Content Warning: Mild Horror Elements

If the guards of Hampstead Hall were surprised at seeing their guests of honor on the wrong side of the gates, they didn’t show it, letting Rhea and Leandros wordlessly through when they arrived. The two alfar passed into a wide courtyard, empty and echoing, and took a moment to brush the dust from their clothes. Leandros’ trousers had mostly dried, at least, though they’d dried stiff and crunchy.

Around them, the unique silver brick of Hampstead’s walls caught in the sunslight, making the place feel like a glittering mosaic. The courtyard was empty as they passed through, but now and then Leandros glimpsed servants scurrying along the upper corridors, disappearing and reappearing between ivy-covered columns and glancing over the edge to glimpse the princess and her infamous cousin. Leandros ignored them, more than used to being a subject of curiosity.

He and Rhea climbed the stairs up to the reception hall, its gilded doors held open for them by Illyon guards. Rhea swept inside first, treating her arrival like a gift to everyone waiting within. Before he followed, Leandros wiped his smile from his face. In Illyon, as in all the Alfheimr province, expression was a weakness that would be used against him.

The reception hall was a round room at the top of Hampstead’s tallest tower, flooded in light and circled on all sides by arched windows. The suns outside blinded Leandros, but not as much as the nobles inside, their sparkling fabrics and bright jewelry refracting sunslight along the domed ceiling. Spaced evenly throughout, they circled a man at the room’s center, planets circling a golden-bright sun. Nobles and lords and politicians, circling the King of Alfheimr.

Amos Nochdvor turned when Rhea and Leandros swept in. He didn’t smile — here, that would be boorish — but his eyebrows lifted slightly. It was a good sign. “There you are,” he said.

Rhea bowed and Leandros followed suit. When she straightened again, Rhea said, “Apologies, father. I asked Leandros to show me the city.”

Amos turned his attention to Leandros, his sharp blue eyes pinning Leandros in place. Leandros had the same eyes, as had his father before him. At the mention of Leandros’ name, a ripple of whispers and scorn passed through the room, more than a few nobles tilting their heads to look down their noses at him. “You couldn’t have chosen a better time for your tour?” Amos asked.

Leandros bowed again. “The fault is mine.”

“It’s a beautiful day and you’re both young. I suppose I cannot blame you,” Amos said, looking out the windows. When he again met Leandros’ gaze, the ice in his gaze had thawed. “Though we'll discuss your leaving without an escort later.”

With that, he returned to the conversation they’d interrupted while Rhea tugged Leandros toward the windows, out of the way. He could feel eyes on him, so he turned to lean out the open window, his back to the room. Alfheimr prized stoicism: hide how you feel. Don’t say what you mean. Be private, be discrete, and give your enemies nothing. Leandros had a history of breaking these rules — he’d traveled too often and too far in his youth. He’d been given too much independence and lost what made him alfar. It was Egil, they said, and all the adventures he’d had with the earnestly human hero. They loved Egil in theory and held disdain for him in private, and everything Leandros had done in Egil’s name made him something of an oddity.

When Leandros gave them nothing worth gossiping about, they returned their attention to the glittering king. Leandros and Rhea hadn’t missed much. Alfar meetings always started with circling small talk, court gossip, and pleasantries, moving slowly like new partners at the start of a dance. Leandros had no use for small talk or gossip, so he admired the view. All of Illyon sprawled below him like a map, from the plumes of factory smoke curling in the distance to the flat rooftops of Hampstead Hall just beneath him. Further out, little more than a spot on the horizon, sat the independent city-state of Orean. Orean fit between jagged mountains, past the Alfheimr province’s borders and Unity’s grasp. It was a kinder city than Illyon and Leandros dreamed of returning there someday. Maybe if a day came when Amos could no longer defend him.

Someone knocked at the doors, and the captain of Hampstead’s guard entered and kneeled before the king. “A messenger from Orean has come to speak with His Majesty,” he said.

Leandros wouldn’t have thought it possible, but the nobles reacted even more disdainfully to the mention of Orean than they had to his name. Normally, Orean was the subject of empty grumbling, like bad weather or a horse losing at the tracks. Back home, they’d been hearing about rising tensions, disputes over resources and pollution, heated exchanges, but Leandros hadn’t taken them seriously. There were always rumors. The rumors were normal. But given how quickly the energy in the room had soured, Leandros started to wonder if this time they might be true.

“Were you expecting anyone?” Amos asked the woman beside him — Illyon’s governor, Leandros remembered from the earlier introductions. “Ah, no matter. We’ll hear them out.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” the captain said. He turned to leave, then hesitated. “If you don’t mind my saying, His Majesty should be careful. There’s something off about this woman...something unnatural.”

“What do you mean?” Amos asked.

Rhea and Leandros shared a look. Rhea shook her head, but Leandros was already stepping forward. “Your Majesty, if I may. Did she have a black cloak and red hair, Captain?”

Eyebrows raised, the captain nodded, and Leandros felt his stomach drop. The dread from before returned. “I believe Princess Rheamaren and I ran into the same orinian on our way here.”

Amos looked to Rhea, but Rhea again shook her head. “I didn’t see her face. Only Leandros did.”

“Explain,” Amos ordered.

Leandros bowed. “Yes, Your Majesty. I only saw her for a moment, but she seemed wounded, her face full of cuts from no weapon I’ve ever seen. Before I could speak with her, she ran. I don’t think she meant harm — at least, she bore no weapon, but Captain Nielson is right. There's something strange about her. I think you should invite her up.”

“You would give your King orders?” the Governor asked.

Amos silenced her with a look. “I trust my nephew’s judgment,” he said. He turned again to Captain Nielson, the flowing silks of his coats slithering across the cold marble. “And I won’t turn away a missive from Orean. Send her up.”

Nielson hadn't been gone long before the doors opened again.

The smell hit first, like rancid meat and spoiled perfume, then out of the shadows stepped Leandros' cloaked stranger. Shadows spread from her like magic, reaching along the walls and floor like grasping claws, snuffing out the dancing lights caused by all the glitter and gold. Since their meeting in the marketplace, the woman had unbuttoned her cloak and lowered her mask; Leandros could now see Orean's insignia beneath, etched onto leather armor so old it belonged in a textbook.

She stepped forward with a jerky sway, like a puppet guided by an inexperienced puppeteer. Only then did she lower her hood.

It was worse than Leandros remembered. Her skin was gray, almost translucent, and framed by long curls as red as blood. Like all orinians, she had long, calf-like ears and a tail that swished beneath her cloak. The wounds Leandros saw before stretched across her skin in a mockery of orinians’ pale birthmarks, and where muscle and bone should have been visible beneath instead flowed a strange liquid, orange and sluggish like magma. It pulsed beneath her skin with every beat of her heart and her eyes, alight with the same glow, fixed unblinkingly on the King.

Leandros felt ill just looking at her. Near him, one of Illyon’s nobles fainted in a heap of heavy skirts, her friends too entranced by their flyblown visitor to catch her. Just as before, when faced with everyone’s horror, the woman only smiled. At least, Leandros thought it was supposed to be a smile — only half her face cooperated, the other cut through by wicked gashes.

Beyond her appearance, beyond her smile, beyond even the smell of death that clung to her like perfume, something about her unsettled Leandros. Something bigger, something behind her eyes, a presence looking out. It felt like wandering alone through haunted ruins, like he was something very small facing something very large. It hid in the swirl of that strange glow on her skin, and it had Leandros' hand going to the revolver he wore at his hip. He needed to get Amos away from her, and Amos seemed to have the same realization. “Guards!” he shouted, the calm king’s voice breaking on the word. “Guards!”

There was no answer from the hallway beyond, only fingers of blood flowing through the open doors. When the orinian woman took a step toward the King, the governor bravely moved to block her way.

“Don’t!” Leandros warned, but too late. The orinian caught the governor by the throat, her graying fingers swollen, and lifted her off the ground like she weighed nothing.

“Release her,” the king commanded. “Release her and tell us what you want.”

The orinian tilted her head to one side, considering the command, then let the Governor drop. “Very well,” she said, her voice unexpectedly sweet. Her accent felt as old as her clothing, as old as the strange presence behind her eyes that wore her like a shell. Beneath the cruor, she was tragically beautiful. “I want you. Will you come with me?”

Leandros drew his gun and aimed it at the woman. “Don’t move any closer,” he warned. “He's not going anywhere.”

The woman only glanced at Leandros, seemingly ready to dismiss him, but then her gaze snapped back to his face. She blinked, almost seeming surprised. “You again,” she observed. “I’m sorry, but I will have him.”

When she took another step, Leandros fired.

The shot echoed through the room. The bullet struck its target, tearing into the woman’s shoulder. But while she stumbled, lost her stride, she didn’t so much as glance at the wound before pressing forward again. So again, Leandros shot. Again, she barely even slowed. It was impossible. Inhuman. Leandros shot her again and again and again, shot until his gun ran out of bullets and the orinian reached her target. When she reached the king, she pressed a single finger to his chest.

Leandros watched his uncle shudder and crumple like a broken doll.

Beside him, Rhea screamed and surged forward, but Leandros caught her by the wrist. Others rushed to Amos’ aid while Rhea struggled to break Leandros’ grip. Before anyone could reach the king, the orinian swept her arm through the air and something erupted from her palm — something like lightning and something like fire, something glowing with the same crimson as the magma beneath her skin. It hung in a ring around herself and the fallen king, keeping everyone back. It cracked and sputtered and grew brighter, stronger, hotter while she hoisted Amos off the ground and threw him over her shoulder. It sparked and flared, singeing any who stood close enough.

Despite Rhea’s struggling, Leandros only dragged her further back, stopping when the backs of his thighs hit the windowsill. He tore his eyes from his uncle’s limp form to watch the flames: they were losing their shape, flaring out further with each pop and sputter. When he risked a glance at the orinian again, what he saw turned his blood cold. Her eyes had changed, shadow eclipsing pupil, iris, and sclera and leaving her eyes entirely black. Leandros was frozen in place. He'd seen eyes like those before, pure blackeyes, just once. He'd seen them on the face of his best friend, on the day that Egil died.

Then, before he could do anything to stop her, the woman disappeared into thin air, taking the king with her. Rhea sobbed and struggled harder against Leandros, but even though the orinian was gone, her flames were not. Molten sparks flew at them every few seconds, and Leandros could feel their heat even from the far wall. While the others only stared, he made a decision. He turned, caught Rhea by the waist, and launched them both out the open window.

Rhea screamed as they fell, but a final, deafening pop from the tower drowned her out. An explosion followed, one that shook the earth and blew out every window in the high tower, and the alfar fell amidst a shower of glass and flame.

They hit the flat rooftop a few fleeting seconds later, searing pain shooting up Leandros’ shoulder at his awkward landing. He gasped but pushed himself up anyway, holding himself over Rhea to protect her from the falling glass. He felt it hitting his back and arms, cutting and slicing even as the smaller bits dug into his palms. Only then it stopped, after what felt like ages, did he collapse again beside his cousin, out of breath.

He had a perfect view of the charred window above him, its bricks no longer sparkling. Then Rhea entered Leandros’ field of vision, tears streaking down her cheeks. “Leandros,” she said, voice hoarse. “She has my father. What do we do?”

Leandros shook his head. Past the ringing in his ears, he could hear shouting below, fire bells ringing in the distance. When he closed his eyes, he saw black eyes staring back. It took him a moment to process Rhea's words. His answer, when it came, was simple: “We get him back.”