I grab her wrists, eyes wide as Ezryn leaps away from the trident’s pronged jab. The knight is too strong. Without the Blessing, he won’t be able to—
Ezryn rolls, then stands before the pedestal, the bow’s light silhouetting him in an ethereal glow. The Turquoise Knight gives a half-laugh, half-bellow, then charges, bloody points of the trident aimed straight for Ezryn’s chest.
But my mate falls to the ground, whipping his leg out, tripping the goliath knight. In a crash of turquoise armor, the knight stumbles, the trident falling from his grasp. His bare hands reach out to steady himself—
Grasping on to the Bow of Radiance.
Blinding light envelops the Turquoise Knight, and his body convulses. A harrowing scream pierces the chamber. His armor cracks, then caves in on itself, becoming a puckered shell. The helmet flies off and rolls across the floor, landing right in front of the Nightingale. Left behind is a lifeless husk, and Ezryn, breath heavy as he stands victorious.
The Nightingale falls away from me and picks up the helmet. Her lip twitches. “Oh, you shall pay for that.”
Thorns burst through the stone, striking Ezryn, and lifting him into the air. His silver sword slips from his fingers.
“Ezryn!” I call out, holding out my hands, trying to take control of her thorns.
“Not today!” The Nightingale glares at me, and I’m hit by a wave of her power. “These are my thorns. Make your own if you want to play.”
I can’t! I try to concentrate, but I don’t know what I’m even reaching for. She’s right. This is her magic. And I can’t get in if she won’t let me.
Anger rises through my chest, and flames erupt from my fingers. With a flick of her wrist, a large, oily briar slams into me, and I clatter against the stone table in the middle of the room. My ears ring, my vision blurry. Colors from the stained glass swirl over my arm, painting a wavering rainbow across my skin.
Ezryn struggles in the grip of the thorns.
“Oh, Prince of Blood,” she purrs, “a tower of soldiers, one member of the Penta Conclave, and it was all for naught. Because you were never going to get past me.”
Ezryn snarls, eyes blazing.
“There’s only one thing left to decide.” Her blue eyes flick to me. “Which one of you to kill first?”
I stagger to all fours. I need to help him. But how? I can’t take control of her thorns. My magic is back—but it’s nowhere near as powerful as hers. Though my whole body shakes from my wounds, adrenaline keeps me conscious. Adrenaline and spite.
“Oh, don’t look so glum, Princess.” She smirks. “Just make those little golden roses. Or was that another fairytale like the Enchantress and her beasts of the Briar?”
“That was no story,” I say.
The air crackles with magic as Ezryn changes, one moment a man, the next a great black wolf. His jaws widen, and he swipes a massive paw at the Nightingale. She leaps back but isn’t quick enough as he strikes her across the arm.
“I’m not so easily disposed of as your goblins, beast!” The monastery shakes with her rage. The stained-glass window behind her shatters, spraying crystal into the air. Thorns break through stone, covering the entire room.
It’s like we’re at Castletree, with its briars and beasts.
Her iridescent thorns ensnare the massive black wolf. Tears stream down my cheeks to see the wolf struggle and whine, huge thorns digging into his flesh. My fingers curl into a fist, a light flickering over the top of my knuckles.
Light from the Bow of Radiance that glimmers beside me. The weapon of the Queen.
You have everything you need right here. Caspian’s words drift into my mind, and I place my hand over my heart, mirroring his movement.
Slowly, I stand, eyes on the glowing bow.
The Nightingale cocks her head. “That weapon doesn’t belong to you, human.”
Except it does. It isn’t the magic of thorns I wield, but that of roses, like the Queen planted in this realm. The magic of change, of object to element, or fae to animal. And the magic of realms.
Twenty-five years ago, my mother left. Twenty-five years ago, the Enchantress came to Castletree.
Or the disguised Queen returned to Castletree.
Words and images play through the hushed corridors of my memory; moments insignificant on their own now converging into a tapestry as clear as the one that hangs here in the monastery.
The Queen was fascinated with humans.
This magic inside of me is no mere coincidence.
It is my legacy.
You welcomed me home, Cas. You called me Princess because you knew. You always knew who I was.