Attic drafts blow their coldest just before dawn.

* * *

Cylene blinked awake, shivered. Then she started. How I’ve dreamed! She shifted between the thread bare sheets of her familiar attic bed ad scrubbed her hand across her scalp. The mind invents such fascinating fictions!

She’d never met Prince Felderon of the Chalbeams. Had recently only heard of him, and as the butt of a joke, but her brain had conjured such a lifelike version. She exhaled. How close could it have been? She shivered again as she rose from her bed to wash and dress.

Such a wild story. Two mirrors and—she froze as images cascaded across the stage of her mind. The mirror! There was nothing dreamlike about the dark mirror. Her hands trembled on the buttons of her skirt.

What she’d seen had cut her to the quick. Wrung her insides out, exposed every foul and destructive turn of her animal mind.

The dark mirror was no dream. Her breath caught in her throat and she unbolted the lock and descended the stairs, pivoting hard on the landing, launching herself down the hallway toward the royal suites.

But the east wing was strange. No one stirred. Not even the staff. Not a cry from the nursery.

“Mrs. Holden? Where are the children?” She rapped on the nursery door and flung it wide, slamming the knob against the far wall.

The cribs were empty. Bedding flung aside.

Then she heard it. Something stirred in the corner of the window. Banners, fluttering in the wind. Armies spread around the base of the palace walls. Hundreds of souls in each camp, stretching as far as to the edges of the town. The palace was entirely surrounded.

Where is the King? His Royal Guard? The Renadan family?

She took a slow, retreating step, then turned and sped down the second, third flights of marble steps. Tripping over her hem, she rushed down, stumbling over the the shards of crystal from the broken chandelier dangling from a splitting cable. Sharp edges penetrated the sole of her slipper and she winced, hobbled down from the stairs across the foyer.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

A haunting silence hung in the air. The grand halls, once hung with gilded tapestries, were marred by the scars of invasion. Pale moonlight filtered through the room, illuminating toppled statues who lay like fallen soldiers. Draperies fluttered in the night wind like specters, and the broken glass cast eerie shadows across the ruined marble floors.

The air was heavy with the stench of burnt wood and the metallic tang of spilled blood. In the midst of this desolation, a mournful wind whispered the tale of vanity’s folly and the grim defeat of a once-great Kingdom.

Clutching her sides in horror, Cylene hobbled into the dining room where she stopped abrupt. A foul stench permeated the room and her hand held her nose. Eyes watering, vomit traveled up her throat. Her knees buckled and she staggered toward the table. Fire?

Ash spread across the floor where once elegant furniture surrounded a noble hearth. Her throat tightened. Was that an arm? She choked as vomit rose in her mouth. A foot? Who did this?

As if in answer, harsh voices met her hearing. People. Movement. She pivoted and tried to run.

“Stop!”

Strong men held Cylene’s arms, bound her wrists and ankles. Dark gazes rotated around her as though she were being turned on a spit. Commanders of rank. Military men.

They dragged her bodily before a succession of officers.

A lieutenant with dark brown beard blew spittle in her face as he questioned her. “What is your name?”

Her mouth formed the words, “Cylene of Mondragal.”

“You are not a member of the royal household. And yet you are also not a servant. Who are you?”

“I—I am a servant.”

“You do not look or speak like a servant.”

“I serve the royal household.”

“How have you escaped our searches these past four days?”

How could she answer? “I—I do not know.”

“Who are you protecting? Reveal him to us or you will not be freed!”

“It seems you know all the royal household. Who are you missing?”

The lieutenant’s eyes widened. “I ask questions. You give answers!”

“Lieutenant Stravalle!”

The bearded lieutenant bristled at the sound of sound of this voice, turned on his heal and saluted.

“Do you know nothing about the Renada’s modern history?”

“Sir! I am a top graduate from the Academy.”

“And yet you don’t recognize her?”

Cylene’s throat became too hard to swallow.

“I do not—“

“Indeed. Do you remember Olanda’s first Queen?”

“You mean the disgraced wench he wed but briefly from—?”

“Mondragal!”

“Ah, is she now?”

“Our lovely prisoner is the image of the former queen, though fairer by far. On the other hand, she looks nothing like Olanda. How can that be?”

“Ah. The old queen’s disgrace takes on new dimension.”

“Exactly.”

Hard men never reward beauty with freedom. They take possession of it.

“Bring her to the dungeons below the palace!”