Page 49 of Vicious Is My Throne

“Have I ever told you how impossibly optimistic you are?”

“No, but optimism is the only thing that’s gotten me through some pretty crappy situations, so I’ll take looking at the world with wonder over losing myself to despair.”

“Now you’re being overly dramatic,” I told her, elbowing her in the side. We seldom had any time alone, and yet even here, in this horrid place, this girl made me smile. A small miracle.

“No.” Anaria rolled her eyes then shouted, “Dramatic is tossing fireballs and lightning at your visitors when they’ve shown no sign of aggression.”

“And are you?” I couldn’t help catching her hand, tangling my fingers with hers, that low, quiet aching building in my gut. “Planning to show any aggression?”

“Why, Lord DeVayne, you sound awfully bloodthirsty.”

“Maybe I’m tired of being everyone’s punching bag,” I shot back before I brushed my lips over the shell of her ear. “I could always transform and?—”

“No.” Anaria cut me off, squeezing my fingers tight before she shivered. “No, I’ll never forget Adele offering you up to Vireena like a sacrificial lamb. If they saw us land, they already know what you are, but let’s not give them any ideas. Any more ideas,” she corrected herself, pulling her hand from mine.

We’d reached the soaring wooden castle, which was like nothing I’d ever seen before. The structure rose above the surrounding forest, story after story of stacked roofs, fancifully carved wooden gargoyles spearing out from every steeply pitched peak.

The enormous double doors were locked tight; there was no sign of movement in the arched windows.

Then Anaria, the princess, the queen, the ex-High Priestess, cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled, “Oy. If you don’t want to starve to death, let us in so we can talk. And stop trying to kill us. You’re only wasting our time and your magic.”

The doors took forever to open, but when they did, two witches dressed in head-to-toe black stepped into the looming doorway, staying within the perimeter of the building.

Both had long black hair streaked with silver.

Both had cold, expressionless faces set with glittering eyes, the sort of eyes that had seen a multitude of horrors and enjoyed every bit of the resulting suffering.

One male, one female, magic coating their fingers. “Welcome to Mysthaven, Princess Centaria. Or is it queen, now?” the male asked harshly, dark eyes flicking between us.

I caught Anaria’s wrist. “Get behind me. They knew we were coming; this is a trap.”

“Of course it’s a trap. But I’m not hiding, Tristan.” She stepped forward. “Are you in charge here? Or do I need to ask to see your boss?”

“We ask the questions.” The male held out his hands, magic glowing bright. “This is hallowed ground and only those with black blood can set foot on this soil.”

“Oh, I bleed black.” Anaria cocked her head. “As black as you, I’d wager. But I didn’t come all this way to prove my ancestry to you. We’re looking for something kept here in Mysthaven.”

She pulled the torn page from the book out of her pocket and unfolded it.

“Bexley is going to fucking kill you,” I muttered, but she just waggled her eyebrows and held the page higher.

“We are searching for this weapon. And before you tell me it’s not here and waste our precious time, let me say this. Take a good look around you. This blight stretches north of Mount Sylvan, and to the east and west as far as you can see. In the span of five days, rot has engulfed half of Caladrius and is already creeping into Solarys.”

The two battle-hardened witches traded a look before the female smiled, the air in my lungs icing over at that jagged, poisonous grimace. “We know why you are here.” Her tone was oily. “What you want from us.”

The witch’s twisted grin didn’t faze Anaria. If anything, she matched it with one of her own. I didn’t know where Anaria had learned these cruel, wicked games played by kings and High Priestesses, but she’d learned them well.

One eyebrow swept up. “And who are you, exactly?”

“Ophelia and Gideon Darkfyre.” The male swept into a mocking bow. “Of the Vanguard Conclave. My sister foresaw your arrival weeks ago. We’ve been waiting, Princess. Watching the darkness you released swallow up Caladrius as if the night sky itself has fallen to this realm. How does it feel to know you restored this realm only to destroy it?”

For the first time since we arrived, Anaria’s composure faltered. Only for a second, and only enough that I noticed. My heart lurched at every doubt and regret that slight lapse in her expression revealed.

Anaria lifted her chin. “I did not release this blight.”

“Didn’t you?” The witch—Ophelia—raised her brow in checkmate. “Did you not kill the king and his brother? Did you not release the wild magic?” Her posture changed, her hands turning to claws, fingers flexing as she eyed Anaria’s throat. “This entire world is now teetering on the precipice, Princess, because you tipped the scales. Only when those scales are righted will this blight recede and the balance be restored.”

“You’re a seer?” I asked, closing the gap between Anaria and me. “What did you see?”

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