Lander pushed himself up from his stool. The Queen stood across the table from him, quivering with newfound determination. Then she noticed she was shaking and awkwardly planted her fists on her hips to stop herself. Her cheeks turned red, a typical reaction when she reflected on her behaviour.

She turned away, stepping widely over the porcelain on the rug to smell a bouquet of her favourite red daffodils. Rare flowers, carefully bred to satisfy her taste as decorations. Her love for the things bordered on madness. Every inch of her halls were aggravatingly stuffed with plants, their petals poking his eyes with their intensity. She would bathe in the things if she could. But then, as High Queen, of course she could. She likely did.

The flowers were packed so generously in their vase that it was a wonder it didn’t tip. “So, Lander,” she said, pulling one and twirling it under her nose. “What is our route out of the city? You mentioned West Eddy last time we spoke of it.”

He nodded, but Ove flinched at the name, her eyes dulling as she stared into the memory of West Eddy. Her wings rose to shelter her face. It had been years. Just a routine visit to honour Kraken’s Boundary and the Keepers of the Krakensea, until screams that could chill the bones of the dead raked through the streets like claws.

He recalled the way the Puppet Masters howled over Ove’s taboo as though it would crush the entire Guild. Old Osvaldus was prepared to commit murder. But ‘taboo’ for the Guild could mean anything from an insulting depiction of the gods to an insulting depiction of their mothers, and neither Ove nor the Guild was willing to discuss its nature with the High Queen. Guild matters, they said, for West Eddy to resolve. A few years in a damp cell set them right, but Ove still refused to go near the place. She noticed Lander looking at her and turned her beak up at him.

“Aye,” he said. The black-feathered woman sipped more tea, pretending she wasn’t listening. Lander continued, “East only takes us into the heart of the empire. So we head south to West Eddy, and then Kraken’s Boundary. With all they do for Manataklos the King will have to tread carefully there. Unless he’d like to feed the thing himself.”

“Not likely,” the Queen said, trying in vain to tuck her flower back into its vase. Giving up, she left it on the counter. “It would flood half the coast in the time it would take to train men for the job. And he hates spending money. He will not risk the relationship. I think it’s a good plan. If nothing else, passing through Kraken’s Boundary should slow him down if he sends pursuers.” Lyrua’s eyes rested on her handmaiden as she crossed the room to the hearth. The little woman still bristled, the fluffy down feathers of her hair puffed up amusingly. She put her cup to her beak even though it was empty. “It’s just a stop, Ove,” Lyrua said, her haughty tone ruining the sentiment she was trying to convey. “We will pass through without trouble and leave it behind us where it belongs.”

He often failed to give the little woman credit, but she was strong when it counted. He turned towards his seat, his wide shoulder dominating the view. He envisioned a hilt and it came out hot and steaming from the top. He grasped it with one hand and as he pulled, the stool stretched back into the strong edge of his sword, matching his mind’s description. He sheathed it behind him as it cooled.

Lyrua wiggled her finger in the air and Lander turned his head down to shield his eyes as a tiny pinprick appeared before her and the room exploded with light. Flowers burst like colourful suns, and the carpet drowned his vision in crimson. It lasted only seconds, but a dim veil of blurred colour persisted in his vision a moment longer. He remained completely still; his only movement to turn his eyes away from the light. As his eyes adjusted, his vision returned to normal, but the shock made him tense and caused a knot in his chest that burned. He quickened the swelling of his chest to draw more air through his body to cool him.

Ove hurried to the fire and suffocated it with a quick Air spell so the room was lit only by Lyrua’s light.

“Plan our route out of Manataklos tomorr—” a yawn swallowed the Queen’s words. “As we…” drops of water pooled in her eyes as she covered another with her hand. Her cheeks turned pink again.

“Aye, my Queen. As we discussed. I’ll speak with the Spellwards. Until then, I believe your bed beckons.”

Lyrua took the lever of the door, her small hands making it seem huge. Perched in front of the quiet hearth, Ove rustled her feathers, squinting at the door as though trying to will it open so the Queen would not do it herself. She spoiled her almost as much as she did Prince Athen. Lyrua placed her palm on the heavy steel lever and effortlessly pushed it down with one hand.

The gears footing each side of the door’s corners dropped into their track in the floor with a satisfying snap and laboured to drag the heavy metal. Barely a crack appeared before Ove leaped into the air, cawing. “My Lady!” she shrieked, using her momentum as she landed on the heavy table to pull it with her talons onto its side.

Confused, Lyrua turned to face Ove as Lander wrapped his arm around her waist and carried her away from the door. He had no more clue than she did, but Ove could sense things they could not. He set the Queen behind the overturned table and she dropped to her knees.

Three shadowy forms sprouted from the opening, wriggling as they clawed through the still-opening portal. Shadowed blades swung with spindly limbs clashed against the door and wall as they fought for passage.

Ove pushed off the table and a shortsword flashed in Lyrua’s light as she drew it from her cloak. She met one of the creatures as it broke free and fell into the room. Her blade impaled it as they collided and they tumbled into the hall. Lander flexed his forearm and the bands that locked his hand to his wrist released. His fist shot from his wrist like a ship catching the wind and crashed through one of the creatures, spraying a wake of grey blood against the walls. The vague form of the last attacker’s head turned down as Ove’s shortsword pierced its chest. Lander moved into the corridor catching the corpses on his foot as he stepped into the hall and sealed the door behind him.

He kicked them into a heap against the wall and pushed his fist back into place with a sharp click as he watched their shadow veils fade. The white, skeletal limbs of stalkers lay in plain view, their bodies hidden by thin black robes. Creatures that were once men, stripped by torture of all personality but their lust for murder, and corrupted by spells to obey whatever evil made them.

The shadows in the hall were deep now, pushing unnaturally against the lamplight. He could still see, but the stalkers’ Dark spells would make them invisible in the dim light. It was darkest around the Kirkegaard paintings, where gold frames that should glitter brightly in the lamplight were instead dull as black cloth. He thought the paintings looked off as well. Something in their eyes was not right, as though the shadows did not reach them.

Ove shared a ledge with a vase of orange daffodils in an alcove swathed in lamp light. Her eyes narrowed as she reached out towards the creeping shadows. The dark ran from the walls like oil, pooling in corners and then fading as if seeping through the floor. A shadow jerked, startled by the light, it lurched towards her but Lander cut it out of the air with a quick slash. Blood splattered against the wall, and tainted the orange bouquet with dark drops as the corpse fell beneath her and resolved into the bony figure of a stalker. Even in normal lamplight their veils made the stalkers difficult to identify. He could see right through the figures, as though looking at the shadows they cast rather than the stalkers themselves.

“I see seven more,” Ove said, unblinkingly still as she watched them. Lander was no spellcaster, but he knew enough to know her attunement to Dark allowed her to sense Dark spells. If she was close enough. She reached out and made a pulling motion into the air; a gesture to aid her in visualising what she was doing with her mana. Three of the stalkers started as they were suddenly exposed, their dark veils torn away like cloth.

One drew its longsword and advanced on Lander, its branchy arms swinging the blade in undisciplined arcs. It struck the left side of his torso and snapped harmlessly against his armour. The tip of the blade made a pleasant ring and it clattered against the wall. The next stalker jabbed at him but the longsword found no purchase and slid away, carrying the creature in front of him. The third drew a small crossbow and loosed a bolt at Ove. He swiped it from the air and planted it in one of their skulls. It toppled back, convulsing to the floor, clawing desperately at its own head with broken nails until the life drained out of it, pooling grey into the rug.

He looked down at the pale gaunt face and bulging white eyes of the creature as it rammed its sword between the plates of his armour and into his chest. Irritating, but beneath his armour he was still steel. He raised his leg and relaxed the bands around his shin to release the spring in his armour, pounding dust out of the stalker’s robes with a devastating kick that knocked the life from it and sent its body somersaulting through the corridor to lay heaped and motionless.

He stomped the foot, putting all his weight into his leg, to compress the springs and reset the kick with three heavy clicks. The last stalker crept towards him as he straightened, looking for an advantage. Something flashed at the edge of his vision, and a dagger plunged into the stalker’s throat. It collapsed, shrieking hoarsely.

Ahead, spindly white knuckles curled around the edges of a portrait of Claire Kirkegaard. Crazed white eyes and the slanted, hanging jaws of a stalker emerged from the painting like a spider squeezing through a hole. Two more crawled out of other paintings in similar fashion while a fourth creeped out from the shadows underneath the rug.

Watching the monsters scuttle forward, his mouth stretched in a wide grin as he revelled in the combat. Every battle was a performance; a demonstration of power before the discerning eyes of the Archangels. Every battle fought was not just for victory, but for worthiness.

They closed the distance quickly, all four firing tiny crossbows as they ran, then discarding them. Feathers fluttered behind him as Ove used him for cover. The four bolts bent harmlessly on his armour in echoed clangs. He swung his sword in a horizontal arc as the first two stalkers reached him. They bent unnaturally beneath the blade and slid behind him. He turned enough to see them disappear beneath the tea room door, using the shadows as a tunnel, and Ove scrambling into the cracks after them.

The two remaining stalkers brandished long, dented slabs of metal that barely qualified as swords. They were sharp; if only he had any flesh to slice. He held his sword aloft like a spear and threw it with precision. One ducked aside, dashing towards him. The one he aimed for took the sword to the chest with a crunch. Before the corpse hit the floor, his eyes burned orange and his sword obeyed his command as his own limb, flicking towards him and tossing the corpse of the stalker into its partner. It tumbled to the ground before him, writhing to control its momentum, until he brought down his foot and its head burst into a puddle of goo.

That made five.

***

Lyrua shrieked as the first bony arms sprouted from beneath the door like weeds, flailing for leverage as the stalker entered the tea room. Her heart pounded. There were no windows, no other doors, nowhere for her to escape to. What happened to Lander and Ove? They could not have been overwhelmed… not by stalkers. She backed away from the table, knocking aside bits of porcelain as her slippers dragged on the rug.

She kept her eyes on the creature as its head found its way though. She focused her mind inward, imagining a glass jar of sweet honey milk; her soul, filled with all her mana. Drawing it out she moulded it into a small plane and a sheet of light solidified before her. She poured more mana into it to widen its coverage, but the stalker was through to its heels.

Another set of arms grew out from beneath the door, pushing against it to bring the monster’s head through. One cackled at her, head hanging against the ground, as its arm bent into its robe to produce a dagger that it tossed with a quick, crooked swing. She stepped aside and the dagger zipped past her to crash into a vase and spill daffodils across the floor. It pulled its heel free of the shadow with a jerk. The creature stepped up and gripped the edge of the table with its toes, pulling itself over with its feet as gnarled arms drew a sword and dagger. Under the door the other stalker screamed as if in agony, baring its broken teeth and gums. The scream trailed off into a hacking cough that sprayed saliva and blood across the room.

Her sheet of Light was now the size of a large shield. On the table, the stalker turned back from its choking partner and leaped at her, throwing its dagger and taking the thick sword in both hands even as it came down on her. The dagger cracked her barrier, leaving a hole large enough for her fist, but clattered harmlessly to the floor. She pushed the plane away with as much force as she could and it slammed the stalker in the air. They crashed into the wall by the hearth. Cracks webbed out from the hole in the shield before it crumbled to bits and faded, the mana returning to the world. A vase rattled off the mantle and shattered before the coals, scattering daffodils into the fray.

Lyrua’s chest heaved as she struggled to control her breathing. The stalker was not dead. It twitched and writhed, desperate to stand. Her head felt hot, but her arms and legs would not move. She fell back, trembling, barely catching herself against the counter. She felt water running around her hand, but couldn’t spare a thought for it. The stalker dragged itself to its feet. Stems of flowers bent under its curled toes. It took a step towards her, then fell dead to the ground, a thin blade protruding from its head. Grey blood stained the rugs, and leaked into the cold hearth.

She hadn’t noticed Ove enter the room. Of course Ove would save her! The little raven hesitated. Their gazes fell to the stalker at the door. It gasped, clawing weakly at the rug to drag itself forward. It was free of the shadows, but its legs had not made it through. Black entrails and shrivelled organs dragged behind it as it laboured to cross the room.

“Excuse me, my Lady,” Ove said, bowing slightly. She stuck her sword in the monster’s head. Ove retrieved her dagger and wiped her blades on one of their robes.

The Queen raised her hand and wiped the sweat from her eyes. Red daffodils lay scattered; water dripping from their ruined vases. Her table was splashed with blood and her rugs were stained grey. Her flowers wilted, their brilliant colours ruined. Her babies were not safe. “Athen!” She screamed, darting forward towards the opening door. Lander stepped through and caught her by the waist. He took only a moment to scan the scene before turning back to the hall, carrying her upright in one arm. “Put me down!” she screamed, kicking and punching at him. She only hurt her own hands. He stepped widely as if avoiding something on the floor.

Ove flapped out of the room behind them. “I will get Athen, my Queen. I can reach him before you could.” Ove did not wait for a reply; she was gone in a moment.

Lyrua’s eyes flooded with tears. She let them come. “My Athen…” Her voice was ragged. “Sweet Athen…”

Lander put her down clear of a pool of bloodied corpses she had not seen. She might have run through them had he not caught her. He motioned her forward, crossing his arms impatiently and craned his neck to look down at her.

“I need a moment.” She let herself fall to her knees, and took a deep breath to try and clear her head. She could not sense Athen while her head was muddled. She recalled a time when he used his Light to heal an injured dog and was happier to play with the mutt than he was about managing the spell. As the memory replaced images of mangled stalkers and blood in her mind, she could feel his presence, not far away, on the floor above. That meant he was alive, but it did not mean he was out of danger.

She told herself he must be safe, tucked into his bed where she had kissed him goodnight only hours ago, and pushed herself to her feet. Her husband only feared the daughter she carried anyway, as only a Kirkegaard woman could take his power. He had no reason to kill Athen. Like her grandmother, it would be simpler to bury her alone and blame her death on the pregnancy. Or if need be, claim the assassins came from Sorenrov or some other disgruntled noble who had a grudge against her mother. She sighed, shaking with relief, exhaustion, and fear.

“My Queen, time will not still for you. If the Prince is unharmed we should flee now. Stalkers don’t spawn on their own. The real threat is whoever made them.”

She pushed herself to her feet, and allowed him to lead her back to her chambers. Her focus hung on the thin light in her mind’s eye like a thread that bound them together. Her son was alive.