Torch‑glow bathed Nightspire's grand entrance hall in hues of smoldering copper by the time Calia laced the final ribbon of my gown. Morning—if the realm's somber violet glow could be called that—had bled unnoticed into a deeper, amber dusk. Between scouting escape routes and fending off vengeful specters, I'd lost a day to corridors that rewrote themselves whenever I blinked.
"It's the palace," Calia whispered while she threaded silver silk through my corset stays. "It bends hours to match His Imperial Darkness's mood. Tonight, the court convenes early."
Tonight. Ravan's warning rang in memory: Tomorrow, court will taste your mettle. Tomorrow had accelerated into now.
The dress chosen for me—no, conjured by unseen hands—was midnight scarlet, etched with black sigils that shimmered only when I moved. The bodice veered toward scandal, baring shoulders and the upper arc of cleavage; the skirt divided down the front into twin panels that revealed slender breeches of obsidian silk tucked into knee‑high boots. It was both battle armor and bait. Whatever game the emperor intended, he was arming me with spectacle.
Calia stepped back, worry furrowing her young brow. "Remember to smile only when you must," she coached, smoothing a loose curl behind my ear. "If a duke offers honeyed compliments, taste for poison in the vowels. And never—ever—accept wine from a glass you did not see poured."
"I'm beginning to suspect survival is mostly etiquette," I murmured.
"Here, yes." She pressed a small vial into my palm. "Distilled moon‑salt. One drop burns illusions."
I tucked it into the concealed pocket of my sleeve beside the scroll I'd stolen from the library. Evidence and antidote—sufficient comforts for a debutante of darkness.
A resounding clang rolled through the hall. Massive doors of rune‑etched iron groaned open, revealing a stairway of onyx descending into glow. At its base waited two honor guards in scaled armor, wings folded tight against their spines; their helmets bore horns and faceless visors. One slammed the shaft of a halberd against the floor. "Empress‑Consort," he intoned, voice echoing off vaulted arches, "the Court of Midnight Embers summons you."
Calia squeezed my hand once, then melted behind a tapestry. I forced my legs into motion, the slit skirts whispering around my strides. Each step down vibrated faintly, as though a distant heartbeat thrummed within the stair.
The Throne Rotunda spread before me like the inside of a volcanic geode: balcony tiers carved from dark crystal; banners of blood‑red silk cascading between obsidian pillars; colossal braziers spitting violet fire that cast restless shadows across the faces of assembled nobles. Hundreds of them—demons with curling horns, humans in dark velvets, fae of opalescent skin—congregated in hushed knots, every pair of eyes pivoting toward me.
At the room's far end, a dais of black stone rose in three concentric arcs. On the highest sat the Throne of Cinders, forged from fused dragon vertebrae and streaked with rivers of cooled magma. Ravan lounged there as though boredom itself crowned him—one elbow on the armrest, a fingertip idly tracing patterns in the air, conjuring lazy sparks.
My pulse hammered, but I matched his indolence with deliberate grace. I paused at the dais foot. Court protocol drifted from memory of the sunlit monarchy that had murdered me, but Nightspire's variant felt older, more primal. I lowered into a controlled bow—neither kneel nor curtsey—palms spread, head inclined yet eyes lifted to meet the emperor's. Submission tempered by awareness.
Murmurs rippled. Ravan's silver gaze glinted amusement. "Rise, Empress." His voice glided across stone like black silk. "Tonight we acquaint the realm with its new heart."
I ascended the steps—one, two—until I stood at the throne's flank. A lower seat awaited me: wrought iron shaped as intertwined roses, petals tipped with garnets. Not a subordinate's perch but certainly smaller than his. I sank into it. The metal was warm, almost comforting.
Ravan straightened, wings unfurling to their full span—easily five yards of shadow and sinew. The hall dimmed as though yielding center stage to him. "Nobles of Tenebris," he declared, voice rolling like distant storm drums, "behold Leora Aelinora, soul‑witch of the broken kingdoms, spared from mortal falsehood by covenant of final breath. She is henceforth your empress—my equal in law, if not yet in legend."
Silence thickened. Then a single figure stepped forward from the throng: a tall demoness in midnight feathers and skirts of spider‑silk, horned diadem glinting. She bowed low, yet arrogance radiated from every motion. "High Duchess Sarielle, Keeper of the Western Tithe, bids welcome." When she rose, her slitted eyes fixed on me. "May your reign prove more enduring than the last."
A polite threat. I smiled mildly. "Endurance is forged by trials, Duchess. I intend to temper mine to steel." Soft enough for diplomacy; sharp enough to cut. She dipped her chin, lips twisting.
A second courtier advanced—this one human, silver‑haired, eyes like frost. "Lord Magistrate Auron of the Mortal Exchange." He tapped a staff capped with a smoky crystal. "News from the Surface Realms begs hearing."
"Later," Ravan said, dismissing him with a flick. "Tonight belongs to introductions, not petitions."
"Your Darkness," Auron insisted, "the tidings concern your bride's former kingdom—"
Ravan's gaze cooled. "I said later."
That spark of defiance in the magistrate's eyes—there lay a potential ally or poison. I memorized his face.
A gong resonated, vibrating floor and bone. A herald with teeth filed to points announced, "Let revelry commence!"
Music—strange strings, chiming metal disks, throbbing drums—erupted from alcoves. Servants flowed with goblets of iridescent wine. Dancers veiled in shimmering mist stepped onto mirrored floor tiles that illuminated beneath their feet. The nobles dispersed into a storm of color and cloven hoofbeats.
Ravan turned his throne slightly toward me. "You handled Sarielle well. She devoured the last empress with words alone."
"Better words than fangs," I murmured, scanning the crowd. "Why not devour her first?"
He smiled, wolfish. "I value predators—they keep the herd vigilant." He offered his hand. "Dance?"
That single word tugged threads inside me I pretended not to possess. I placed my hand in his. Heat raced up my arm—ancient power, restrained.
We descended to the glowing dance floor. Musicians slowed, shifting to a sultry cadence. Nobles parted, eager for spectacle.
Ravan's arm encircled my waist—solid, inescapable. He guided me into tempo, each step measured, as though the dance itself were an incantation. The scent of him—cedar smoke, midnight rain—stirred something perilously close to longing.
"Your court fears me," I whispered.
"They respect terror," he corrected. "Fear without respect breeds uprisings."
"And what do you respect?" I asked.
His smile turned quiet. "Truth that survives silence."
I felt the scroll against my ribs, hot as ember.
He pivoted me through an elegant spin. "Auron," he murmured near my ear, "will approach you. Listen, but lend no promises. His loyalty fractures."
"Fractures can be welded," I said, surprising myself.
"Or exploited." Ravan released my waist, catching my hand to twirl me again—except this time he pulled me flush against him at the finish, the music's final chord reverberating through our joined bodies. Applause scattered like coins.
He bowed, lips near my knuckles. The contact seared, though his mouth never touched skin. "Well danced, Empress." He relinquished me to servants who materialized with goblets.
I accepted mine solely to avoid suspicion. The liquid caught the torchlight in shades of opal. Remembering Calia's advice, I sniffed—floral. I sipped, then exhaled relief: no bitterness, no tingle of mind‑fogging glamour. Only warmth and a hint of starlight.
"Your Majesty." Lord Magistrate Auron appeared at my elbow, head bowed. Up close, he smelled of parchment and winter mint. "Might I claim a moment?" His gaze flickered across the hall; Ravan spoke with Sarielle, seemingly disinterested.
"Walk with me," I said.
We followed the perimeter, skirts trailing flame‑like across polished crystal. "Speak," I prompted.
"The king of Aurelian—the realm that executed you—has declared his intent to negotiate with Tenebris," Auron said softly. "He fears insurrection sparked by doubt over your conviction. Rumors of pardon swirl."
My breath hitched. The scandal was rotting his throne faster than expected. "And?"
"The king proposes a treaty: tribute in gold and relics to secure the emperor's silence—that you remain dead to mortal eyes." Auron's jaw tightened. "I find it distasteful, Your Majesty."
"Because you are human."
"Because," he corrected, "I once served in Aurelian's courts as chronicler. I remember your healing of the plague villages." His voice softened. "Justice should not be bartered."
Hope flared—an ally indeed. "Why tell me?"
"Because information is coin in Tenebris, and I invest where profit may bloom." He lowered his voice further. "Grant me your trust, and I will funnel every whisper from surface realms to your ear first."
Terms of alliance disguised as trade. I weighed him. His aura hummed with cold ambition, but sincerity glimmered beneath like sun on ice.
"Very well," I said. "But betray that trust and I will write your epitaph in salt and fire."
His thin smile acknowledged the threat. "Agreed." He pressed a crystal fragment into my palm. "Crush this; I will answer."
He vanished into the throng.
I pocketed the shard. Already the court tasted intrigue thicker than spiced wine.
A hush swept the room—a ripple of unease. Atop the dais, Ravan stood, head tilted as though listening to distant bells. Shadows lengthened, sliding toward him like worshipers. He extended an arm. A weapon coalesced: a glaive of onyx metal, blade etched with constellations that blazed silver. Unease sharpened into dread.
Without warning, the throne behind him exploded. Shards of bone and magma shrieked outward. A hulking figure emerged from swirling smoke—hornless, skin like cracked obsidian, eyes molten gold. It roared, voice shredding air.
"Heart‑Eater," someone gasped—a living siege beast, extinct for centuries.
Panic leapt from chest to chest; nobles fled toward exits that slammed shut of their own accord.
Ravan descended the dais, meeting the monster with calm predatory grace. He spun the glaive, its arc carving white fire. The Heart‑Eater charged, talons tearing floor tiles.
I scanned for weapons—none. Then I remembered Calia's vial. I uncorked it; metallic moon‑salt vapor shimmered. I hurled the whole vial at the beast's flank. It shattered in silver mist, searing flesh. The creature howled, stumbling.
Ravan sliced upward, glaive biting deep into exposed sinew. Molten ichor sprayed, sizzling on stone. The beast thrashed, wings of fractured bone beating fury, but Ravan drove the blade through its chest. With a crack like splitting planets, the creature fell, dissolving into black ash.
Silence crashed over the hall, broken only by the hiss of fading embers.
Ravan planted the glaive butt to floor, shoulders rising with a single breath. His gaze found me. Across the battlefield of shattered throne and smoking ruin, our eyes locked. In that instant, the court saw something: I, an empress who flung moon‑salt without hesitation; he, an emperor whose victory hinged on that daring flicker of aid.
He wiped ash from his cheek, expression unreadable.
High Duchess Sarielle stepped forward, voice trembling. "Assassins loose siege beasts in your chambers, Your Darkness?"
"Not assassins," Ravan murmured, surveying the ruin that had been his throne. "Prophets." He faced the assembly. "Let them learn: prophecy alone does not fell me."
He strode to me, stopping an arm's length away. "Nor does it fell my bride." His hand lifted, brushing stray ash from my hair—a strangely gentle act that stole my breath more than the battle.
He turned to the gathered nobles. "Tonight you witnessed the first strike of fate. Remember who stood unbroken."
I realized he spoke not only to them but to the realm itself, its walls and whispers.
Ravan stepped past, summoning servants to restore order. Yet as he passed my shoulder he whispered, "We will speak of moon‑salt and courage, Leora. And of kings who bargain for silence."
Heat licked my cheeks—equal parts pride and foreboding.
When the court dispersed hours later—some awed, some plotting harder than ever—Calia retrieved me from the periphery. "You threw moon‑salt at a siege beast," she breathed. "You could have been crushed."
"Better crushed than caged," I replied, half jest, wholly truth.
She pressed a hand over her racing heart. "I shall pray to any god who listens that you survive tomorrow."
"So will I," I said, though I suspected gods' ears were stuffed with cotton where Tenebris was concerned.
We wound back through now‑familiar corridors. Repairs already commenced—walls knitting themselves, new throne bones sprouting from the dais as though Nightspire were a living creature growing armor anew.
I touched the scroll beneath my corset. Proof, allies, enemies, prophecy—pieces on a board. Ravan might command fear, but I commanded something subtler: the narrative. And tonight, it had shifted. The court saw an empress who neither fainted nor fled.
Outside my chamber doors, Calia curtsied. "Sleep, Majesty."
"Sleep," I echoed, but after she vanished I remained in the hall, staring at the distant flicker of torches.
Somewhere beyond stone and starless sky, a mortal king bartered my memory for gold. Here in the dark, a demon monarch toyed with destiny. Between them, I navigated silk and daggers.
I inhaled the scent of smoldering embers, felt the vibration of rebuilding walls. My story, tempered in execution's flame, was forging anew.
Let court, prophecy, and kingdoms wager on outcomes. I would wager on myself.
And I intended to win.