I’d already designed a lightweight crossbow for smaller grips like mine. The arrows weren’t actually arrows but metal shards that loaded into a spring trap with the help of a special lever. My first creation. I just needed to have it made, though I preferred to learn how to make it myself.
A thrill fizzed inside me at the thought. Eventually I hoped to craft and sell my designs, then use the profits to buy a magical ability from a witch. Another form of strength and power.
Little wonder I craved an ability of my own. Sometimes, I even imagined powerful magic already stirred deep inside me, buried too deep to access. Wishful thinking, of course. If I’d had a secret well of magic, I would have healed my heart and saved Momma.
New tears gathered, stinging. “Set. Me. Down.”
He did—at the palace door, as ordered. As soon as he hefted me to my feet, he hurried off.
I wobbled, my knees already knocking with fatigue. I looked to the ivy-covered palace behind me, then peered back at the garden, seemingly miles away. Could I make it? Would I court Father’s wrath for nothing?
I...didn’t care. If I was to become a queen of battle, I had to take the occasional risk.
Who was more worthy of a risk than my mother?
I lifted the hem of my mourning gown and lumbered forward. When I passed the garden entrance, I mewled with relief. Remaining in the shadows, I snuck through the elaborate maze of thorns and flowers. Midway... I was making good progress, breathing heavily but functioning—until my heart decided to curl into itself, sending a shaft of pain down my left arm and a spike of dizziness to my head.
I groaned and staggered about, struggling to stay on my feet. Inhale. Exhale. In, out. In, out. Just as the healers had taught me. In, out. The dizziness only worsened, consciousness wavering. My blood cooled, and my teeth chattered. Black dots wove through my vision.
Do not faint. Not here. Not now.
Inhale. I eased down and made it to my knees, then shrank into a ball.
Exhale. I would remain awake... I wouldn’t...
The darkness swallowed me in one tasty bite.
* * *
“Hello, Ashleigh.”
A familiar voice woke me, light chasing the haze of darkness from my mind. Struggling to focus, I blinked open my eyes. A figure framed by golden light stood above me.
His identity clicked as I jolted upright. “Milo.” The royal warlock’s son. The very warlock who’d come to work at the palace soon after my birth, hired by my mother to act as her—our—personal magic wielder. Or so I’d been told. Milo and his father lived at the palace, and his father had died right alongside my mother, in the same way, killed by the same assailant.
Poor Milo. How I ached for him. While he and I weren’t the best of friends, I hated knowing anyone felt as grief-stricken as I did.
More than once, I’d wondered how the killer had defeated his father. A warlock was a male witch, and a royal warlock was usually more powerful than most others. For someone to have slayed Milo’s father...what kind of power had they wielded?
Fingers snapped in front of my face. “You about to pass out again?”
“No, sorry. Just got lost in thought.” Milo was only a few years older than me, tall and lean, with golden hair, golden eyes and golden skin. Like most magic wielders, he sported metal wrist cuffs. He wore dark leather underneath gold-plated armor that I would love to examine more closely. He resembled a god of war, intimidating and kind of menacing. So, the same as always.
Most girls in the palace melted in his presence, but I’d never been drawn to him. There was something about him... Maybe it was the way he watched people, as if they possessed something that belonged to him, and he would cross any line to get it back.
An elaborate iron key hung from his neck. The same key his father used to wear. I remembered the way my mother used to stare at it, her yearning palpable. When I’d asked her why she liked it, she’d told me, I used to have one just like it, and I wish with all my being that I still did, so that I could give it to you.
My chin quivered, and I gulped. “Has your father’s funeral ended?”
He gave a single, jerky nod.
“I’m so sorry for your loss, Milo.” I’d always liked his father. Every year Momma had used secret passages to take me down to the catacombs, where the warlock stayed. At her request, he would mix a foul-smelling liquid that I had to drink while he mumbled something about a “mind barrier.” Afterward, my head had hurt for weeks, but I hadn’t minded because he’d always treated me with kindness. If a mind barrier aided me, for whatever reason, I would happily suffer.
What would happen without the barrier, now that the warlock was gone?
“Don’t be,” Milo said, and shrugged. “He was selfish. He would rather help others than his own son.”
His vehemence startled me. The warlock had not struck me as a selfish man. Wasn’t helping others a good thing?
Milo sat down a few inches away from me, as if we sat so close all the time. Not the least bit awkward at all. Not even a little. “What do you remember about the day your mother and my father died?”
He wished to discuss this now? “Why?”
“Despite our differences, he was my father. I’d like to know how he died, and since you were the only other person in the room...”
A choking sound left me. “I’m sorry, Milo, but I don’t remember anything of significance. My mother took me to your father’s chambers, as usual, and—” I paused. Milo had never been present during the drinking of the potion and the chanting of the spell. He didn’t know about it, and I shouldn’t tell him, my mother’s constant warning drilled into my head. Tell no one, my darling. Your life hangs in the balance.
Why, Momma?
The few times I’d asked, she’d only ever told me, It’s safer if you don’t know.
“Go on,” he insisted.
I licked my lips. “As we passed through the doorway, I fainted. I—I’m not sure how much time I lost before I awoke in...in...a pool of blood.” Her blood. The warlock’s, too. They’d both lain beside me.
Momma’s green gaze had been open, staring at nothing, her expression frozen in terror. A crimson-soaked dagger had protruded from the warlock’s chest, but my sweet mother had possessed wounds all over.
I sniffled. Why hadn’t I been hurt? Why hadn’t I hugged my mother that morning or told her how special she was?
“Did he look like he suffered?” Milo asked casually.
I shifted, uncomfortable. How was I supposed to answer that? The truth? Yes, he appeared to have died in agony.
In the end, Milo smiled, as if he’d gleaned the answer—and liked it. Then he stood and walked a slow circle around me, saying, “I’ve been going through my father’s things, and I’ve read some very interesting things about you, Princess Ashleigh.”