The sharp clang of steel against steel made my hand twitch and my paintbrush along with it, leaving a streak of black where none had been intended.

“Drat,” I muttered, accepting the proffered rag from my maid and dabbing at the errant paint.

The swords crashed together again and, despite it having been three weeks since the accident, I flinched. I wondered if I ever would not.

Sighing, I rested my wrist on my knee and shifted to watch my sister fight. Anaïs was harrying her opponent backward across the yard, dulled practice blade flashing with the skill not of one trained since she was old enough to hold a sword – though she had been – but of one who’d been born to battle. She fought as I imagined a viper would, so quick I scarce saw her move but she was there, her deadliness a matter of speed and agility rather than brute strength.

My eyes took in the whirl of motion, envisioning how I might capture it with paint, but my hands almost instinctively reached for my pencil and sketchbook, because nothing else would ever capture my sister’s exquisite beauty and strength better than crisp lines of black against a plane of white. Anaïs needed no embellishments, and that’s all color would be.

She feinted left but struck right, her blow landing square against her opponent’s side with an audible crack. Tristan swore and stumbled, his gloved hand pressing against ribs that were almost certainly fractured.

I swallowed hard, trying my best not to think of the bones knitting and reforming, bruises rising and fading within seconds. Or to think about what happened when they did not.

“I can’t recall the last time I bested you at this, Anaïs,” Tristan grumbled, hand dropping from his side. “It’s not very sporting if I’ve no chance at winning. My pleasure in your company is diminished by the broken bones.”

Anaïs smiled and slapped the flat of her blade against the palm of her gloved hand. “Are you suggesting that I let you win, Your Highness?”

“Would that be so dreadful?” He closed the distance between them, his cheeks curving with a smile as he gazed down at her.

For a handful of seconds, her face was filled with the naked adoration of a girl well and truly in love. And my heart broke, the sharp little pieces digging into my soul as I watched her bury the feelings behind a cocky smile, the tip of her blade flicking up to catch him beneath the chin.

“Yes, it would. If you wish to beat me, you’ll merely have to try harder.”

The two stood silent and unmoving, and I knew that a conversation passed between them in the wordless language of those who knew each other well. It was beautiful and wretched, and my eyes moved without thought to the image on my canvas.

“Enough banter.” Marc stepped out of the shadows where he’d been leaning against the wall, nudging the sword he held into both their ribs, driving them apart. “Tristan, I saw Anaïs’s feint plain as day, and you would have, too, if you’d been paying attention.”

My heart beat faster in my chest as he walked between them in my direction. Then he stopped, knocking a fist against an invisible barrier of magic blocking his path. “Anaïs, let me through.”

She blanched. “Oh. Sorry, Marc. I–” Breaking off, her gaze went to mine, then away.

My stomach clenched. Bad enough that she’d been protecting me, but worse that she hadn’t wanted me to know she was doing it.

The guilt on Anaïs’s face. The pity on Tristan’s. I hated both sentiments, but the last thing I wanted was to make my sister feel worse, so I said nothing. Dipping my brush in a pale grey, I turned back to my work, hoping my expression wouldn’t betray me.

Marc stopped in front of my easel, and though I did not take my attention away from my brushstrokes, I felt his presence keenly. My skin prickled and I was sure that even if I had been blind and deaf, I would still have known it was him standing beside me.

“She’s only trying to protect you, Pénélope.”

“And she is wise for it.” I added a touch more black to my grey. “Perhaps if she’d always been so vigilant, circumstances would be different.”

The truth always outs… My father might not have cared to believe it so, but there had always been a certain inevitability of my secret – my affliction – being discovered. If only it had delayed its happening, its discovery might not have even mattered. Certain things could not be undone. Like the bonding of two trolls.

“But she was not, and they are not,” he said. “And Anaïs blames herself for what happened. It was her blade that shattered.”

“And his that broke it,” I hissed, furious that my sister should feel guilt when Tristan did not.

“Do you think he doesn’t know that?”

I lowered my brush, not wanting to touch this particular piece with anger in my heart. “Can we please not discuss it? Already it weighs upon every aspect of my life, and I hoped to find some respite from it here.”

“Of course.”

Vincent and Victoria’s manor was the unspoken neutral ground between us all. The one place in Trollus where we forgot the alliances and rivalries of family, blood, and rank, and where only our friendship mattered. I glanced up to where the fifteen-year-old twins each stood silently balanced on one foot on the wall surrounding the courtyard, faces bent in concentration as they carefully removed one block at a time from a vertical puzzle floating between them. They were giants, standing head and shoulders above even Marc, who was tall, their rare condition having killed their mother in childbirth. Their father had died days later from the shock of the bond breaking. The two had been raised by half-blood servants with only minimal interference from the crown, content to share the barony that was their birthright. As such, their politics were very much based on their own unique views of our small world. Friendship mattered a great deal to them, and they had no tolerance for infighting between us six.

“May I see what you’re working on?” Marc asked.

My heart beat a little faster at the question, but if I hadn’t been ready for him to view it, I wouldn’t have brought the canvas. “If you like.”

He came around the easel, and I held my breath, waiting for his reaction. I’d been working on it before the accident, but had only recently been able to complete the finishing touches.

He stiffened, and my heart sank. “You don’t care for it?”

“No. It is wretched to look upon.”

His voice was strangled and strange in my ears, and mortification flooded my veins. Always I was shy to show my work to others, but never in my wildest dreams had I thought that Marc would be the critic from whom I’d draw harsh words. I wanted to snatch up the canvas and run, but where would I go? Rather than a haven, my home was now a hell bent on punishing me for my weaknesses.

“Of all the subjects you might have chosen, why did you paint me?”

The plea in his voice stole the breath from my chest. Rising to my feet, I let everything in my hands fall to the ground and caught hold of his sleeve. “Why shouldn’t I paint you?”

“Because no matter how good your work, it isn’t anything that anyone would want to see.”

“Why not?” I asked, hating his words. “I always want to look upon my friends, but you make it so difficult, which makes this painting more meaningful. Because it’s made from the precious few glimpses I’ve been privileged enough to have. I paint those I care about.”

“Then paint Anaïs. Or the twins. Curses, Pénélope,” he snapped. “Paint Tristan. With your talent, they’d probably hang it in the gallery of the Kings.”

For weeks my chest had felt like a powder keg waiting for a spark so that it could explode. But this moment felt like the powder keg had been tossed on a bonfire.

“How dare you suggest I paint him? How dare you!” I knew I was the one who screamed the words, but they sounded like they’d come from someone else’s lips. Like some wild and maniacal girl had taken control of my body and my voice.

I let her.

Marc took a step back, but it wasn’t really him I was angry with. Turning on my heel, I stalked toward Tristan, his blank, unreadable Montigny face fueling my fury. “Of course I should paint you! Why should I, or anyone, paint anything else? Our world is cursed. Everyone is sick or twisted or dying from the iron and the darkness. Every last one of us, except for you!”

“Pénélope, stop.” Anaïs stepped between us. “Don’t do this. Don’t say something you’ll regret.”

But what she meant was, please don’t say anything that would turn him against her. After everything, she still wanted to protect him. Still wanted to be with him. It had to end. “Move.”

She shook her head, and I knew I couldn’t force her. Anaïs was stronger than me in every possible way.

Tristan touched her arm. “Let her say what she wants to say.”

Anaïs hesitated, then reluctantly stepped aside. But she’d accomplished what she intended. My anger faltered, because I knew that dragging their broken betrothal out into the open wouldn’t matter to him. He was a black-hearted Montigny snake who cared nothing for anyone or anything but power. All I’d do was hurt the one person I cared about more than anything: Anaïs.

“Born perfect into a decaying and dying race,” I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “Gifted with the beauty and grace of the kings of old and a power not seen since King Alexis himself. How can the broken ones like us compare with you and your… radiance?” I spat the word at him.

Something flashed across his face. A trace of… guilt? Then he sighed. “I’m sorry that fate was not kinder to you, Pénélope. I’m sorry for the part I played in the hurt that was done to you. But I had no more control over how I was born than anyone else.”

“I know.” My lips felt numb, and I turned away. For Anaïs’s sake, I’d always kept silent in the face of his cruel behavior, but what did it matter now if he learned what I truly thought of him? The twins had come down from the wall to stand next to Anaïs, but my eyes were all for Marc. Tristan was his cousin and closest friend, and he was loyal to him to a fault. All of them were, and I knew that what I intended to say would all but assure my eviction from our circle of friends.

But I said it anyway. “I’ll never paint you, Tristan. I paint those I love. Not those I hate.”