Dedicated to 0valeyes for his support on this book so far

In the dark, in the late night, I shift on the cushioned mattress. This is softer than anything I've ever slept on before. I roll onto my side, curling the heavy blanket around me. Drowsiness fuzzies my thoughts. I have almost everything I need for ending the shamans, but more and more, this soft life of no effort other than social calls tugs at me. I used to think the Morineause were useless for being so pampered, but now, I don't see how anyone could give it up.

I want this.

My arm slides under my head, and I drift off, warm and so far away from all the hardship and hate. The comfort claims me, dragging me into slumber.

Sleep tightens its dark fingers around me, and the dreams descend. I'm lying on the ground, a couple ratty blankets pulled around me, my bag under my head. I positioned a rock under my side when I lay down so I wouldn't fall asleep. It digs into my side as two shamans whisper in a doorway to the otherwise locked courtyard. The lord of the house trembled when the shamans asked for hospitality, then sent off his family as soon as we were settled. We have the place nearly to ourselves.

"Do you really think she'll go along with it?" one asks, "Being among our enemies, unsupervised?"

"No need to worry," the other responds. "Alaar and I will make sure of it."

The first shaman leaves, and an unearthly, bone-chilling cold walks through me. I shudder, still feigning sleep, but I feel like I'm choking on my heart. I'm tired of him hurting me without Alaar here to tell him that I'm not his property. I'm tired of them both, plunging their shades' hands into my mind and swirling the fingers around until I'm drooling with pain and begging him, promising him I'll do whatever he wants if he just stops hurting me.

The unnatural cold slips through my skin again, and I can't take it anymore. I vault to my feet, scooping up my bag. He still stands in the doorway, but it's now or never if I'm going to escape because the moment he locks the door is the moment my fate is sealed. I run straight at him.

"Stop!" he commands, but I don't, and he pulls his dagger. They've hurt me before; he'll hurt me again, and I know it. He's not afraid to make me bleed.

I don't slow down, though. Instead, as I reach him, I jump, curling my legs into myself, blocking my body from his blade. It slices along my shin, and when I try to land, my leg buckles, sending me rolling. Desperate, I scramble to my feet, and then I'm running and running, and he's behind me; I can hear him, but I'm still running. Unreasonable pain and waves of uncontrollable fear wash over me, but I bite my lip and rush through the halls anyway. The feelings disappear and reappear as I dodge out of his shade's grasp, and I burst out into the open air. My leg burns, but I dart to the warlord's gate.

The dream twists with fear, and I struggle to lift the crosspiece. I push up and up, but what should be enough force isn't, because it's too heavy, and then, impossibly, Alaar stands over me.

"You won't try this again." He raises the dagger and plunges it—

I sit up in bed, gasping. It's so dark, but I'm awake. I'm awake. I check my throat, chest, stomach. He didn't stab me; he didn't kill me. Alaar wasn't even there. That's not how it went.

My fingers inch down to my leg and trace the injury. It's mostly healed now, just scab and scar.

"I got out," I say out loud, as if that somehow solidifies it. "I got out, and I ran into the woods and hid. I started the pearl so I could escape. I put on my leggings so people wouldn't see the cut and ask questions. I went through the pearl's portal into the Kitten." I found out I had teleported to the shades-be-cursed town the shamans were bringing me to anyway. But just like they won't look for me here, they didn't think to look for me there—where they wanted me to be. And then I severed Alaar's life from his body, relishing the pain and fear in his eyes. I'm not his pet anymore.

I stand up, letting my fingers trace the walls of the room as I walk. After a few paces, a small crystal set into the stone illuminates when I touch it. I continue, lighting a glow crystal every six or seven steps. When I've made the whole track, the room glows with a soft, white light. I have no idea what time it is. In an inner room like this, I can't see the sky. I shiver.

I leave the lights on and poke my head into the corridor. No indication of time here except a pretty silver stand with three glass vials, each partially filled with white sand. Every second, a few grains float from the bottom to the top of the far vial. Entranced, I watch until all the sand is at the top of it. When the grains settle, some of the sand in the middle vial floats down to its bottom. It's beautiful, but completely useless for me.

I close the door and perform the spell to remake the dress. When I get done, tired, I repeat the other steps for getting ready, this time remembering to pull my hair up into some semblance of an updo. That's what the two courtiers I ran across yesterday had done with their hair.

I wish I had shoes, but I'm not sure how to fashion the platform behemoths the courtiers wear. I'll just have to make sure no one sees my feet. I also wish I were taller, but one benefit of these high-waisted, long skirts is that they start to give the illusion of height.

"You're still average at best," the voices laugh.

I frown and stride into the hall, heading for the nearest windows. They face away from the gate, but this view isn't much more appealing. In the early morning light, a wide pile of branches and smaller sticks takes up the middle of the ground, and the enormous blaze isn't enough to hide what else is on it.

Dozens of dead soldiers. Disgust twists my lips, and I turn away. Northerners only burn the most disgraceful of the dead. Anyone respectable earns themselves a stone marker and a return to the earth. If you're lucky, you get a whole cairn. That's what I hope for. They say the closer you are to the earth's stone, the easier it is for your soul to escape Antium after it goes. Shades know I don't want to be one of those cursed souls the shamans use.

I snort, turning away from the window. "'Shades know.'"

As I head toward the center of the castle, I practice waking with a delicate sway. Head high, a faint smile at my lips like I know a secret no one else does. That sort of fragile condescension is exactly what I always pictured on the Morineause, and I was almost surprised to see it justified by the women I met yesterday.

I pass a girl wearing a plain blue dress whose skirt seam rests squarely on her hips. A grey outer-skirt ties around her waist and only covers the front of her dress. Her head ducks when she sees me.

I turn toward her as she moves behind me. "Girl?" The authority in my voice thrills me. Never again will I have to grovel.

She stops and turns toward me. "Yes, milady?"

"Take me to a drawing room." I wish I had a more specific destination to give her, but I'm sure she can come up with something.

She hesitates, glancing at the tray in her hand, and my lips twist.

"All I need are directions," I say, voice softer.

She nods, looking relieved, and gives them before continuing on her way. I go, reveling. She bought the disguise. Turns out clothing really does a lady make.

The door to the drawing room is open, and success shoots through me as I glimpse a small group of Ladies sharing tea and mingling. I sway in, approaching the conversation of two similar brunettes and a slightly older blonde.

"So you're from Eleví, then?" the blonde asks the other two. I'm not sure where that is. I think it's one of the cities here in Morineaux, but it could just as easily be one of the Draón-in-name-only lordships that border the country. I settle on the couch. Its cushions give away like baby bird's feathers, and a servant comes forward to pour me tea. The women of this room are these people's taskmaster, and I am counted among the lofty. I smile at the girl, accepting the cup.

One of the brunettes nods, lips pursed. "Our mother sent us here to learn music under Mistress Evelle."

The other cuts in. "We hated to come inland—we've never been somewhere we couldn't smell the ocean before—but Mother insisted it was for the better."

The first speaks again. "We got here right as they were pulling everyone to the castle."

"It was terrifying! I swear that first night we could hear the screams from the Third District."

Her pity-me tone paired with those words twists my gut. "What?"

Their eyes snap to me, seemingly surprised I spoke. Haltingly, the girl says, "We heard the screams from the Third District. Where the Kadranians broke through first?" She looks at me, uncertain, "Did you not hear it yourself?"

"I—ah." I flounder for a moment with all their eyes on me. "I've been tucked away in the Inner Ring rooms for a couple months. I hadn't been well, so I'm only just now coming back into society."

The blonde frowns. "You poor dear." In the corner of my eye, a couple more Ladies filter into the room.

I pull on a grateful smile, but say, "So you mean—" The horror of the idea steals the words for a moment. I gather myself. "You mean they didn't pull the people from the Third District into the castle?"

The girls face me blankly. Then, the first one says, "Well, no... I mean, they can't get all of those people in here."

"Yeah," the other adds. "Think about it. There's barely room for everyone that is in here. They were scrounging for rooms when they placed us." She shrugs one shoulder. "Or, at least, I assume so." She cocks her head at me, gesturing. "Besides, does it look like the slums suddenly took residence in the castle?" The first girl covers her mouth as she laughs softly.

Anger rolls within me, a carefully controlled storm. How dare they act as if they're entitled to this protection. Why should not being able to afford to live deeper in the city buy those people the right to die in war?

I stand. "I'm not sure." My lip curls in a sickly sweet smile, and I swish away, seething.

The Kadranians might have killed those people, but the Morineause didn't care enough to save them either. They're all just selfish weeds in this world, crowding out the flowers, covered up by the winter snow, and rotting in the shadows. The halls pass in a blur, the voices whispering hatred in my ears. The world wasn't made for beauty.

It was made for death.

I push into a courtyard. Sharp eyes take it in. Walls only surround three of the sides. The fourth is hemmed in by a fence that overlooks the first floor courtyard. Looking up, one of the walls around me ends in its own fence, and tree branches extend over it. Above the door I entered through, a beautiful, twisting tower reaches for the sky, extending from the third floor.

Stone figures surround this courtyard, all of which stand arrogant and poised in their elaborate dresses. These must be their precious, dead queens. Gorgeously carved and pointless. I drift between them, fingers brushing the stonework.

In the crisp early-winter air, the grass lies shrivelled and tan, broken into sections by cobblestone paths. A few trees dot the barren ground. In the summer, it must be full of lush grass and flowers, but now the only color comes from one corner of the courtyard, where the trees gather more thickly. On their branches hang alternating gauzy and thick fabrics swaying faintly in the wind. The vibrancy of their colors gives death false cheer.

Birds find their perch among the trees, occasionally flitting from one branch to another, singing their mourning dirges of winter. A maid crosses from one end of the yard to the other, and I stop her. "Is there birdseed you could bring me? Or bread perhaps?"

She curtsies, but not before I see her frown. "Yes, milady."

I wander beneath the boughs, fingers trailing the bark as I go. The grass crunches underfoot. My meandering leads me toward the thicker growth in the corner. The sound of running water tickles my ears, but when I weave through the fabrics, I come upon a waist-high fence. Here, the draperies part and reveal a glimpse of water. There, they twist in the breeze, and a flash of what looks like it may be a person greets me.

Curious, but not wanting to miss the maid when she returns, I retreat back to open air. She brings me the seed, and as she leaves, I scatter it, luring a few birds to the ground. Slowly, I ease the trail closer and closer to myself and then settle on the grass, skirts spreading around me. My sister and I used to do this in our mother's garden, crumbs from breakfast in our hands. They always hopped closer to her than to me, but I've had a lot of practice in the years since her death.

The birds venture nearer, especially one brave soul. I scatter a little seed in the lap of my dress. Breath pent, I wait as he hops slowly nearer, nearer. Finally, he flutters onto my knee. One hand, I keep steady, letting him pick the food carefully from my palm. The other hand creeps toward his leg and gently takes hold. The bird shuffles its feathers but otherwise remains calm. Spilling the remaining seed out of my hand, I slowly pull the silverglass from the fold of my dress.

My shard slices through its claw.