“I trust you,” she said, forcing the words out, making them real, before they could climb back down her throat.
“Then come here.” Holland held up the collar as if it were a crown, and Ojka felt herself recoil. No. She had earned this place beside him. She had earned her power. Been strong enough to survive the transfer, the test. She had proven herself worthy. Beneath her skin, the magic tapped out its strong and steady beat. She wasn’t ready to let go, to relinquish the power and return to being an ordinary cutthroat. Or worse, she thought, glancing at the bodies.
Come here.
This time the command rang through her head, pulled on muscle, bone, magic.
Ojka’s feet moved forward, one step, two, three, until she was standing right before the king. Her king. He had given her so much, and he had yet to claim his price. No boon came without a cost. She would have paid him in deed, in blood. If this was the cost—whatever this was—then so be it.
Holland lowered the collar. His hands were so sure, his eyes so steady. She should have bowed her head, but instead, she held his gaze, and there she found balance, found calm. There she felt safe.
And then the metal closed around her throat.
The first thing she felt was the sharp cold of metal on skin. Surprise, but not pain. Then the cold sharpened into a knife. It slid under her skin, tore her open, magic spilling like blood from the wounds.
Ojka gasped and staggered to her knees as ice shot through her head and down into her chest, frozen spikes splaying out through muscle and flesh, bone and marrow.
Cold. Gnawing and rending, and then gone.
And in its wake—nothing.
Ojka’s doubled over, fingers clamped uselessly around the metal collar as she let out an animal groan. The world looked wrong—pale and thin and empty—and she felt severed from it, from herself, from her king.
It was like losing a limb: none of the pain, but all of the wrongness, a vital piece of her cut away so fast she could feel the space where it had been, where it should be. And then she realized what it was. The loss of a sense. Like sight, or sound, or touch.
Magic.
She couldn’t feel its hum, couldn’t feel its strength. It had been everywhere, a constant presence from her bones to the air around her body, and it was suddenly, horribly … gone.
The veins on her hands were beginning to lighten, from black to pale blue, and in the reflection of the polished stone floor, she could see the dark emblem of the king’s mark retreating across her brow and cheek, withdrawing until it was nothing but a smudge in the center of her yellow eyes.
Ojka had always had a temper, quick to flame, her power surging with her mood. But now, as panic and fear tore through her, nothing rose to match it. She couldn’t stop shaking, couldn’t drag herself from the shock and terror and fear. She was weak. Empty. Flesh and blood and nothing more. And it was terrible.
“Please,” she whispered to the throne room floor while Holland stood over her, watching. “Please, my king. I have always … been loyal. I will always … be loyal. Please …”
Holland knelt before her and took her chin in his gloved hand, guiding it gently up. She could see the magic swirling in his eyes, but she couldn’t feel it in his touch.
“Tell me,” he said. “What do you feel?”
The word escaped in a shudder. “I … I can’t … feel … anything.”
The king smiled grimly then.
“Please,” whispered Ojka, hating the word. “You chose me….”
The king’s thumb brushed her chin. “I chose you,” he said, his fingers slipping down her throat. “And I still do.”
An instant later, the collar was gone.
Ojka gasped, magic flooding back like air into starved veins. A welcome pain, bright and vivid and alive. She tipped her head against the cold stone.
“Thank you,” she whispered, watching the mark trace its way through her eye, across her brow and cheek. “Thank you.”
It took her several long seconds to get to her feet, but she forced herself up as Holland returned the horrible collar to its silver bowl, the gloves melting from his fingers into shadow around the metal.
“Your Majesty,” said Ojka, hating the quiver in her voice. “Who is the collar for?”
Holland brought his fingers to his heart, his expression unreadable.
“An old friend.”
If that is for a friend, she thought, what does Holland do to enemies?
“Go,” he said, returning to his throne. “Recover your strength. You’re going to need it.”
I
When Lila woke up the next day, it took her a moment to remember where she was, and, more importantly, why everything hurt.
She remembered retreating to Elsor’s room the night before, resisting the urge to collapse onto his bed still fully dressed. She’d somehow gotten back into her own clothes, her own room at the Wandering Road, though she didn’t remember much of the journey. It was now well into morning. Lila couldn’t recall the last time she’d slept so long, or so deeply. Wasn’t sleep supposed to make you feel rested? She only felt exhausted.
Her boot was trapped beneath something that turned out to be Alucard’s cat. Lila didn’t know how the creature had gotten into her room. She didn’t care. And the cat didn’t seem to care about her either. She barely moved when Lila dragged her foot free, and sat up.
Every part of her protested.
It wasn’t just the wear and tear of the match—she’d gotten in some bad fights before, but nothing felt like this. The only thing that even came close was the aftermath of the black stone. The talisman’s repercussions had been hollowing and sudden, where this was subtle but deep. Proof that magic wasn’t an inexhaustible resource.
Lila dragged herself off the cot, stifling a grunt of pain, grateful that the room was empty. She tugged off her clothes as gingerly as possible, wincing at the bruises that had started to blossom across her ribs. The thought of fighting again today made her cringe, and yet some part of her thrilled at the idea. Admittedly, it was a very small part of her.
Dangerous.
Reckless.
Foolish.
Mad.
The words were beginning to feel more like badges of pride than blows.
Downstairs, the main room was sparsely populated, but she spotted Alucard at a table along the wall. She crossed the room, boots scuffing until she reached him and sank into a chair.
He was looking over a paper, and he didn’t look up when she put her head down on the table with a soft thud.
“Not much of a morning person?”
She grumbled something unkind. He poured her a cup of rich black tea, spices weaving through the steam.
“Such a useless time of day,” she said, dragging herself upright and taking the cup. “Can’t sleep. Can’t steal.”
“There is more to life.”
“Like what?”
“Like eating. And drinking. And dancing. You missed quite a ball last night.”
She groaned at the thought. It was too early to imagine herself as Stasion Elsor performing in an arena, let alone in a palace. “Do they celebrate every night?”
“Believe it or not, some people actually come to the tournament just for the parties.”
“Doesn’t it get tiresome, all that …” She waved her hand, as if the whole thing could be summed up with a single gesture. In truth, Lila had only been to one ball in her entire life, and that night had started with a demon’s mask and a glorious new coat, and ended with both covered in a prince’s blood and the stony remains of a foreign queen.