[This scene contains content some might find upsetting. Please check the post/chapter titled Episode Five: “Broken Earth” Content Warning List and Pronunciation Guide for a list of content warnings.]

It was weeks into Singing Moon, the weather outside still settled snugly within summer, even if the days were getting shorter—and yet the Great Hall of Broken Earth was as cold as always. Belle didn’t know if it was just the cruel magic that bred within the stone walls that kept her fingers eternally stiff, kept a permanent shiver in her spine when she was within the castle, or if the white-blue stone truly was that frigid, but regardless, she couldn’t help feeling like an animated corpse, walking around within her great, beautiful, hollow crypt.

It was her second worst fear, that she would die within the columned walls and towering, iron-lined windows. Beneath the high ceilings and swirling arches that reached up in worship of the Light Mother. That she was already dead. Entombed.

Belle wasn’t supposed to be present in the Great Hall for this—in fact she was strictly banned from being in the castle at all while Richard, sitting just one seat off-center of the high table, received and assessed the line of dozens of young women all dressed in the most attention-grabbing dresses their noble parents could buy. His potential brides.

Before Belle, the Royal Primaspectalia had been a biannual occurrence for the Crown Prince, ever since he was in his teens. And it always went the same way. He chose a girl, whichever one struck his fancy at the time, and Aran negotiated the engagement. The girl, elated at being chosen by the handsome Crown Prince, was moved into a house on the castle grounds while the wedding was planned. Richard would court the girl—his version of courting, anyway.

And within months, the girl would be dead.

Of all the young noble women Richard had chosen over the years, only two had ever made it to the wedding. The weddings had been great, extravagant events. And when those brides had inevitably died at the hands of their groom, all memory of any woman, any wedding was quickly wiped from Broken Earth’s collective consciousness. No one even remembered their names.

Except Richard. And now Belle.

He had told her all about them. He could remember the dresses each of his brides had been wearing the day he’d met them, from the cut of the neckline to the color of the embroidery, the styles of their hair to the adornments of their shoes.

Belle had read all of his journals, full of details about each of the brides and Richard’s “dates” with them, pages upon pages of surprisingly skillful sketches and portraits he had done of them. Beginning with ones they’d posed for.

And ending with ones he’d posed them for.

Richard was an intelligent and skilled man—but all of the intelligence he’d earned and skills he had developed had been for Aran, to prove himself to her. Except for these journals. This obsessive documentation and borderline worship of his victims. Aran didn’t even know about those.

Belle had earned several journals herself. But she had never read them. She didn’t think about them. She couldn’t.

Since Belle had been brought into the castle, the Primaspectalia had become much less frequent—only three in the five years Belle had been here, and none of them had ended with Richard choosing a new bride. That wasn’t just because Richard had yet to kill Belle, it was also because Belle worked very, very hard to make sure his attention, his “affection” stayed solely trained upon her. It was both to protect the ignorant young women—and to ensure Belle’s own survival.

The instant Richard lost interest in her, she and Mama B were dead.

So, once again, Belle had snuck through one of the servant’s passageways to a nook overlooking the hall that was used when one of the chandeliers, dripping with jagged, broken crystal, needed servicing. She watched Richard’s magic closely as the women paraded themselves around in front of him, whispering to herself and tracing manipulation runes of disinterest in the air. The runes wouldn’t be nearly as effective as they would if she were closer to him, but they were better than nothing. And they were doing their job—Richard was slumped in his silver chair, head propped in one hand, his magic a dull orange-brown, drifting lazily in no one direction.

“Naughty girl.”

The voice in Belle’s ear made her jump, heart sputtering, but before she had the chance to gasp, Z placed a soft hand over her mouth to muffle it.

“You are supposed to be well outside castle walls, Lady Belle,” Z said, a smirk in their unfamiliar, lowered voice.

As Z removed their hand from Belle’s mouth, she placed her own hand on her sternum, trying to calm her pounding heart. She hissed, “And you’re supposed to be well inside Eagle House’s walls, Lord Vigore.”

Z huffed, their voice a mixture of annoyance and amusement as they said, “I hate that your Eyes can always see me, no matter what face I wear.”

She looked back at Z, stunned to see the soft face and gentle eyes of not Z Vigore, but Richard’s personal attendant, Deacon. She said, “Take that face off before you earn Deacon an execution.”

Z put on a cocky smile unlike any expression Belle had ever seen on Dea’s timid, anxious face. “There’s a hole down in the crowd below—have those magic eyes of yours found it? Or were they too trained on our dear, deadly prince?”

Belle looked back down into the Great Hall—Richard was still there, his magic a little more lively now that her disinterest runes had ceased, and the true Deacon hovering behind him. Royal guards on display, and of course all the young noble women, now approaching the high table one by one, alongside their escorts—family members or guardians—to introduce themselves to the prince. Belle couldn’t find anything off. Usually Aran was here to keep Richard focused, and to keep him from embarrassing her, but of course she was still in Ixhale, and Lona Vigore was serving in her stead…

Wait.

“Mom slipped out a handful of minutes ago, trying to make her enormous, shiny self invisible. Can you name why?”

Lona was doing something behind Richard’s back, obviously. Distracting Richard was the point of this whole display—even Richard knew that. But Belle had just thought it was about keeping him occupied while Aran wasn’t here, not that there was something going on within the castle that they wanted to keep out of his sight.

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“Can you?” Belle asked.

“I can only name her path—toward the west wing, heading into the mountain.”

So it was something they wanted to keep well out of Richard’s sight. Out of everyone’s sight. No one went into the mountain. Except Belle, when she was visiting Mama B. Belle’s heart squeezed—was this about her mother?

Belle stepped around Z, whispering urgently. “Keep eyes on him, Z. Please. Name the ones who snag his attention. They’re names I need, for their sake and mine.”

And then she was flying down the narrow stairs of the passageway on light feet. Her magic was on high alert, stretching as far as it could, doing its best to see everything, so by the time she reached the bottom, she already knew her way was clear. She didn’t bother peeking out from behind the tapestry that covered the passageway, instead whipping it aside and rushing west. She ran on the toes of her sandals, making nearly no noise on the thick, Earthbreaker-blue rug that stretched down the center of the hallways.

Twice, she had to duck out of sight as servants hurried by, moving in and out of their passageways so they could silently serve the prince and his potential brides. But finally, she reached the hallway that led into the mountain—beautiful, smooth, pale stone giving way to the raw, dark, unbroken rock of Mt. Mares. Belle strained her magic, feeling with fingerlike tendrils down the hallway and into each of the few doors that led off it. They were all empty—except one.

Sure enough, Lona Vigore’s fierce, proud magic—sweeping, curved, and sharp, like wings with razor blades in place of feathers—was in a chamber halfway down the hall, and it wasn’t alone. An unfamiliar magic was with her.

Belle’s feet finally stilled, still on her toes, and her mind whirled. Should she risk sneaking closer? If General Vigore was being this secretive about this meeting, Belle was sure she’d find valuable information within it. And it almost certainly had to do with Daivad, or else she wouldn’t have gone to such lengths to keep Richard out of the way. This had to be regarding whatever retaliation Aran was planning for Daivad’s actions in Duxon and Luvatha.

But if she was seen…

Hyper-focused on the magics before her, Belle crept forward, her heart pounding so hard she felt it in her skull, filling her ears. Belle knew this part of the castle better than almost anyone, because she visited it once a month, when Mama B was let out of her cell to have her day of magic. There was a servant’s passageway here as well, Belle could feel the break in the inherent magic of the wall, but she’d never explored it. She didn’t know if it would lead her into where she could overhear the conversation—she might have to settle for just observing their magics, and chancing a glance at who this mystery magic belonged to.

This passageway was hidden behind a bronze statue of some Earthbreaker ancestor—obviously not someone important if they had been relegated to this part of the castle. Belle slipped behind the statue and squeezed into a narrow, pitch-black hallway. She gathered the skirt of her dress in her hands, trying to keep it from brushing against the grimy wall should anyone ask where she’d gotten so dirty. She swiped cobwebs out of her way and, when the passage split, she went left, toward the magics until…

Belle came to a dead end. But before her, a great hole was cut into the stone, covered only by what looked to be the backing of some decorative piece on the wall. She felt along the edges until she found—yes, hinges. Metal hinges, entirely rusted.

Belle pressed her ear into the wooden backing, but all she heard were muffled voices, both deep, one booming (that would be Lona).

Should she chance it? Was her Metalwork good enough?

She wavered. This was risky enough to be named Reckless. This could get her killed.

It could also save Daivad’s life. And without him, she would be killed anyway. It was only a matter of time.

Belle pressed one hand into each hinge, pouring her magic into them, willing them to become soft and quiet beneath her touch. She’d been practicing, every time she went to visit Kitten and the others, Daivad’s brand of Metalwork. The way he bent metal, made it bow to his will.

Very, very slowly—a millimeter at a time—Belle pressed her thumbs forward, into the backing, and, opposite the hinges… A crack of dim light appeared. That was all she needed.

Belle moved toward the crack between the stone and the wood, and listened.

Lona’s booming voice came loud and clear, but the stranger spoke gently, seemingly more concerned than Lona was about being overheard, their voice slipping in and out of earshot.

“…Sure of their loyalty?”

“Name my child Mischievous, but never Traitorous,” Lona snapped. “Z carries responsibility for the outcome of the fuck up at Luvatha—but their failure was born from a lack of preparedness and an overestimation of their own ability to tame that beast Ubika. They have no interest in aiding your failed project.”

Your?

Belle searched the stranger’s magic—she was confident it was a man’s magic, and its edges were perfectly controlled, even as Lona’s words roiled something deep in its center. But … it almost felt like two separate magics, the difference between its edges and its core were so severe. One walled off the other in cold, firm gray, clouding Belle’s ability to read the core magic that was trapped inside. All she could really tell without sitting to examine it closely was that the inside magic was dense and angry, packed so tightly within its walls it could barely move.

Those controlled edges almost reminded Belle of Daivad’s magic.

Could this be…?

“…Name his presence in Luvatha? Surely not Coincidence.” The voice was as controlled as Belle would expect.

“That job is yours. Her Majesty has ordered your investigation of the events in Luvatha.”

“…Lord Vigore’s involvement…”

A pause. “Z’s feet remain in Eagle House’s walls for now, and yours haven’t been authorized for any room in the inner circle beyond this one, right now. Z has already filled my questions with answers, which I’ll pass along to you.”

“…The women who kept Lord Vigore’s side at Luvatha?”

“Pets, each leashed to the castle in their own way.”

“Pets can bite.”

Another pause. “At Her Majesty’s approval, I’ll arrange interviews. For now, your path leads to Luvatha. And every step along that path will be quiet. Understood?”

“Understood, General.”

Their magics shifted, Lona’s guard coming down a bit, but the other’s stayed as rigid as ever. The meeting was over. Belle could see the door back into the hallway through the crack—she would get a look at the stranger when he walked out the door, though she suspected she already knew his identity. It fit—the rigid, almost militant exterior.

Lona strode through the door first, chin high and armor clanking, as usual. And then—the stranger, tall and made taller by his posture, wore a plain but pristine blue coat and trousers, similar to the army dress uniforms with the coat’s high collar and tight fit. But where a soldier would wear their pins and medals denoting regiment, rank, and so on, there was nothing. As if either this person had been stripped of all those things—or they were attempting to conceal them. Their hair was short and black, their skin a cool brown. High, prominent cheekbones giving striking structure to their weathered face.

Somehow, it was exactly how she’d pictured him.

He stopped in the doorway. And began to turn—

Belle jerked back. She was confident the crack was slight enough it would be nearly impossible to notice from across the dim room, but her heart pounded wildly anyway. She watched his magic closely, but that cold, gray wall revealed very little. Should she run? Should she try to follow a different path through these passageways, come out in another room and slip away before they caught her? Or would that make too much noise, get her covered in grime and cobwebs enough that she’d be found out?

“Colonel?” Lona called.

If the Colonel responded, Belle didn’t hear it. All she heard was the door closing, and then both of their magics moved down the hallway.