Page 35 of Off with Her Head
The Cat's grin fades slightly, his eyes growing serious. "History repeats itself in cycles. Elara's betrayal, Mara's corruption—patterns echoing across generations." His gaze moves between us, unusually direct. "But you two represent something new. Heart and blood magic reuniting willingly, equally."
"And the mirror's prophecy?" Ravenna asks. "That one queen must fall?"
The Cat floats closer, circling us slowly. "Consider this: three queens existed at the beginning. Three magical traditions. Three kingdoms. Perfect balance requires the completion of that triangle."
"But Mara has corrupted her portion of the magic," I object. "She's broken the potential for balance."
"Indeed," the Cat agrees, his tail curling questioningly. "So what must happen to restore it?"
The answer comes to both of us simultaneously, our connection allowing the realization to flow between our minds without words.
"One queen must fall," Ravenna whispers. "Not one of us—"
"Mara," I finish. "The corrupted third must be removed for balance to be restored."
"The cycle of betrayal must be broken," the Cat says, beginning to fade from view. "Three became two to prevent corruption. Two might become whole to heal what wassundered. But the third remains a threat as long as corruption flows through her veins."
"Wait," I call as he continues disappearing. "How do we defeat her? How do we restore balance without sacrificing ourselves?"
His grin is the last to vanish, hanging in the air like a crescent moon. "Look to the Blood Tree and its new sapling. The answer grows where heart and blood magic already unite."
And then he's gone, leaving us with more questions than answers, yet with a crucial piece of understanding. The prophecy refers to Mara, not to either of us. The queen who must fall is already lost to the darkness.
"A sapling," Ravenna murmurs, her mind working alongside mine. "The Blood Tree has never reproduced before. It exists only in Darkmore, passed down through generations of my family."
"Yet if the Cat speaks true, it has sprouted in Underland," I conclude. "We need to find it."
We move toward the door, purpose renewed by this revelation. But before we can exit the throne room, a card-soldier bursts in, his paper form bent with exertion.
"Your Majesties!" he gasps. "The eastern border—Mara's forces—they're advancing!"
Through the open windows, a distant horn sounds—the signal from our outermost sentries that battle is imminent.
Ravenna's hand finds mine once more, our magics buzzing instantly. "We'll find the sapling when we have time," she says, determination hardening her voice. "Right now, we have a kingdom to defend."
Our kingdom, I think but don't say aloud, the distinction between Underland and Darkmore becoming increasingly meaningless. As we hurry toward the eastern defenses, I feel our power building, preparing for the confrontation ahead.
The queen who falls will not be either of us. Of that, I am suddenly, completely certain.
Chapter
Fourteen
RAVENNA
The eastern border of Underland has always been a place of transition—where chaos gradually gives way to order, where bright colors fade to muted tones, where reality itself seems to thin in preparation for whatever lies beyond. Now, as Scarlett and I arrive with her personal guard, I see it’s become something else entirely:a battleground.
Mara's forces have breached the outermost defenses with alarming speed. The forward scouts—rabbits with clocks embedded in their fur, flamingos with translucent wings, chess knights whose movements defy conventional geometry—have fallen back to secondary positions. Many bear wounds that pulse with sickly black light, sickness spreading from even minor injuries.
We stand atop a small hill overlooking the unfolding conflict. Below us, the card-soldiers have formed an impressive defensive line, their paper-thin bodies arranged in interlocking patterns that maximize both coverage and mobility. The diamonds and hearts form the front lines, their sharp edges gleaming in the strange twilight that has descended over this section of Underland. The spades and clubs are held in reserve, ready to reinforce weak points or counter breakthroughs.
It's an excellent defensive strategy, one that speaks to Scarlett's tactical brilliance.
"The cards are disciplined," I observe, genuinely impressed. "I expected Underland's forces to be as chaotic as the kingdom itself."
Scarlett's lips curve in a small smile, her eyes never leaving the battlefield. "Terror is an effective teacher," she says, though I sense the words lack the conviction they once held. "But so is love of one's kingdom."
I follow her gaze to the approaching enemy and feel my blood run cold. These are not the controlled soldiers we faced in Darkmore. These are abominations—creatures born of sick magic rather than merely influenced by it. I see contorted versions of Underland's native inhabitants—card-soldiers whose edges drip black ichor, flamingos with tumors erupting from their wings, rabbits whose pocket watches have fused with their flesh, ticking in arrhythmic patterns that hurt the ears.
