I watched the spindle tree from my seat on the floor. Its shadow grew long against the stonework, autumn light quick to fade as evening came on.

They’ll be back from patrol any moment, I whispered to the dark. We’re almost out of time.

Above me, Hauth and Orithe spoke in hushed voices. Every so often, Orithe looked my way, his unnaturally light eyes clouded.

It had taken him only moments to confirm my magic, my blood all over the floor. After that, he and Hauth had left me alone. Huddled together, they discussed Ravyn and Jespyr and Elm, what their duplicity—their treason— might entail. For a time I was almost forgotten, my arms dripping blood where I’d torn myself free.

Tears streamed down my cheeks, my teeth gritted against what I needed to do. It’s all ruined, I called into the darkness, my voice breaking. Even if Ravyn doesn’t admit to stealing Cards or being a highwayman, they know he hid my infection. No matter how you parcel it, he’s condemned. They’ll kill him.

Ravyn need not die, the Nightmare said, his voice eerily smooth. Then, so quiet it might have been the wind whistling through the window, he said, Do you trust me, Elspeth?

I blinked through the blur of tears. Do I have a choice? My darling, you’ve always had a choice.

I opened my eyes wider, the sound of Spindle House’s gates echoing from the courtyard to my open window.

“Ravyn,” I breathed.

The Destriers were returning.

Hauth and Orithe watched from my window, a small, menacing smile sliding onto the High Prince’s mouth. “Douse the lantern,” he instructed Orithe. “Stay close to the girl. I want to make it abundantly clear to Ravyn, should he try to fight his way out of this, that you’ll gladly send a blade through his pet’s pretty neck.”

Orithe glanced at me. “Shouldn’t we alert the other Destriers, sire?” “Not yet,” Hauth said. “Ravyn is clever. By the time my father arrests

him for harboring her, he’ll have thought of a dozen lies, immune to any inquest levied at him.” He cast me a sidelong glance. “But he won’t give us any trouble. Not with her life at stake.”

The footsteps grew louder and louder in the courtyard below. I saw the dark cloud of Black Horses pass beneath the spindle tree, lightened only by a small cluster of color that, when placed together, emitted the same dark red hue as the leaves falling from the tree above them.

Red. Violet. Burgundy. They were almost here.

The Nightmare’s voice cut through my thoughts. It’s time.

I screamed. Even through the gag, my shriek ripped through the room— the howl of an animal caught in a snare. I closed my eyes and released the fire in my lungs, my vocal chords scratched raw as the scream carried on in a long, tireless call.

Orithe reached me first, but I sent a foot shooting out, clipping him at the knee. He fell to the floor with a hard thud. I screamed again, my teeth tearing against the gag.

“Enough,” Hauth said, slapping me across the face as he reached into his pocket for the Black Horse. “I swear I’ll break your jaw if you don’t—”

I sprang out from my chair, reaching for him.

Hauth jolted aside, his reflexes quick. I reached out a second time, my fingers slick with my own blood. This time, the heel of my palm collided with Hauth’s chin.

He hit the floor with a bang.

Next to me, Orithe found his feet, his eyes wide as he rushed to Hauth’s side. “Sire!” he said. “Are you all right?”

My body felt strange—weak and strong at the same time—the Nightmare’s strength spinning within me like a wheel stuck in mud. I sprang for the door, but Hauth was on his feet again, levying all his weight into his fist as it collided with my stomach.

I coughed and doubled over, all the air knocked violently out of my lungs.

“Help me hold her,” the High Prince called, his hand tangling in my hair as he forced me to stand.

I cried out as the tips of Orithe’s claw dug into my arm, my black dress quick to absorb the blood as the tips of his blades tore through my skin.

“Put her in the corner,” Hauth called, “away from the door.”

They dragged me across the room and threw me against the wall. I lay dazed, my body twitching as magic burned through it.

Get up! called the voice in the dark. Get up, Elspeth.

The King’s Physician lowered to a crouch above me, his eyes wide and ghostly as he pulled up my sleeve. “Your veins grow dark, child. What is your magic?”

I did not reply, my body shaking.

“The King will not be pleased if I kill you before presenting you to him,” Orithe murmured. “So please, for both of our sakes, stay still.”

I hissed, spitting blood onto his perfect white cloak.

He almost smiled—if smiles could be bitter and filled with pity. “Those eyes,” he said. “So dark.” He stared at me without blinking. “The same eyes I saw behind the black mask on Market Day, before the boy disappeared into the mist.”

Hauth’s head jerked up. “You helped him escape?” he spat at me.

I set my jaw and said nothing, forcing all the hate in my heart into my eyes as I glared up at the heir to the throne.

Hauth watched me, his brow twisting. Suddenly, he barked a laugh. “It was you Linden came upon in the mist, wasn’t it? He had the same marks,” he said, gesturing to the broken scabs on his face. “Only, his were practically to the bone.”

When I remained silent, he looked toward the window, straightening his

tunic. “You’ve wasted your energy, Spindle. Just as I’ve caught you, I’ll catch that boy again. Whether tomorrow, a fortnight, or a year from now…” He smiled to himself. “He’ll burn just the same.”

A moment later Hauth was on the ground coughing, the force of my entire body weighted on his chest as I sent blow after blow into his face, the Nightmare’s strength so powerful Orithe had not even seen me move.

Hauth bucked his hips, knocking me onto the floor, though not before I’d split one of his eyelids. I scurried to my feet, my reflexes keener than I’d ever felt. Hauth wiped furiously at his face, blood dripping into his eye. His Scythe had fallen to the ground between us.

He dove for it, tapping it three times. “Stay still!” he commanded.

A strange, animalistic laugh ripped through me, my eyes drifting to the Card in the High Prince’s hand. “It cannot help you, not against me,” I said, my voice dripping oil. “And what are you, without it?”

Orithe’s claw rang through the air, the tips of his blade a whisper from my face. He came at me again and again, and each time I dodged him.

The Physician’s pale eyes grew wide as I twisted away, my movements unnaturally fast. “What’s her magic?” he called to Hauth, striking the air, only to miss me again.

I could see the whites of Hauth’s eyes. “Tyrn said she had none.”

I reached for the door—my fingers grazing the latch, escape a mere breath away. But before I could open it, salt water filled my eyes and nose. I coughed, choking, stunned.

The intrusion of a Nightmare Card.

Elspeth? Ravyn’s voice called. Are you there?

I was dazed only a moment. But a moment was all Orithe needed to wrap his brutal claw around my neck and tug.

I froze, a single flex of his muscle the difference between life and death. “Your father would want to know about this straightaway, sire,” the Physician panted. “We need to call the Destriers.”

“She’s a bloody waif,” Hauth snapped, stepping forward. “I’ll make her hold still.”

Elspeth? Ravyn called in my head, concern touching the edge of his voice.

I didn’t have time to answer. A moment later I was seeing stars, Hauth’s

hand brutal as he took me by the hair and, with the full force of his strength, slammed my head into the stone wall.

I slumped, my body crashing like dirt into a grave. Everything went black.

Wetness trickled down my neck and pooled on the floor around my hair, hot and sticky—a dark halo of blood.

“You cracked her head,” I heard Orithe say above me.

“She’ll live,” Hauth said, leaning over me. His rough hands shook my shoulders. When I did not move, he slapped me across the face. “Spindle,” he barked. “Spindle!”

But I was far away.

Panic tipped the edge of Ravyn’s voice. Elspeth! Can you hear me?

The world was slipping, my toes sinking deeper and deeper into dark soil.

I saw my aunt’s face as she crouched over me beneath the alder tree, my hands dirty from clawing my way to safety. I saw Ione—the wild, sweet Ione—reaching out to me as we walked through crowded cobbled streets. I saw a bouquet of yarrow in my father’s hand, then yellow in my eyes in the looking glass, the monster in the dark watching me.

I saw Ravyn Yew looking down at me. But there was no fear, no resentment in his clear gray eyes. Only concern—concern and wonder.

Ravyn, I called, my voice tearing away from me, distant, heavy with resolve. Don’t come for me. Hauth and Orithe. They know what I am. They’re waiting for you.

The control in Ravyn’s voice was gone, his words tight with worry.

Where are you, Elspeth?

They’ll see you hang, Yew, the Nightmare said. You cannot save her.

You can still find the Twin Alders, Ravyn, I called into the dark. You can still save Emory. I bit my lip, my voice trembling. But not with Hauth and Orithe hunting you.

“Trees.” Hauth sighed from above, jerking my head as he gripped me by the chin. “Spindle! Wake up!”

Elspeth, the Nightmare cooed, my name like honey on his tongue. Get

up.

I reached out in the darkness for him, and when my mind scraped

against the coarse fur on his back, he did not flinch away. I can’t, I said. I

can’t get up. Not this time. I felt heavy, buried. But you can.

Elspeth.

It was going to happen anyway, Nightmare. You’re strong. And I’m… I’m so tired. My head…

His voice was no more than a whisper. Let me help you.

I sank deeper into the blackness. New visions crossed my mind—places and people I did not recognize—strangers with yellow eyes. They smiled at me, and the world around me swayed, as if on the tide.

But as quickly as it came, the vision vanished. I saw a man run through the mist, children behind him, their faces pale with terror. They fled the burning castle on the top of the hill, disappearing into the chamber beneath tall yew trees.

A gray-eyed boy stood at the edge of the mist, facing down the red light of a Scythe and a mountainous man whose cloak bore the Rowan insignia.

I saw the castle aflame, reduced to ruins. Suddenly my mind was filled with visions of hundreds of children—their veins dark as ink—screaming as they were thrown into an inferno. I saw the mist darken, its tendrils reaching deeper and deeper, choking Blunder off from the rest of the world. Centuries of rage boiled in me, time marked by neither sun nor moon.

Hatred poisoned my blood and I lost myself to the dark, my body twisting

—bones snapping—claws scraping—eyes narrowing, until my body, monstrous, mirrored the hate in my heart.

Animalistic, a creature of the dark—powerful, vengeful, and full of fury.

The last thing I saw before I opened my eyes was a small girl, timid as she peered into a looking glass, her black eyes glazed with fear.

“Do you have a name?” she whispered.

I smiled at her, memory tugging at the corners of my ancient mind. The strange magic, the same beautiful wonder, of the children I once knew. They called me a King’s name once, I said, my tail flickering. But that was a long time ago.

“What shall I call you, then?”

Nothing, child, I said, crawling back into the blackness. I’m just the wind in the trees, the shadow, and the fright. The echo in the leaves… the nightmare in the night.

I snapped awake with a cough, my mind filled with Ravyn’s voice.

Elspeth! he shouted. Goddamnit, Elspeth, hold on. We’re on the stairs.

His voice was shaking. You don’t have to do this alone.

Hauth Rowan stood above me, gripping my chin. “There you are,” he said. “Not dead after all.” Confusion crossed his face. He furrowed his brow, leaning closer to me. “What’s wrong with her eyes, Orithe?”

“Her eyes, sire?”

“They’ve gone yellow. Like some kind of cat.”

Orithe approached, his metal claw tracing my cheek. “Strange,” he said. “They were dark only a moment ago.”

We looked up at Orithe, the corner of our lips curling, as if tugged by invisible string. When Ravyn tried to call out to us, we clenched our teeth, banishing him from our mind. Don’t try to save us, Ravyn Yew, the Nightmare and I said, our voices melding in a strange, echoing dissonance. We cannot be saved.

We struck without fear.

Orithe’s eyes bulged and he recoiled. But it was too late. The Nightmare used all our strength to rip the bladed glove off the Physician’s hand—bone snapping and skin sloughing.

Then we shoved it, full force, into his throat.

Orithe let out a gurgling scream, blood spraying onto his white robes. He slumped to the floor, shock and fear the last things to pass across his milky eyes before he was taken by the great stillness, his blood the final sign of life as it dripped, unbidden, from his veins—dark, magical, and final.

Hauth jerked back. “Stop!” he commanded.

We smiled, and when we stood, the world around us faded, time and space, Prince and King, child and spirit. All that remained was magic— black as ink.

Powerful, vengeful, and full of fury.

Our voice dripped oil, Hauth fixed in our gaze. We stalked him, pinning him in the corner of the room. “They came in the night,” we said, “the black and red horde. They burned down my castle, put my kin to the sword. The usurper was crowned, though my blood had not dried. But he did not

account for the turn of the tide. For nothing is safe, and nothing is free. Debt follows all men, no matter their plea. When the Shepherd returns, a new day shall ring. Death to the Rowans…

“Long live the King.”

Hauth’s cheekbone shattered beneath our hand. He crashed to the floor and moaned, his face leaching color, blood spilling out his mouth.

I looked down at him, pitiless. This is the end, isn’t it? I murmured, darkness creeping across my vision. I go now. And you—you remain.

It was inevitable, the Nightmare said, his voice louder and louder. This is your degeneration, Elspeth Spindle. Nothing comes free.

The air around me thinned. I blinked, trying to stave off the darkness, like a child fighting sleep. Promise me you’ll help Ravyn. Promise me you’ll save Emory.

It’s time, dear one, he purred, lulling me to rest.

Promise!

He sighed. I promise to help the Yews in all their endeavors.

I closed my eyes, a final whisper escaping my lips. The story—our story. The Nightmare’s and mine. “There once was a girl,” I said, “clever and good, who tarried in shadow in the depths of the wood. There also was a King—a shepherd by his crook, who reigned over magic and wrote the old book. The two were together, so the two were the same…”

The last thing I heard before I was buried in darkness was the Nightmare’s silky laugh, wicked and absolute. The girl, the King… and the monster they became.