The Young Elites

Teren waits until she’s close enough. When she walks past, he grabs her wrist and pulls her gently into the shadows behind the pillar.

The queen lets out a soft gasp, then smiles at the sight of him. “You’re back from Dalia,” she whispers. “And up to your boyish antics, I see.”

Teren presses her tightly against the pillar. His lips brush against the skin of her neck. Her dress seems cut particularly low today, emphasizing the swell of her breasts, and he wonders with a surge of jealousy whether she wears it as temptation for the king—or for him. The king is a grown man, well into his forties. Teren is nineteen. Does she like me for my youth? Perhaps she sees me as a boy, four years too young for her. He marvels again at how lucky he is, to have drawn the attention of royalty.

“I returned last night,” he whispers back. He kisses her deeply. “You asked to see me, Your Majesty?”

The queen lets out a sigh as he kisses the line of her jaw. Her fingers run along the grooves of his silver belt, and he arcs toward her in longing. “Yes.” She stops him for a moment to give him a level look. Her eyes are very dark, so dark that sometimes they seem wholly empty. Like he could fall to his death in them. “So. Did they take her?”

“They did.”

“And will you be able to find her again?”

Teren nods once. “I don’t know what curse the gods have brought down on us, to give us demons like this, but I promise you—she will be our advantage. She’ll lead me to them. I’ve already gathered five patrols of my best men.”

“And the girl’s sister? You mentioned her in your report.”

Teren bows his head. “Yes, Your Majesty. Violetta Amouteru is in my custody.” He smiles briefly. “She’s unharmed.”

The queen nods in approval. She reaches out and undoes a clasp on his uniform’s collar, exposing the hollow of his throat, then traces it with one slender finger. A breath escapes him. Gods, I want you. I love you. I’m not worthy of you. She tightens her lips, lost in her own thoughts, and then meets his eyes again. “Let me know when you find the girl. I dislike the embarrassment these Elites are making of the crown.”

I would do anything for you. “As you command, Your Majesty.”

Giulietta touches his cheek affectionately. Her hand is cold. “The king will be pleased to hear it, as soon as he climbs out of his mistress’s bed.” She emphasizes her last words.

Teren’s mood darkens at that. The king is supposed to be meeting with his council right now—not frolicking in bed with a lover. He’s no king. He’s a duke the queen was forced to marry. A loud, arrogant, disrespectful duke. He lowers his lips to hers, then steals another long kiss. His voice turns tender and aching. “When can you come to me again? Please.”

“I’ll come to you tonight.” She gives him a careful smile, one full of calculated secrets. It is the smile of someone who knows exactly what to say to a boy soldier madly in love. She pulls him close enough to whisper in his ear. “I’ve missed you too.”

There are four places where the spirits still wander . . .

the snow-covered Dark of Night, the forgotten paradise of

Sobri Elan, the Glass Pillars of Dumon, and the human mind,

that eternally mysterious realm where ghosts shall forever walk.

—An Exploration of Ancient and Modern Myths, by Mordove Senia

Adelina Amouteru

For a week, I never leave my bedchamber. I float in and out of consciousness, waking up only to eat the pastries and roasted quail brought daily into my room, and to let the maid change my robe and bandages.

Sometimes Enzo checks in on me, his face expressionless and his hands gloved, but no one aside from him and the maid visit. No more information about the Dagger Society. What they’ll do with me now, I have no idea.

More days pass. Prosperiday. Aevaday. Moraday. Amareday. Sapienday. I imagine what Violetta is doing right now, and whether she’s wondering the same about me. Whether she’s safe or not. Whether she’s searching for me, or moving on with her life.

By the time Prosperiday comes around again, I’ve recovered enough to go without bandages. The chafing on my wrists and ankles has faded into faint bruises, and the swelling in my cheek has disappeared, returning my face to normal. I’m thinner, though, and my hair has turned into a mess of knots, the spot where my father pulled at my scalp still tender. I study myself in front of the mirror every night, watching how the candlelight splashes orange on my face, how it illuminates the scarred skin over my missing eye. Dark thoughts swim in the far corners of my mind. Something is alive in those whispers, clawing for my attention, beckoning me deeper into the shadows, and I am afraid to listen to it.

I look the same. I also look like a complete stranger.

Voices outside my bedchamber pull me out of my sleep and into the gold of morning light. I lie very still, listening to the conversation that drifts in through the door.

I recognize the speakers immediately. Enzo and my maid.

“—business to attend to. Mistress Amouteru. How is she?”

“Much better.” A pause. “What should I do with her today, Your Highness? She is well now, and growing restless. Shall I take her around the court?”

A brief pause. I imagine Enzo tightening his gloves, his face turned away from the maid, looking as disinterested as he sounds. Finally:

“Bring her to Raffaele.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

The conversation ends there. I hear footsteps echoing down the hall outside, then fading away and disappearing altogether. A strange disappointment hits me at the thought that Enzo won’t be around. I’d hoped to ask him more questions. The court, that’s what the maid had called this building where we’re all staying. What kind of court? A royal estate? Who is Raffaele?