Aesra appeared to escort her, silent as a blade. Poppy walked alongside, chatty now, as if her nervousness had nowhere else to go. They moved through the palace galleries, past fountains of clear glass and wall hangings that shimmered like heat. Servants peeled off from alcoves, nobles stepped into the procession, and soon the hallway was crowded with bodies and perfume and lace.
The Grand Hall lay ahead, its massive doors flanked by guards in bone-white armor. Trumpets sounded: three clear notes. The doors opened.
Willow stepped through.
The space swallowed her. The dome arched high above, painted with constellations that shimmered softly, as if each star knew the name of its witness. Lanterns floated in midair, trailing blossoms. The air was violet-sweet, and everything gleamed.
At the center of the room, the scrying basin waited—moonrock, smooth and spiraled, always full. Willow’s gaze snagged on its surface, which reflected the ceiling, the lights, and her own small form.
She dragged her eyes away and searched the crowd. Jace was nowhere to be seen.
Poppy tugged her sleeve. “Eyes up front. It’s nearly time.”
A hush rippled through the court, and Serrin entered. He wore pale blue robes belted with a gold cord. His hair was dark and heavy, half-pulled back, and a circlet gleamed at his brow. At his throat, a sunburst clasp threw prisms across the stones. He walked like someone who was used to adoring eyes.
Willow’s heart clenched because yes, he was worthy of adoration. He was beautiful. Regal. But young. So much younger than Willow had imagined. He wasn’t a boy, not exactly, but he wasn’t the young man she’d conjured in her dreams. Not exactly.
He looked eagerly around the crowd. His eyes found hers, but Willow felt no lightning strike. Only... confusion.
Serrin blinked as if to clear his vision. He looked again at Willow and smiled sweetly in an attempt to cover the disappointment that crossed his features.
Willow’s chest went tight. She wasn’t the one he’d expected, either.
He gathered himself and approached the scrying bowl, his figure limned by candlelight. At the far side of the dais stood the officiant, a Wise Woman, clad in a plain silver robe. Her hair was dark and braided, and she held a small sheathed dagger.
She raised the dagger and spoke, her voice carrying through the hall. “Blood calls to blood. The heir of Eryth comes forward to see the truth that waits beneath the surface.”
Beyond the Wise Woman, seated on her throne at the head of the hall, Severine watched on. Her gown writhed with living moths, black as pitch. Her eyes found Willow’s. Willow looked away.
The dagger came free with a hiss. The blade was short and sharp. The Wise Woman lifted it high and spun it above her head. It sang a note so fine, it was almost pain.
Serrin didn’t flinch.
He was trying so hard to be brave, and the pang Willow experienced surprised her. She felt real sorrow, deep and unguarded.
“Prince Serrin, son of Severine, heir to Eryth’s crown and keeper of the queen’s line,” said the Wise Woman, “do you come freely to this rite?”
“I do,” said Serrin.
“Do you offer what is yours to give?”
“I do.”
“Then approach.”
He stepped forward, Willow’s hands clenched at her sides.
“Show me your arm, Prince,” the Wise Woman said.
Serrin extended it. The fabric slid back, revealing smooth, pale skin—the skin of a boy who had never bled for anything.
The Wise Woman turned the dagger inward and touched the tip to his skin. She drew it down, elbow to wrist. Willow grimaced as his skin parted. Blood welled along the seam, dark and gleaming, and fell into the basin. Three drops, then four, and then the water must have stirred, because both Serrin and the Wise Woman inhaled and leaned in.
Willow watched Serrin’s face, still expecting that moment when his eyes widened in recognition and he lifted his head, his body turning toward her like a compass needle to true north.
Instead, Serrin braced his hands on the rim of the basin and leaned in as if all he wanted was to fall headfirst into the water.
“Lily,” he said.
