Leandros Nochdvor had a secret: he loved ghost stories. Not just any ghost stories, but the trashy, serialized variety that sold on street corners for a penny. Losing himself in a cheap romance and dubious haunting beat confronting his own ghosts, the failures and losses that clung to him like cobwebs.

As far as guilty pleasures went, this one was relatively harmless, but he’d be the first to admit it had caused his current predicament. He’d just wanted a new chapter to read. He hadn’t counted on meeting a ghost of his own.

He’d been browsing market stalls with his cousin when he’d spotted the latest installment of his favorite story, sitting in a newsstand across the street, taunting him. He’d recognized the cover halfway down the block: the black and white illustration depicted a loosely dressed woman wrapped in her lover’s arms, a dark-windowed house looming behind them. It was scandalous, as scandalous as the story itself tended to be, and Leandros couldn’t possibly buy it in front of the Crown Princess of Alfheimr.

Back home, he had a system. He had to. His favorite penny dreadfuls had limited print runs that sold fast, and while normal people could borrow copies off friends and neighbors when they missed a week, Leandros was a Prince of Alfheimr, the Hero of Histrios. No one could know about this guilty pleasure of his. So once a week, he donned a disguise and stole out of the palace, holing up in a dark cafe to catch up on the latest chapters of his favorite stories. It worked well back home, but now he was traveling with family. When they weren’t on the road, they were guests in someone else’s home. It left little opportunities for sneaking out.

So, when Leandros saw that corner newsstand, of course he’d looked over his shoulder to see if Rhea was watching. And she wasn’t. All he saw was her parasol, her back to him as she perused a local jeweler’s stall. It was the best chance he’d get. Penny already in hand, he stepped off the sidewalk into the street, but before he could make it any further, a small body crashed into him with all the force of a freight train.

He and his assailant both went stumbling: the assailant to the ground and Leandros into a florist. The florist, in turn, reeled and knocked a tub of wilted roses off her counter, dumping sickly sweet, freezing water all down Leandros’ pants. He swore, jumped back, and tried to shake the water off, all his annoyance and anger ready on his tongue by the time he turned to his assailant.

Finding her on the ground, the words died and instead, he offered her a hand. She hesitated before taking it, her face obscured by a heavy cloak and draping hood, but then she let Leandros pull her up, her pale hand clammy in his own. And as she straightened up, Leandros glimpsed beneath her hood.

A chill ran down his spine.

To him, the word ghost was only ever a metaphor. He didn’t believe ghosts were real — he never had. But looking at this woman now, it was the only word that fit. A mask covered the lower half of her face, but Leandros could tell she was orinian , from across the valley. What skin he could see was bloated and mottled, torn open by wounds that cut across her pale forehead. Only her eyes had any life to them, feverish and bright beneath her hood.

She met his eyes, and Leandros swore he heard her laugh. Then, without warning, she took off running. What could he do but give chase?

“Leandros!” Rhea called, her voice lost amidst the florist’s shouts and the crowd’s chatter.

It was instinct that forced Leandros on. The crowd resisted him, pushed back against him, but he pushed harder. He elbowed his way through, to surprised exclamations and much grumbling, then finally shot free of the crowd like a bullet from the barrel of a pistol. Always, he kept the back of the woman’s raggedy cloak in his sights. He didn’t know why, but he felt that losing her now would be a mistake. Maybe he’d been reading too much fiction, but he couldn’t shake a sense of dread.

Up ahead, he watched the edges of the woman’s cloak disappear around a corner. He turned the corner himself only seconds later, but when he did, she was gone. Leandros skidded to a stop and looked up and down the street. It was empty. There were no side streets, no alleys. Nowhere to go.

“Shit,” Leandros said to the empty road, pushing his golden hair out of his face. He rested his hands on his —wet, cold — knees and paused to catch his breath. “Shit.”

He’d followed the woman almost halfway across Illyon, he noted with distaste. It was a neighborhood he knew well, one he’d visited often, in another life. It was quiet, mixed residential, not quite wealthy but not poor, either. The cobbled road was pock-marked and the dresses in the storefronts at least several seasons behind Alfheim, the capital city. Leandros ached with a nostalgia he had neither the time nor energy for, in that moment.

He hated Illyon. It was a dingy, self-important little city, industrial and “progressive” in a way that meant progress only for the rich and lucky. Factory smoke filled its skies and buried the suns, and beneath the smog was a smell so foul it hurt to breathe, the product of a sewage system that failed to fit the growing population. It had only gotten worse in the sixty years since Leandros' last visit, and he was less than impressed. If Illyon was good for anything, it was this: ill omens, strange happenings. Ghostly women that appeared and disappeared in a miasma of bad timing and rotten luck. There would be no finding her, now.

He needed to get back to Rhea, shouldn't have left her in the first place. They had meetings and responsibilities to attend to. How could he run off chasing ghosts? Illyon was full of those; he should've known better. As he passed back through familiar streets, he passed a group of children playing skip rope, chanting an old rhyme to the beat of their jumps:

Taurel, taurel, old stone and coral

Where do you end your reign?

Spread through the valley, down to the trees.

You will be Egil's bane.

While Leandros slowed without thinking, watched them without seeing, the young girl holding one end of the ropes slowed, almost tripping her friend in the middle up. “Ansel, what's taurel?” she asked.

The boy holding the other end, slightly older than his two companions, shrugged.

Leandros answered without quite meaning to. “It's a flower. It grows north of here, on Unity's island,” he said, the kids all turning to look at him. He cleared his throat, then added, awkwardly, “The rhyme is about Unity.”

“Unity? But wasn't it an alfar that killed Egil?” Ansel asked, regarding Leandros with suspicion. “He went crazy and killed a bunch of people, and even Unity couldn't stop him!”

“My teacher said Egil was a great hero,” said the girl in the middle, stopping her jumping to glare at Ansel. “Heroes don't kill people.”

“They do if they go crazy,” Ansel countered. Like Leandros, he was alfar, with pointed ears and catlike pupils. The girl turned to Leandros, the closest adult, for backup.

“There are conflicting accounts,” he said, feeling a little ill. He didn't know how he'd expected to survive an outing in Illyon without hearing the name Egil.

“Egil used to live here, you know. He had a house, just down that way. It's a museum now,” the girl with the ropes told Leandros, as if Leandros didn't already know. As if you could spend ten minutes in this Atiuh-forsaken city without that knowledge being forced on you. As if, back when the museum was still a house, Leandros hadn't had a guest bedroom made up specially for him, anytime he wanted it. “I went with my class last week.”

“And how was it?” Leandros asked.

The girl only shrugged. “It was boring. Just a house. But I bought a little Egil toy with my allowance. Would you like to see?”

“No,” Leandros said, too quickly. “I’m in a bit of a hurry, I’m afraid.”

Illyon's obsession with Egil was the worst thing about this city. They worshiped the ghost of a hero they had no claim to while Leandros, who had more cause than any to mourn, faced reminders of his lost friend everywhere: in museums and statues, on tacky restaurant menus and even in children's rhymes. It left a bitter taste in his mouth. He couldn't help but think that if Egil had been here, that cloaked woman wouldn't have gotten away. Egil would have known what was wrong with her. Egil would have known how to help.

“Leandros!” a voice called, making Leandros curse under his breath. Slowly, he turned to face his cousin.

Rheamaren Nochdvor wasn’t like Leandros; though younger, she was the perfect alfar in a way Leandros had never managed to pull off, always utterly in control. She never ran, she only walked. She didn't get waylaid by inquisitive children or mysterious strangers. She never even cursed, especially in front of kids, but Leandros could see in the irritated draw of her mouth how badly she wanted to in that moment.

Rhea's high fashion stood out in Illyon. They were supposed to be covert, sneaking around without an escort, but anyone could tell from a glance that Rhea was royalty. She was tall and elegant, in a rich red dress with a full skirt and puff sleeves, matching her parasol. As a symbol of her status, she wore her long, golden hair down, the pointed tips of her ears sticking out from beneath it. She stopped in front of Leandros, then glanced at the children behind him, her anger quickly replaced by puzzlement. “Am I...interrupting?”

The children, watching Rhea with wide eyes, kept quiet.

“We were just discussing Egil,” Leandros said with a wry smile that softened when he glanced back at the kids. He gave them a playful bow, and the two girls grinned and curtsied back. “I'm sorry to have kept you from your game. Please, excuse me.”

Rhea glanced over the children disinterestedly before turning to leave. Leandros hurried to catch up, and when he fell into step, she asked, “Egil, really? I don't know why you do this to yourself.”

“It wasn't intentional.”

“I don't believe you. And what’s going on here?” Rhea asked, gesturing all around them. “Are you going to explain what you were thinking, taking off like that?”

Leandros scratched his chin, now embarrassed to say. “It doesn't matter anymore. I thought I saw something strange.”

“Strange? You ran all this way for strange? What kind of strange?”

“It's hard to describe. That woman was orinian, but she—”

“Orean is a day's ride away, Leandros,” Rhea said. Her voice was flat and measured, flawless as cold stone. “Of course there will be orinians here.”

“Yes, obviously,” Leandros snapped. Normally, he tried to be patient with Rhea, but it was hard with these ghosts all around him, hard when every breeze reminded him of his morning, freezing his still-wet clothes. Well, at least he was wearing all black. If he’d been wearing one of those white linen suits that were trending in the north, there would’ve been no preserving his dignity or his decency. Perhaps there were benefits to staying in mourning blacks, after all. “Something was wrong with her, Rhea. Really wrong.”

“Not with her legs, given how fast she ran from you,” Rhea said. She paused, then examined her cousin's expression more closely. His unease must have been obvious, given how quickly her tone changed. “Well, where did she go? Should we keep looking for her?”

“When are we due back?”

“In ten minutes.”

Leandros winced and checked his watch. She was right. “There’s no time,” he said. “Besides, I have a feeling we won’t find her even if we look. We’re not far from Hampstead Hall; we can be back in twenty minutes if you don’t dawdle,” he said, starting off down the street without waiting for Rhea to catch up.

“If I don’t dawdle?” she hissed, hurrying after him. “Why, you — Ugh, Leandros, why don’t we just hail a cab?”

“Because this isn’t Alfheim. We’re not going to find any in a neighborhood like this; we’ll have to get back to High Street before we even have a chance.”

It wasn’t even a bad neighborhood, in the way people liked to call neighborhoods inherently “bad” — not unsafe or rowdy or even particularly lively, but Leandros never would've brought Rhea here under other circumstances. The problem wasn't Rhea — she needed to expand her horizons, see more of the world. But if her father found out, he'd be disappointed in Leandros, and Leandros could never disappoint his King. Not intentionally, at least. But as long as they were already here…

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

“Look around. Commit this to memory,” he said, even while he himself looked under passersbys' hoods and down alleys for his missing ghost. “This is how most of your subjects live. It’s important to leave home every now and then, see the world.”

Rhea wrinkled her nose at getting orders from her cousin, older though he was. “Rich, coming from you. How long has it been since you’ve left the Palace grounds?”

Of course, she didn’t know about his sneaking out for cheap fiction. That was just as well. “I’m not going to be queen,” Leandros said.

In the end, Rhea did as he asked, taking in the city with curious eyes until they managed to hail a cab on High Street. It rattled easily through the market, the crowd parting for it in a way it didn’t for fellow pedestrians. Leandros kept checking his watch on the way, watching the smooth ride shave minutes off their arrival time. The watch's front was dented, the metal tarnished, but it ticked steadily in Leandros' hand. His eyes carefully avoided the initials engraved on the inner corner.

“Only five minutes late,” he said smugly.

“You're the one who made us late, so why do you sound so proud?” Rhea asked. “There are flower petals in your hair, by the way.”

Leandros frowned and ran his hands through his hair. It was the same golden color as Rhea’s and was cut fashionably at chin length, though a single, stubborn lock tended to fall rather unfashionably into his eyes. Sure enough, he shook out small petals and half of a leaf – from his run-in with the florist, it seemed.

“I had to pay for all those roses you ruined,” Rhea said. “I expect you to pay me back.”

Leandros scoffed. “Those roses were already as good as dead. Whatever you paid, it was too much.”

“And what was I supposed to do? You didn't exactly give me time to barter!”

“I don't believe that you even know how to barter,” Leandros countered. “But fine. I'll pay you back if your father doesn't kill me for making you late, first.”

“He won’t. You know how he always defends you. Besides, he’s too glad you finally left the Palace to be very angry.” Rhea watched, unimpressed, as he continued to shake out his hair, then took pity and plucked the last bit of flower out for him. “We should do this again, when we have more time. I want to see more of Illyon before we return to Alfheim.”

“Maybe,” Leandros agreed, looking out the window. “I think I'd like to see the house.”

A small furrow appeared between Rhea's brows. All alfar expressions were subtle, Rhea's more than most, but Leandros knew where to look. “Egil's? Are you serious? Whenever you so much as hear his name, you mope about the Palace for weeks.”

Leandros’ expressions were not subtle. Compared to his family, he wore his heart on his sleeve. It had always been this way. He looked out the window so Rhea couldn't see his face. “It's been sixty years,” he said. To a human, Egil was history. To Leandros, the cut still ran deep. “I know the time for mourning has passed. Maybe this will give me closure.”

Rhea's gaze on him was too heavy, so Leandros added, “I just wish they hadn't turned it into a fucking museum.”

“So buy the building. We're here, by the way. Would you like to complain more, or shall we go?”

“By all means, let’s go. I can complain on the way.”

If the guards of Hampstead Hall were surprised at seeing their guests of honor on the wrong side of the gates, they didn’t show it, letting Rhea and Leandros wordlessly through when they arrived. The two alfar passed into a wide courtyard, empty and echoing, and took a moment to brush the dust from their clothes. Leandros’ trousers had mostly dried, at least, though they’d dried stiff and crunchy.

Around them, the unique silver brick of Hampstead’s walls caught in the sunslight, making the place feel like a glittering mosaic. The courtyard was empty as they passed through, but now and then Leandros glimpsed servants scurrying along the upper corridors, disappearing and reappearing between ivy-covered columns and glancing over the edge to glimpse the princess and her infamous cousin. Leandros ignored them, more than used to being a subject of curiosity.

He and Rhea climbed the stairs up to the reception hall, its gilded doors held open for them by Illyon guards. Rhea swept inside first, treating her arrival like a gift to everyone waiting within. Before he followed, Leandros wiped his smile from his face. In Illyon, as in all the Alfheimr province, expression was a weakness that would be used against him.

The reception hall was a round room at the top of Hampstead’s tallest tower, flooded in light and circled on all sides by arched windows. The suns outside blinded Leandros, but not as much as the nobles inside, their sparkling fabrics and bright jewelry refracting sunslight along the domed ceiling. Spaced evenly throughout, they circled a man at the room’s center, planets circling a golden-bright sun. Nobles and lords and politicians, circling the King of Alfheimr.

Amos Nochdvor turned when Rhea and Leandros swept in. He didn’t smile — here, that would be boorish — but his eyebrows lifted slightly. It was a good sign. “There you are,” he said.

Rhea bowed and Leandros followed suit. When she straightened again, Rhea said, “Apologies, father. I asked Leandros to show me the city.”

Amos turned his attention to Leandros, his sharp blue eyes pinning Leandros in place. Leandros had the same eyes, as had his father before him. At the mention of Leandros’ name, a ripple of whispers and scorn passed through the room, more than a few nobles tilting their heads to look down their noses at him. “You couldn’t have chosen a better time for your tour?” Amos asked.

Leandros bowed again. “The fault is mine.”

“It’s a beautiful day and you’re both young. I suppose I cannot blame you,” Amos said, looking out the windows. When he again met Leandros’ gaze, the ice in his gaze had thawed. “Though we'll discuss your leaving without an escort later.”

With that, he returned to the conversation they’d interrupted while Rhea tugged Leandros toward the windows, out of the way. He could feel eyes on him, so he turned to lean out the open window, his back to the room. Alfheimr prized stoicism: hide how you feel. Don’t say what you mean. Be private, be discrete, and give your enemies nothing. Leandros had a history of breaking these rules — he’d traveled too often and too far in his youth. He’d been given too much independence and lost what made him alfar. It was Egil, they said, and all the adventures he’d had with the earnestly human hero. They loved Egil in theory and held disdain for him in private, and everything Leandros had done in Egil’s name made him something of an oddity.

When Leandros gave them nothing worth gossiping about, they returned their attention to the glittering king. Leandros and Rhea hadn’t missed much. Alfar meetings always started with circling small talk, court gossip, and pleasantries, moving slowly like new partners at the start of a dance. Leandros had no use for small talk or gossip, so he admired the view. All of Illyon sprawled below him like a map, from the plumes of factory smoke curling in the distance to the flat rooftops of Hampstead Hall just beneath him. Further out, little more than a spot on the horizon, sat the independent city-state of Orean. Orean fit between jagged mountains, past the Alfheimr province’s borders and Unity’s grasp. It was a kinder city than Illyon and Leandros dreamed of returning there someday. Maybe if a day came when Amos could no longer defend him.

Someone knocked at the doors, and the captain of Hampstead’s guard entered and kneeled before the king. “A messenger from Orean has come to speak with His Majesty,” he said.

Leandros wouldn’t have thought it possible, but the nobles reacted even more disdainfully to the mention of Orean than they had to his name. Normally, Orean was the subject of empty grumbling, like bad weather or a horse losing at the tracks. Back home, they’d been hearing about rising tensions, disputes over resources and pollution, heated exchanges, but Leandros hadn’t taken them seriously. There were always rumors. The rumors were normal. But given how quickly the energy in the room had soured, Leandros started to wonder if this time they might be true.

“Were you expecting anyone?” Amos asked the woman beside him — Illyon’s governor, Leandros remembered from the earlier introductions. “Ah, no matter. We’ll hear them out.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” the captain said. He turned to leave, then hesitated. “If you don’t mind my saying, His Majesty should be careful. There’s something off about this woman...something unnatural.”

“What do you mean?” Amos asked.

Rhea and Leandros shared a look. Rhea shook her head, but Leandros was already stepping forward. “Your Majesty, if I may. Did she have a black cloak and red hair, Captain?”

Eyebrows raised, the captain nodded, and Leandros felt his stomach drop. The dread from before returned. “I believe Princess Rheamaren and I ran into the same orinian on our way here.”

Amos looked to Rhea, but Rhea again shook her head. “I didn’t see her face. Only Leandros did.”

“Explain,” Amos ordered.

Leandros bowed. “Yes, Your Majesty. I only saw her for a moment, but she seemed wounded, her face full of cuts from no weapon I’ve ever seen. Before I could speak with her, she ran. I don’t think she meant harm — at least, she bore no weapon, but Captain Nielson is right. There's something strange about her. I think you should invite her up.”

“You would give your King orders?” the Governor asked.

Amos silenced her with a look. “I trust my nephew’s judgment,” he said. He turned again to Captain Nielson, the flowing silks of his coats slithering across the cold marble. “And I won’t turn away a missive from Orean. Send her up.”

Nielson hadn't been gone long before the doors opened again.

The smell hit first, like rancid meat and spoiled perfume, then out of the shadows stepped Leandros' cloaked stranger. Shadows spread from her like magic, reaching along the walls and floor like grasping claws, snuffing out the dancing lights caused by all the glitter and gold. Since their meeting in the marketplace, the woman had unbuttoned her cloak and lowered her mask; Leandros could now see Orean's insignia beneath, etched onto leather armor so old it belonged in a textbook.

She stepped forward with a jerky sway, like a puppet guided by an inexperienced puppeteer. Only then did she lower her hood.

It was worse than Leandros remembered. Her skin was gray, almost translucent, and framed by long curls as red as blood. Like all orinians, she had long, calf-like ears and a tail that swished beneath her cloak. The wounds Leandros saw before stretched across her skin in a mockery of orinians’ pale birthmarks, and where muscle and bone should have been visible beneath instead flowed a strange liquid, orange and sluggish like magma. It pulsed beneath her skin with every beat of her heart and her eyes, alight with the same glow, fixed unblinkingly on the King.

Leandros felt ill just looking at her. Near him, one of Illyon’s nobles fainted in a heap of heavy skirts, her friends too entranced by their flyblown visitor to catch her. Just as before, when faced with everyone’s horror, the woman only smiled. At least, Leandros thought it was supposed to be a smile — only half her face cooperated, the other cut through by wicked gashes.

Beyond her appearance, beyond her smile, beyond even the smell of death that clung to her like perfume, something about her unsettled Leandros. Something bigger, something behind her eyes, a presence looking out. It felt like wandering alone through haunted ruins, like he was something very small facing something very large. It hid in the swirl of that strange glow on her skin, and it had Leandros' hand going to the revolver he wore at his hip. He needed to get Amos away from her, and Amos seemed to have the same realization. “Guards!” he shouted, the calm king’s voice breaking on the word. “Guards!”

There was no answer from the hallway beyond, only fingers of blood flowing through the open doors. When the orinian woman took a step toward the King, the governor bravely moved to block her way.

“Don’t!” Leandros warned, but too late. The orinian caught the governor by the throat, her graying fingers swollen, and lifted her off the ground like she weighed nothing.

“Release her,” the king commanded. “Release her and tell us what you want.”

The orinian tilted her head to one side, considering the command, then let the Governor drop. “Very well,” she said, her voice unexpectedly sweet. Her accent felt as old as her clothing, as old as the strange presence behind her eyes that wore her like a shell. Beneath the cruor, she was tragically beautiful. “I want you. Will you come with me?”

Leandros drew his gun and aimed it at the woman. “Don’t move any closer,” he warned. “He's not going anywhere.”

The woman only glanced at Leandros, seemingly ready to dismiss him, but then her gaze snapped back to his face. She blinked, almost seeming surprised. “You again,” she observed. “I’m sorry, but I will have him.”

When she took another step, Leandros fired.

The shot echoed through the room. The bullet struck its target, tearing into the woman’s shoulder. But while she stumbled, lost her stride, she didn’t so much as glance at the wound before pressing forward again. So again, Leandros shot. Again, she barely even slowed. It was impossible. Inhuman. Leandros shot her again and again and again, shot until his gun ran out of bullets and the orinian reached her target. When she reached the king, she pressed a single finger to his chest.

Leandros watched his uncle shudder and crumple like a broken doll.

Beside him, Rhea screamed and surged forward, but Leandros caught her by the wrist. Others rushed to Amos’ aid while Rhea struggled to break Leandros’ grip. Before anyone could reach the king, the orinian swept her arm through the air and something erupted from her palm — something like lightning and something like fire, something glowing with the same crimson as the magma beneath her skin. It hung in a ring around herself and the fallen king, keeping everyone back. It cracked and sputtered and grew brighter, stronger, hotter while she hoisted Amos off the ground and threw him over her shoulder. It sparked and flared, singeing any who stood close enough.

Despite Rhea’s struggling, Leandros only dragged her further back, stopping when the backs of his thighs hit the windowsill. He tore his eyes from his uncle’s limp form to watch the flames: they were losing their shape, flaring out further with each pop and sputter. When he risked a glance at the orinian again, what he saw turned his blood cold. Her eyes had changed, shadow eclipsing pupil, iris, and sclera and leaving her eyes entirely black. Leandros was frozen in place. He'd seen eyes like those before, pure blackeyes, just once. He'd seen them on the face of his best friend, on the day that Egil died.

Then, before he could do anything to stop her, the woman disappeared into thin air, taking the king with her. Rhea sobbed and struggled harder against Leandros, but even though the orinian was gone, her flames were not. Molten sparks flew at them every few seconds, and Leandros could feel their heat even from the far wall. While the others only stared, he made a decision. He turned, caught Rhea by the waist, and launched them both out the open window.

Rhea screamed as they fell, but a final, deafening pop from the tower drowned her out. An explosion followed, one that shook the earth and blew out every window in the high tower, and the alfar fell amidst a shower of glass and flame.

They hit the flat rooftop a few fleeting seconds later, searing pain shooting up Leandros’ shoulder at his awkward landing. He gasped but pushed himself up anyway, holding himself over Rhea to protect her from the falling glass. He felt it hitting his back and arms, cutting and slicing even as the smaller bits dug into his palms. Only then it stopped, after what felt like ages, did he collapse again beside his cousin, out of breath.

He had a perfect view of the charred window above him, its bricks no longer sparkling. Then Rhea entered Leandros’ field of vision, tears streaking down her cheeks. “Leandros,” she said, voice hoarse. “She has my father. What do we do?”

Leandros shook his head. Past the ringing in his ears, he could hear shouting below, fire bells ringing in the distance. When he closed his eyes, he saw black eyes staring back. It took him a moment to process Rhea's words. His answer, when it came, was simple: “We get him back.”