HANNAH? I TRY, and my magic sparks the slightest flash of cold. Tell me he’s wrong.
But the emotion that radiates from her is the opposite of what I expected: amazement. Awe. The same winded shock that descends over everyone else.
We were so close, she gasps. The Tadil, all this time—we were so close. . . .
Her words fade, but I know what she means.
Before Angra overtook Winter.
The miner shoves to his feet, wordlessly leading me on. Sir lets me stumble after him without protest, trudging along behind me as if he’s being dragged into the mine against his will. We’re trailed by Theron, Garrigan, Conall, and a handful of Cordellan soldiers.
The morning sun lights the first few paces inside the mine shaft, but farther in, when the ground starts to slant around serrated rock walls, everything is coated in darkness. The miner picks up a single lit lantern, most likely the one he carried as he ran up the mine, and the rest of us take a few from a pile, strike flames to life, and follow him.
The cave flashes into view, tools littering a corridor two arm lengths wide and little more than a full man’s height tall. Silence ensnares us the moment we enter the tunnel, the only noise the muted shuffling of our feet as we take cautious steps into the shadows.
Fingers brush my wrist, a delicate touch that grows bolder when I pull up a weak smile for Theron. He doesn’t say anything, though I can tell by the way his mouth pops open that he wants to. What is there to say, though, beyond murmurings of disbelief?
I squeeze his fingers and tug him forward, leading him into the darkness.
More shafts open along the way, but the miner at the front of our group leads us past them all, plunging into the deepest tunnel in the Klaryns. The air smells of ancient, musty grime, coating my skin in thin layers that feel, somehow, just as Winterian as snow. That does little to abate the tension coiling in my gut when the tunnel before us ends at an opening.
The other miners’ lanterns light up the puckered wall, clearly an unexpected expansion by the way rocks sit in haphazard clusters of debris along the ground. The remaining Winterian miners seem uninjured, which eases some of my worry. They all stand in the tunnel, gaping at the crack in the wall, too afraid to move inside, too awed to pull away.
When they see us, they step back, all eyes snapping to me. But I’m just as afraid, just as awed, the lantern trembling in my grip, light pulsing in dizzying flashes.
Someone made this space. Beyond the opening, perfect diamond cuttings turn the gray-black ground into a marble-like floor. The walls around the room are the same jagged rocks as the rest of the mine—but even that seems intentional, as it draws all focus to the back of the room, where the stone has been flattened into a smooth wall.
In that wall stands something that makes me gasp with astonishment.
I slide forward, past the crumbled heaps of rock, depositing my light at the threshold since the lanterns behind me brighten this new space. The moment I step into the room, the air crackles against my skin, a jolt like the electric charge of a thunderstorm preparing to unleash cascades of lightning. I shiver, bumps rising along my arms.
The air hangs heavy and humid with magic.
And I think . . . I think I’m looking at the door to the chasm.
Theron touches my elbow and I start. I didn’t know he’d followed me into the room, but he seems the only one brave enough—or stupid enough—to venture after me. Everyone else remains pinned in the entrance, gaping in shocked horror at the same thing that draws my attention like a gnat to a flame.
A door towers over us, massive and thick, made of the same gray stone as the rest of the room. Four images are carved in the center of the door—one, a tangle of flaming vines; another, books stacked in a pile; another, a simple mask; and the last, the largest one centered above the smaller three, a mountaintop bathed in a beam of light with words arching over it, THE ORDER OF THE LUSTRATE.
I step closer, my boots tapping against the stone floor.
A beam of light hitting a mountaintop. Where have I seen that before?
And who is the Order of the Lustrate?
Theron hisses. “Golden leaves.” He slides forward a step. “Are those . . . keyholes?”
I grab his arm, keeping us both from going too far into the room. This place feels dangerous, like it’s waiting for something, and I don’t want to find out what.
But he’s right—in the center of each of the three small carvings sits a narrow keyhole.
“Do you think this is it?” I whisper, barely loud enough to stir the air.
Theron’s hand encases mine where I hold his arm and he nods, dazed.
“Yes,” he says, smiling like a piece of him is rising up over the walls of fear within him. “We found it. We’re going to be okay now.” He looks to me, back to the door. “We’re going to be okay. . . .”
I glance over my shoulder at everyone still clogged by the entrance. Sir’s eyes meet mine, and I wheeze on the choking knowledge of what exactly this means.
The last time our world had more than just the eight Royal Conduits, the Decay was created. People began using their individual conduits for things that harmed one another, murder and theft and evil, and that birthed a dark magic that infiltrated people’s minds, encouraged them to use their magic for evil, and started a cycle of despair.
And when we open that door, if it does guard the magic chasm . . .
We could be wrong. It could just be a . . . room. In a mountain?
What else could it be?
My throat clamps shut. This really is it, isn’t it? I should have stopped Noam long ago. I shouldn’t have let him do this to my kingdom—how did we even find this?
Theron’s face is wide with astonishment. He’s pleased with this find, he’ll want to open that door, and seeing that expression on him makes me reel even more. I didn’t think. I charged in here without remembering who Theron is, who he really is—not just a source of comfort, not just my friend. He wants this. Cordell wants this.
I back up, farther from him.
Theron reaches out for me. “Meira?”
Biting and sharp, a cold sensation cuts through my body in a heave of magic. My magic, not the spark in the air. I slam to a halt.
Meira! comes Hannah’s voice. She’s upset. Afraid. Of what?
Theron follows my retreat. His foot hooks on the floor and he teeters forward, arms flailing as he collides with me and sends us toppling down, closer to the carved door.
Meira, get away from here!
So cold, so cold—
MEIRA! Hannah cries. Mei—
Silence. Utter, aching silence, like a door slamming shut, cutting off all noises beyond.
Fiery, determined heat eats at my body in mad snatches of relentless pain. Just as frigid as my magic is cold, this is hot, spreading in singeing fingers up my limbs and across my chest and neck. It cauterizes my throat into a lumpy, impenetrable knot, intensifying and raging against every nerve so that when I scream, it goes unheard.
Theron’s body presses against mine, and all I know beyond the licking warbles of pain that eat up my insides and remain trapped behind the knot in my throat is that we’re causing this. Or me—I’m causing this, because Theron isn’t in pain. His brow furrows only in confusion.
“Meira, what—”
An invisible force launches us through the air, hurling us back at the entrance to the room. Our bodies pop with a chorus of blows against the stone wall before we collapse in a heap on the floor. Everyone by the door shouts in alarm and dives toward us, but somewhere along the way the knot in my throat released, and the pain comes rushing out of my mouth in a scream that doesn’t even sound human. My body throbs and I curl into a ball, head to my knees, arms over my ears, rocking back and forth, trying to find some position that doesn’t feel like I’m being burned alive.
HANNAH! I shout at her, at the magic, at anything that could make it stop—
Silence, still. Just silence, that’s all I get from her. Dread plummets through me before thick darkness slides into my eyes and down my throat and fills me top to bottom in a prison I know far too well.
“Meira!” Theron’s fingers bury in my hair, his arms fold around me. “Meira, hold on—”
A blink, and I’m left alone in darkness, fire, and ice.
Blackness subsides, unfurling in the yellow glow of torches. I’m almost grateful for the light—I’m awake; I survived; I’m okay—until my eyes adjust to the room.
A cell reveals itself in the flickering light, grimy black stones glinting with putrid stains. In the corner sits Theron, staring at the door with a concentration spurred by intense fear.
Because in that doorway stands Angra.
“The heir of Cordell,” Angra announces as he walks forward and crouches before Theron, leaning on his staff. “You give new meaning to the word valiant. What was your plan? Sneak into my city and free my latest Winterian slave?” He reaches out, grabbing Theron’s chin and wrenching his attention up. “Or are you expecting your father to sweep in and save you both?”
Theron’s stoicism breaks in a gasp that matches my own.
This is what happened to Theron while he was imprisoned in Abril.
Angra cocks his head as if he’s listening to an echo. His expression flashes with a look I never thought his face capable of. Eyes relaxed, lips parted: shocked awe.
Angra recovers, stroking his thumb along Theron’s jaw. “Do you really think he’ll come?”
Theron’s brows peak, a spasm of doubt that he might not even be aware of.
Angra latches onto it. “You and I are not so different. Shall I show you how similar we truly are?” He places his hand on Theron’s head.
Theron cries out. Whether or not this already happened, I can’t let him scream like that—I dive as Angra rips his hand back, letting Theron rock forward.
Theron’s shoulders heave as he retches. “No” is all he says, his first muffled word. Then, with more terror, “No! He didn’t kill her like yours did. . . .”
Kill her? Who? What did Angra show him?
Angra clucks his tongue. “He did, little prince.” He pulls back and watches Theron squirm. “We’re the same.”
“Meira!”
I bolt upright in a haze of flickering yellow, clenching fistfuls of fabric that tug against my grip. I’m in my cottage in Gaos, the brown walls misshapen and cracked enough that cold air darts inside. The small room holds nothing more than a cot and a few tables, but on every table, candles burn. Dozens of them, and I blink at the light, my eyes darting from flame to twitching flame faster than my brain can process a reason.
The fabric in my fists tugs again and I start.
Sir is here, his hands braced on either side of my legs, and I clutch his collar as if I might draw him into a fight. Theron is here too, hovering at the end of the cot, an unlit candle in one hand and a match in the other.
Angra. The memory. I cave forward, head to my knees, releasing my grip on Sir. Why did I see that? How did I—
“The magic chasm,” I pant, and burst upright. “The door—there was a barrier—”
It all rushes back to me: the stone door, the keyholes in the carvings, the sensation of being burned from the inside out. A barrier prevented us from approaching the door. A magic fail-safe that launched both Theron and me away, but only affected me.
Maybe the chasm reacted like that because I am magic. Maybe it collided with the nearest person and dredged up memories, ricocheting my magic out in a frenzy. But Theron isn’t Winterian—how did I affect him? Or was it not me so much as the barrier’s magic reacting to my own? Whatever it was, whatever the reason, it’s only a spark in the fire of this horror.
“Whatever magic is down there, we can’t touch it,” I declare.
Theron gapes like it was the last thing he expected me to say.
“Here, my queen. Drink this.” Sir tries to hand me a goblet of water, but I shove it away.
“We found the magic chasm,” I state, forcing myself to hear it, to feel it. “Something’s blocking it—a barrier of some sort. We cannot take down that barrier. If we access the magic, if it spreads out to everyone—”
Theron lurches closer to my cot. “That’s exactly what needs to happen.”
I hesitate. The sight of Theron before me clashes with my memory of him writhing on the floor of Angra’s dungeon. Was what I saw real, though?
Hannah. I stretch out to my magic with tentative, uncertain thoughts. Was it—
Cold sparks up my chest. A normal reaction to seeking the magic, but where it usually flares and fades, this time—it doesn’t quiet.
It spurs higher, plummeting down my limbs, gathering speed and strength as it races to launch out of my body. I rear back, slamming into the wall beside my cot.
No, I beg it, screaming in my head. STOP!
It doesn’t listen. Not in time anyway—it leaves my body a beat before I fling my will out to it, spiraling out of me and into—who? Where?
Sir.
He flies to his feet, mouth popping open in a choking huff like someone slammed a sword hilt into his lungs. “What—” He gags. “What did you—”
He stumbles back, boots slipping on the wooden floor, and bumps into the closed door to the rest of the cottage. His hand drops to the knob and he shoves, but instead of twisting under his fingers, the entire thing breaks apart and clatters to the ground.
I leap off the cot, hands out.
Sir ripped the door clean off its hinges.
No—I did it to him.
I drop back onto the bed. I’ve seen the magic give people strength before—but enough to endure a day of labor, not rip apart planks of wood. And it always reacted the way it should—uncontrollable, but it did what my people needed it to do.
What happened?
Sir flexes his hand and shoots a questioning gaze at me. “My queen. Why did you do that?”
I shake my head. “I didn’t mean to. The magic down there—that barrier—it did something. I don’t feel . . . right.”
My chest is so cold. My heart is ice, my limbs snow, my every breath should be a cloud of condensation. The magic felt awakened before, but now it feels—unleashed.
Sir eases forward. “We’ll figure it out, my queen. We’ll send someone else down there, someone who isn’t connected to a Royal Conduit.”
I launch to my feet again. “No, it’s too dangerous. No one can go down there.”
“We found it, Meira.” Theron intercedes, his voice hoarse. “The magic chasm, after all this time, and you don’t want to at least investigate it? The world hasn’t seen such power in centuries. Imagine the good we could do with this!”
“And imagine the evil!” I shout, unable to keep my worry at bay. “Did you see what I just did? My magic could’ve hurt Sir! And you want more? Even if we could get to it, the world won’t receive magic the way you want it to. You believe your father would use more magic for good? Maybe in Cordell’s eyes, but how will it affect my kingdom?”
Theron drops the unlit candle and match he had still been holding and steps closer to me. “The world needs this,” he states. “My father isn’t the only one with plans—we could see to it that the magic would benefit everyone. Your people would all have their own magic. They’d have the strength needed to keep anything like Angra’s takeover from happening again.”
“You can’t tell your father we found it,” I beg. “I know why you fear Angra, but we are stronger than him. You are nothing like him.”
Theron’s eyes narrow in confusion, darting over my face. I pause, waiting for understanding to clear his memories, but he only cocks his head, perplexed.
Doesn’t he remember what Angra did to him? Wasn’t that real?
A door opens deeper in the cottage and voices slam into us.
“Is she awake?” Nessa asks.
Dendera chirps when they stumble into the room. “What happened to the door?”
While Sir, Nessa, and Dendera drop into quiet discussion, I draw closer to Theron, lowering my voice. “Please don’t tell Noam.”
“My men saw it too. Your people know we found it. He’ll find out eventually.”
“Only a few of your men were down there, and my people will keep it quiet. Please, Theron. Just give me time to figure out what to do.”
My heart knots up in the pause that follows.
“When you were asleep—” Theron finally says. “You sounded like you were scared.”
He didn’t agree to anything. He changed the subject.
“I dreamed of Angra. And you.” I hesitate, not wanting to hurt him, my words hammers and him a porcelain vase. “In Abril.”
Theron jolts back from me.
I try to wave it away. “It was just a dream—”
He snatches my hand midwave and holds it, every muscle in his body stiff.
“I don’t remember much about it,” he whispers, each word weighted by three months of keeping it inside. “Whole days just . . . gone. But I do remember Angra telling me what he planned to do with you. What he planned to let Herod—” Theron’s voice cracks. “Angra used magic on me in Abril, that much I do know. He shouldn’t have been able to—Royal Conduits can’t affect people not of their kingdom. And if a more powerful magic exists, we need protection.”
My arms twitch to lean forward and wrap around him. But despite his pain, despite the memories throbbing in my mind of Angra’s torture, I can’t agree to what Theron wants.
“Then it’s even more important that the door stay closed. If it’s used wrong, it could aid the very magic you fear.”
Theron grimaces. He’s unconvinced, but Nessa rushes over to me.
“My queen, how are you feeling?”
She doesn’t ask what happened, or anything about the mine shaft, and I assume Sir filled her in enough. Conall and Garrigan take up their places guarding my room when Sir says something about going to check on Finn and Greer. He doesn’t stay to make sure I’m okay; he simply tells Dendera to “ensure that the queen rests.”
No help from him—and no help from Theron either, who also leaves. I try to go after him, but Dendera shoves me onto the cot, scolding me to lie down. Theron doesn’t notice, vanishing without another word. What did I expect him to say, though? What could he do?
He could help me in this. He could stay, help me deal with . . . everything.
No—Theron is broken because of me. Because he came to save me. I saw what he went through—or at least, what he might have gone through. Even if he doesn’t remember what happened, there’s no way to know whether or not what I saw didn’t happen. He doesn’t need to help me; I need to help him. I have other people who can—
Sudden awareness drowns every other thought.
Hannah never responded. The moment I reached out to her, my magic erupted.
I almost call out to her again, but my chest seizes, and I can’t tear my eyes away from the splinters of the door that Nessa brushes into the corner. Our connection was always mysterious—maybe the barrier severed it. The coldness inside me throbs as if sensing my dilemma, knowing I’m moments away from trying to rekindle my magic.
I’m afraid of it. But I can’t be afraid of my magic. Now that the chasm has been found . . .
I can’t be afraid of anything.