Page 90 of Raisa's Cursed Ravens
They watch me enter, bloodied and wild-eyed, but make no move to stop me. Instead, they step aside without a word.
The silence follows me as my feet pound the flagstones, hurtling through the abandoned corridors.
Every hallway is a memory…the place I hid from tutors, the window where I’d stand for hours, staring at the forest beyond the walls. The castle is alive with ghosts, but I’m not afraid of them anymore.
I expect a sea of guards. I expect an ambush.
But the halls are mostly empty.
The few guards I come across don’t try to stop me. They don’t even blink as I pass.
It’s as if he wants me to come to him.
The closer I get to the throne room, the harder my heart pounds. Magic crawls over my skin, desperate for release. I let it build, let it fill me until I’m buzzing.
I pass a row of windows. Outside, the courtyard is chaos, a battlefield of bodies and frost and men I love, fighting and bleeding and refusing to fall. I see Sable climb the wall of a stable, launching himself onto a guard’s back. I see Talon and Bran holding the gate, side by side, a perfect engine of violence. I see Shade, battered and grinning as he murders and maims. I see Grim, alive and furious, and the promise of vengeance in his eyes burning brighter than any sun.
I run harder.
The throne room doors are huge, ancient oak banded with black iron. They’re closed, but not barred. Not even locked.
I stop in front of them, panting, my heart jackhammering against my ribs.
This is it.
Eighteen years of lies. Eighteen years of chains, of curses, of secrets and shame.
I square my shoulders and ball my fists, letting the magic crackle and spark.
I take a deep breath, the last I’ll ever take as my father’s creation.
And then I push the doors open and step inside.
17
The Dark Throne
Raisa
The throne room iseven colder than I remember, as if all the warmth in this place was sucked out long ago. The only thing that’s left is the frigid chill of death. It’s fitting, I suppose, given how much destruction my father has ushered into existence from this very room.
There are guards everywhere—along the balcony, flanking the dais, lining the steps in perfect military rows. Each one holds aspear or sword at the ready. If any of them recognize me as the princess they once helped cage, they don’t show it.
They eye me nervously, like I’m a dangerous wild animal.
They don’t know how right they are.
My boots click as I step forward, my eyes locked on the man at the end of the room, lounging on his throne like he didn’t orchestrate the massacre happening in the courtyard outside. He’s supposed to be my father, but he feels more like the architect of every nightmare I’ve ever had.
His hair is a cold sheet of gray, pulled back from a face cut from winter stone. There’s no warmth there, no kindness, either.
I march toward him, not stopping, not even when the guards nearest me shift, ready to cut me down at the first sign of trouble. I could be walking to my own execution, and maybe I am, but I refuse to break pace or cower. I did that for long enough, letting this man lock me away for reasons I still don’t fully understand. I’ll die before I do it again now.
I stop ten paces from the throne and drop into a formal bow. It’s not a deep one, not the kind he’d want, but enough to show that I remember the rules even as I plan to break them.
The silence between us stretches, so taut I want to scream just to shatter it.
Finally, he speaks. “Princess. You return from the wild, and all you bring me is a flock of feral traitors.”
