Twelve seconds.

Count them.

The First took her place exactly twelve steps after the Second. Twelve seconds between each daughter. 

Breathe. Be calm.

Twelve seconds.

The First was always the last.

Twelve heads. Count them. All in a row. Twelve steps apart. Regular as clockwork.

No complaining. 

Every step fluid and graceful. Not one hair out of place. Her veil and mask hiding her hideous face.

There was a saying in the faery court: that each of the Eldritch King’s daughters were fairer than the last.

The First was always the last.

Twelve daughters, one by one. Gliding across the obsidian floor of the Eldritch King’s Hall. 

Eyes fastened on her sister’s back. Never glancing to one side, nor the other.

Twelve sisters with heads high under the watchful stares of the faery court. 

Ignore the stinging whispers. Twelve seconds. Count them.

Ignore the crawling feeling along your neck. It’s only the court. 

Watching you. 

 Waiting. 

Waiting with sharpened teeth hidden behind carmine lips. 

Asking only one question. Whispering.

Will the challenge be answered today?

The dais waited for them. A string of twelve pearl chairs behind the king’s black throne. Displays for his treasures.

Step up onto the dais, twelve steps behind the Second. 

Stand before your chair. Face them.

Be still. Count the seconds. 

Clockwork. Tick. Tick. One. Two. Three.

The timing spring drives the gears to move the hands of the clock and the heart of the girl. 

Twelve seconds. Don’t scream. Start again. Count the seconds. 

One. Two. Three. All the way to twelve. 

The doors at the far end of the Hall flung open, admitting the faery king’s Raven guards. Wearing matching livery of black and silver, their armor polished and glistening like glass, the guards scattered courtiers and supplicants before them. Fog rolled across the floor.

Father is displeased.

He already knows.

Don’t tremble, sisters.

Metal is never afraid.

A black thundercloud rolled across the interlocked boughs of the ceiling. Faery of all sorts scrambled to hug the walls, unwilling to be one of those nearest the center aisle. 

The Hall’s doors swept open. 

The Eldritch King himself swept down the length of the Great Hall, silver lightning flashing in his eyes and thunderheads in his scowl. His golden hair had gone white with his wrath, and the cream of his antlers had turned to silver.

The Eldritch King swirled into his throne on the dais without word or glance at his daughters. 

His favorite had failed. 

The First smiled behind her porcelain mask.

Broken lips. Broken girl.

“Bring him,” the King snapped. He threw up his hand in signal.

Bring forth the condemned. 

The First fought not to laugh.

The side doors burst open, spilling out more Raven Guards in black armor like razor feathers. 

They dragged the prisoner between them, bloodshot eyes like burning coals, rage barely contained as they raked accusingly across the princesses. 

The prisoner roars out his protestations, gnashing fangs and flashing claws.

Click. Click. Click. Clockwork is cold and calm. You are nothing but clockwork. Precise and perfect. 

Twelve seconds. Count them.

This one had come close. Far too close. 

This one was sneaking. Slyly creeping. Gathering information and suspicions from the other challengers.

Cheating. 

The First had to giggle. Ah. He had so much “success.”

His burning, angry eyes fell onto the First. She lifted her chin. Let him see the smirk in her eyes. 

Glass eyes in a porcelain doll mask. 

Click. Your time is all sprung out. 

Count the seconds.

The firbolg bellowed out his frustrated rage and shook off the guards. He barged down toward the dais.

With a cold glare of his own, the Eldritch King lifted a hand.

Cold white moonlight poured down around the failed challenger. The firbolg crashed headlong into the icy beam as if it were a wall of stone. 

“One more night!” the firbolg screamed out. “One more!”

“Show him,” the faery king said.

The twelve faery princesses swept aside the hems of their gowns to reveal their feet. Only scraps of satin and silk remained of their shoes. 

A delicate black ribbon clung to the First’s ankle. The enchanted ribbon the firbolg thought to trap her with.

No. There would be no winding of the key. Not today.

Smile. Fierce as any of them. 

No one will see it. Nor hear your clockwork heart pound against your steel ribs. 

Twelve seconds.

It will take more than enchanted ribbon to betray my secrets.

“Have you an answer to my challenge?” the faery king demanded.

The firbolg could only snarl, not daring to give an honest denial.

“Answer.” The word demands a flinch.

The Second leaned forward, her sharpened teeth bared in a feral grin, anticipating blood. The Fourth shuddered and turned her head away. The Sixth screamed; silent. Open mouth and open eyes.

Death was coming.

The First held the firbolg’s burning gaze with eyes of glass.

“Your eldest leads your daughters astray!” the condemned creature screams in his desperation. Accusing fingers point. 

Point to heart of steel. Heart of glass. 

The Eldritch King groaned. “You think I am a fool? You think I do not know that my own daughter betrays me? You see what she makes me do? Your shoes have failed. And so I have no choice.” 

The Raven Guards drew their obsidian swords. The curved, black blades lifted high in a precise row. Like the exposed ribs of an ancient corpse. 

“I will have the answer!” the prisoner begs, snarling. “One more night. One more! Only one!”

They all beg in the end. The louder they brag, the louder they beg.

The Eldritch King flicked his hand.

Swords rose.

Swords fell. 

On the obsidian floor, blood is merely another black.

Count the seconds until the next fool volunteers. 

There is always another fool.