neck. “H-how have you managed to survive so long? Without losing your mind, I mean.”
