18. Sapphire

Sapphire

The throne room is as grand as I remember. Its towering ice walls shimmer with magic, and massive chandeliers hang from the ceiling, their jagged edges dripping with frozen crystals, reflecting light in a way that makes everything seem both beautiful and dangerous.

Sort of like Riven—and all the other winter fae gathered in the room. Beautiful, cold, and dangerous.

Zoey’s quiet next to me, but I can feel the tension radiating from her. The tremble in her hands, and the sharp breaths she’s trying to keep steady. I’m sure I look the same.

Before us, the throne looms, carved entirely from ice. Its edges are sharp and cruel, mirroring the wild, feral look in the king’s silver eyes, and I know that one wrong move could mean death.

Riven’s next to him. He’s different than his father— stiff and controlled, any trace of emotions wiped from his face.

At least when I was in his room last night, he looked devious. Demanding. Teasing. Maybe even passionate.

This robotic version of him somehow makes me more uncomfortable than I felt after our kiss.

He’s wearing the jacket he gave me. He took it back when he fetched Zoey and me from the tower a bit ago. And, of course, Ghost is by his side.

Out of everyone in the room, the snow leopard is the only one looking at me kindly.

The king’s gaze flicks between me and Zoey, and I fight the urge to shrink back. But I don’t. I will not let this man scare me.

At least, I won’t let him think he’s scaring me. Because anyone in their right mind would be scared of him.

He rises from his throne, his white fur cloak brushing the floor as he paces like a mad scientist coming up with a wild scheme. It’s like he’s completely unaware of anything other than his thoughts.

A few of the fae nobles shift uncomfortably. They won’t look at Zoey or me, but they won’t look at the king, either.

“I think I’ll make a spectacle of your death,” the king starts, continuing his pacing. “A public execution. A show for the court.”

Zoey sucks in a breath beside me, but she doesn’t speak. We both know better than to provoke the king right now.

Riven also remains silent. As does everyone else in the room.

The king’s pacing quickens, his fingers twitching, as if already imagining the ways he’ll carry out our execution.

“A show…” His voice trails off, distant, like he’s not even talking to us anymore. “I can see it now. But you know what would be even more fun? For both of you to see it, too. A demonstration. So you’ll know what’s coming.”

Slowly, he draws the long, curved blade from his weapons belt.

I’m frozen, my blood like ice through my veins.

“First,” he begins, soft and menacing. “I’ll sever your tendons. Slowly. One by one. Starting with the legs, of course.”

He lunges at one of the knights standing in the row next to his throne, his sword moving with lethal precision as he slices the blade cleanly through the fae’s knee.

A woman’s scream echoes through the chamber as the man’s blood spills across the icy floor, a stark red against the glistening white. He looks to her, and from the pain splattered across his face, I can tell she’s someone he loves .

Two of the other knights flinch, but they make no moves against their king.

Riven’s face is a mask of calm.

I’m shaking almost as much as the man on the floor. My breaths come quickly, and a breeze stirs around us, as though someone turned the air conditioner onto full blast. And on top of it all, my stomach growls, as if now’s the best time to remind me about how famished I am after all those days in the tower. How every bone in my body feels hollow.

Murmurs echo amongst the fae, and I try to steady my breathing, along with the pounding of my heart and the cries of my empty stomach.

I don’t want the king to sense my fear.

The room becomes still once again—minus the woman’s quiet sobs as she cries in the arms of the person next to her.

The king simply smiles at her, excitement dancing in his cruel eyes. “Before you can heal, I’ll move on to your arms,” he continues. “I’ll make sure you feel each snap as your body betrays you.”

His sword flashes again, striking the fallen fae’s arm with brutal precision.

The crack of breaking bone echoes through the throne room. And even though the man’s arm hangs limply at his side, blood pooling beneath him, he suppresses any cries of pain .

Zoey’s breath catches. Her face is pale, her eyes wide, and I know she’s struggling to hold herself together just like I am.

The woman who’s crying turns her head away.

I want to scream, to run, to do anything but stand here and watch this madness unfold. As it is, I can’t tear my eyes away. All I can do is grab Zoey’s hand to stop my body from going completely numb with fear, and from collapsing because of all the exhaustion and hunger from the past few days.

The man writhes on the ground, clutching his arm, his face twisted in agony.

“Do you see now?” The king circles the fallen fae like a predator, his sword dripping with blood, his eyes gleaming with twisted satisfaction. “This is what awaits you, Summer Fae and human companion. This is what I do to trespassers who threaten my land.”

I glance to Riven, as if he’ll do something to help us.

He’s as frozen as the icy walls.

“We didn’t threaten anything,” I say, even though anything I say might cause the king to attack.

It seems like he’s going to attack anyway, so I’m not sure I have much to lose.

“Quiet.” He glares at me over his raised sword, frost crawling over the blade. “Or you might miss your show.”

I swallow .

This man is crazy. Totally, batshit crazy.

Unsure what to do, I glance at Riven again.

He’s looking at me.

And, is it just me, or does he seem… concerned?

His eyes move from mine before I have time to properly analyze. Still, hope flutters through my chest at the possibility that he might help. Because despite everything, he made sure the king didn’t kill us the first time we were presented to him in this room. He got us out of the tower. He brought me home that first night.

Maybe he has a plan.

One that won’t involve Zoey and I bleeding out onto the floor for the entire Winter Court to see.

As it is now, the room’s so quiet that all I can hear are the crystals in the chandelier clinking against each other, and the movements of the fae knight as his body mends itself back together.

The king’s focus returns to his man on the ground, who’s starting to push himself up.

“Stay down,” he snaps, and he slices the man’s other knee, stopping him from standing. “Now, where were we?”

The knight’s blood spreads out like a dark halo around him, and the king’s smile deepens, relishing in the torment.

“Ah, yes.” The king runs a finger along the sharp end of his blade, cutting it and watching hungrily as his blood drips down his hand, down to his wrist. “The final touch.”

With a final, brutal motion, the king plunges the sword into the knight’s chest.

His body jerks as blood spills from the wound, pooling around him.

After a few painfully long seconds, his body slumps lifeless to the floor.

I do my best to breathe through the weakness hollowing my bones. Air into my lungs, air out of my lungs.

Miraculously, it does help a bit.

The king stares down at the man’s body, seemingly satisfied, then looks back up. But he’s not looking at me. He’s looking at the fae woman who screamed earlier, whose quiet sobs are still sounding through the room.

“We are fae of the Winter Court,” the king says. “Succumbing to weak emotions is not tolerated.”

With that, he throws his sword at the woman like a javelin, piercing her heart and killing her on the spot.

She collapses to the floor.

The crowd falls silent.

The air is still, as if the entire room is holding its breath. I certainly am. Zoey is, too.

If I breathe in the scent of any more blood, I think I’m going to lose it. And, as I’m learning today, blood does have a scent. Sweet, spicy, and a bit metallic, all at the same time.

Slowly, the king walks forward, reaching the woman’s fallen body and pulling his sword free with a sickening suction sound. He examines the blade and runs his fingers across it, as if pleased by the mixture of his peoples’ blood coating its surface.

“Your turn,” he says, zeroing in on me and Zoey. “Do either of you volunteer to go first?”

As I level my gaze with his, something stirs inside me.

The unmistakable pull of magic.

I will not let this man break me. And I certainly won’t let him hurt my best friend.

I’m focusing on gathering my magic—on feeling it swirling deep inside of me—when Riven’s voice cuts through the silence.

“Father,” he says, as cold and detached as ever.

The king pauses and turns to his son, although his blade remains pointed in our direction. “What is it, Riven?” he asks, impatience dripping from his tone.

“A public execution would be over too quickly,” Riven says, as if such an idea is juvenile and inconvenient. “Their deaths should be more than a passing spectacle. Especially if you want the Summer Court to tremble when they hear what you’ve done.”

The king raises an eyebrow, intrigued, but clearly displeased, at being interrupted. “And what, exactly, are you suggesting?” he asks.

“A series of trials,” Riven says, the cruelty in his eyes almost matching his father’s. “Three trials, to be exact. Ones that will draw out the agony in a slow unraveling of their will, designed to break them piece by piece. This way, when they die, it won’t be over in a flash of blood and steel. Instead, it will be an annihilation of their entire souls.”