She opened a drawer, smiling serenely. Every movement was graceful and precise. The queen moved like a dancer, always. So controlled. So lovely to watch, even now, despite the cruelty that Winter knew lay beneath her beauty.
She waited, expecting a lesson plan or some trivial instructions for practicing her gift.
Instead, the queen produced a knife.
The handle was carved from milky crystal and the blade was obsidian black. Like her stepmother, it was both threatening and exquisite. Winter’s stomach dropped. Her head spun with alarm, but her feet were cemented to the carpet. “Stepmother?”
“You will learn to use your gift, Winter. You will not embarrass me and this crown any more than you already have.” Pacing toward her, Levana held out the knife, handle first.
It took a while, but finally Winter forced herself to take it. Her hand was shaking, but she knew that she took the knife of her own will. She was not being coerced.
Not yet.
She had seen this scene play out dozens of times in the throne room. Criminals being sentenced to self-inflicted death.
“I don’t understand.”
“You are a very pretty child.” Levana’s expression remained poised. Winter’s arm still trembled. “We would not want to ruin that prettiness, now would we?”
Winter swallowed.
“Manipulate me, Winter. Go ahead.”
“What?” she squeaked, certain she’d heard wrong. She’d only practiced on malleable servants in the past. She wasn’t sure she could manipulate her stepmother even if she tried—and she wasn’t going to try. She couldn’t, not after working so hard to free herself of her Lunar instincts.
But what was the queen planning?
Images of her own throat being slit flashed through Winter’s thoughts.
Her heart pounded.
“Prove that you are capable of a simple little manipulation,” said Levana. “That you aren’t a waste of my time and my protection. That you aren’t the mockery of a princess the people of Artemisia believe you are. Just one little tiny manipulation, and … I will let you go.”
Winter looked down at the knife in her hand.
“Or,” Levana continued, her tone sharpening, “if you fail, I will give you a new reason to practice your glamour. I will give you something to hide. Believe me, I know how strong that motivation can be. Do you understand?”
Winter did not understand.
She nodded anyway.
Her fingers tightened around the cool handle.
“Go on, then. I will even let you choose what manipulation you will perform. A glamour. An emotion. Make me take that knife back from you if you can. I won’t fight you.” Levana’s smile was patient, almost maternal, if Winter had known what a maternal smile looked like.
It took a long, long time for the smile to fade.
A long, long time for Winter to consider her choice.
Her decision.
Her vow.
I will never use my gift. Not ever again.
“I’m sorry,” Winter whispered around her dry throat. “I cannot.”
The queen held her gaze. Passive at first, before Winter saw fury spark in her eyes, an anger that burned hot with loathing. But it soon faded, smothered with mere disappointment.
“So be it.”
Winter flinched as her hand began to move of its own accord. She slammed her eyes shut against Levana’s detached expression and saw the vision again. A deep cut in her throat. Blood spilling across the floor.
Her breath caught as the tip of the blade grazed her neck. Her body went rigid.
But the knife didn’t cut her throat. It continued up, up, until the sharp point settled against the corner of her right eye.
Her gut twisted. Her pulse thundered.
She gasped as the blade cut into the soft flesh beneath her eye and was dragged slowly down her cheek. She could feel tears welling behind her eyelids from the stinging-hot pain, but she kept her eyes shut and refused to let them fall.
The blade stopped at her jaw and her hand lowered, taking the knife with it.
Winter gulped down a shuddering breath, dizzy with horror, and opened her eyes.
She was not dead. She had not lost an eye. She could feel blood dripping down her cheek and throat and catching on the collar of her dress, but it was only a single cut. It was only blood.
She blinked rapidly, dispelling any tears before they could betray her, and met her stepmother’s hardened glare.
“Well?” Levana said through her teeth. “Would you like to try again before your beauty is marred further?”
Beauty, thought Winter. Of course. It meant so much to the queen, and so very little to her. The pain she could tolerate. The scar she could accept.
A new resolve straightened her spine. She would not allow the queen to win this battle. She refused to lose herself to the queen’s mind games.
“I cannot,” she said again.
The knife came to her face again, drawing another parallel line beside the first. This time, she kept her eyes open. She was no longer afraid of crying, though the blood felt like warm, thick tears on her cheek.
“And now?” Levana said. “Go on, Winter. A simple manipulation. Prove your worth to this court.”
Winter held her gaze. Her stepmother’s face had lost its calm facade. She was openly livid. Even her shoulders were trembling with restrained rage.
They both knew this was no longer about a princess making a mockery of the royal family. Levana must have sensed the quiet defiance brewing inside her.
The queen could make anyone do anything. She had only to think it, and her will was done.
But not this. She could not force Winter to do this.
It was a struggle for Winter to keep a proud smile from her face as she said firmly, “I will not.”
Levana snarled and the knife rose again.
* * *
When the queen released her, Winter refused to run back to her chambers. She walked like royalty, head high and feet clipping steadily on the marble. She didn’t even consider using her glamour to hide the three gashes and the blood that dripped down her neck, staining her dress. She was proud. Her wound was proof that she had been to battle and survived.
People stopped to stare, but no one asked about the three cuts in her flesh. No one stopped her. Her guards, sworn to defend their princess at all costs, said nothing.
The queen would be proven wrong. Winter’s skin would be permanently marred, but she would not let the scars bully her into submission. The wounds would become her armor, and a constant reminder of her victory.
She might be broken. She might be crazy. But she would not be defeated.
When she reached the wing to her private quarters, she drew up short.
Jacin was waiting for her outside her chamber doors. Beside him stood Head Thaumaturge Sybil Mira in her pristine white coat.
Jacin was staring at the ground, his face tense.
Sybil was smiling, a hand on Jacin’s shoulder. And when they both looked at Winter—
Jacin appeared shocked, first, though it fast turned to horror, while Sybil …
Winter shuddered.
Sybil Mira looked not surprised at all, and not the tiniest bit sympathetic. Levana must have told her what she was planning. Maybe it had even been Sybil’s idea—Winter knew that the head thaumaturge had a great amount of influence over the queen.
“What happened?” Jacin said, shrugging off Sybil’s hand and rushing toward her. He went to place his palm over her bloodied cheek but hesitated. He covered his hand with his sleeve first before pressing the material against her.
“Shall I call for a medic, Your Highness?” said Sybil, folding her hands into her own sleeves.