Mortal Fantasy

✴｜chapter two

I am hedged between two guards, still shivering from the frosty night air and the mere thought of what awaits me at the palace.

Meir. I want to unchain my grief in tears, but I am not ready to expose my vulnerability to these soldiers, the Palanquin. I am not a sobbing, mangled mess; nor will I be presented as one to the prince. I have to try to forget the people I have left behind, or else I will never accomplish what I have now set out to do.

I feel the blade tucked beneath my robes, cold and waiting along my thigh, and suppress a heavy shiver.

The carriage is a far call from what the angels are capable of—I know they have large, splendent wings, like those of a bird's, but I have never glimpsed them myself. I suppose that the carriage is for me, so as not to have the prince's woman harmed or exposed to the elements in any way. The thought makes me fight a surge of bile in my throat.

"When we arrive at the palace," the soldier sitting across from me suddenly speaks, "you will be left at the Crown Prince's chambers. You will be subject to his any and every will—any offense or act of resistance against him or the royalty will result in immediate death. You are his to keep or kill. You will be provided with daily meals, and, if the prince wishes, a separate quarters. Understand?"

My throat constricts, so I offer my answer as a small nod. I cannot bring myself to speak.

The soldier leans back, lowering his eyes and peering out the carriage window. Angels' eyes are flecked gold, like unpolished gems. The royal family is said to have the brightest eyes—their blood runs much stronger, giving them unique abilities. The last time I had seen any sovereign exercise their magic was when Queen Auven snuffed out the life of a disobedient subject during a procession through the market square. No other angel is said to have ever possessed an ability so powerful—manipulation of the amina, the grounding life force of all living beings. I swallow at the thought.

It is difficult to distract myself from everything and everyone I have left behind, but I can't think of them now, surrounded by golden bloods. Instead I occupy myself with thoughts of the prince, and feel nausea roil in my stomach to think of what he might do to me.

I have never seen the face of Crown Prince Stephen, though he is rumored to be exceptionally attractive and have eyes as golden as the metal itself. Wings as black as night, they say, even though the royal family would never display their wings in public, so I cannot tell how much of it is true. The only thing I know is that the moment he pins me down, I will unsheathe my dagger and plunge it through his heart—the only known way to kill an angel.

A part of me doubts that it will be that simple. I close my eyes against the thought, feeling my fingers curl into fists. It has to work. The prospect of killing the prince is the only thing keeping me sane right now.

The carriage halts abruptly, and I crane my neck to get a look out the window. The palace spires are sharp and looming, nothing but shadow in the dark of night. I feel a pang of unrepressed, icy fear, and dismount as one of the soldiers thrusts the door open.

A group of young maids is waiting, several holding torches and wearing expressions of unsurprised morbidity. They must see this all the time—I have to remind myself that they are like myself, without golden blood, forced to serve the angels they so despise.

The soldiers seem to have taken me to a secret entrance into the palace—the forest around us shrouds the open mouth of a cave that the maids usher me towards, and as the moonlight disappears behind me, one of the maids presses on the wall and heaves open a stone door.

We climb a set of spiraling stone stairs for what seems like eternity. My legs burn, and my breath is ragged—I reach out and brush one of the maid's shoulders. "Ah—can we please... take a break?"