Page 21 of Fallen Nocturne

The resemblance is so perfect that a laugh escapes me.

I open the cabinet. The hinges do not make a sound.

It has the same stubby proportions, the same determined little face. Even its pose reminds me of Coral when she launches herself at a butterfly.

I pick it up before I can talk myself out of it. It’s warm in my hands and the amber eyes seem to blink at me once before going still.

Taking this would be stealing.

I know it’s wrong. I glance around the empty gallery. No guards appear and no ancient spirits rise from the floor to object.

This is a dream, and the palace is empty. The little dragon looks like my Coral.

Mine.

I tuck it into the fold of my dress and press my palm flat over it. The weight knocks against my thigh as I walk, a small reminder of my crime.

The corridor beyond the gallery splits in three directions. I hesitate, uncertain which path to choose.

Something pulls me toward the center passage.

I follow it. The feeling beneath my ribs tightens.

The farther I go, the more the palace seems to gather itself around me. Tattered banners hang from iron brackets overhead, each one marked with a black sun encircled by five silver stars. The air feels heavier here, as though I am walking into the heart of something ancient and sleeping.

Sadness settles over me where fear should be. This was once full of life. People argued in these corridors, someone chose every painting and planted those flowers in the dead conservatory.

Now there is only dust.

A pair of bronze doors waits at the end of the passage. They tower over me, covered in images of dragons, wolves and strange creatures crawling from a pool beneath a darkened moon.

One door stands slightly open. The pull in my chest becomes impossible to ignore. I slip through the gap.

The chamber beyond is enormous.

My breath catches. It is a throne room, but also something grander than that. The ceiling disappears into shadow so far above me that I cannot see its end. Columns of black stone line both sides of the hall. The floor is black marble veined with silver and polished so brightly that my own reflection stares back at me from beneath my bare feet, silver hair unbound, nightdress pale against all that darkness.

Moonlight spills through windows two stories high and turns the stone to glass. At the far end, broad steps rise toward a throne.

A man sits upon it.

I stop breathing.

He leans back, one elbow resting against its carved arm. His clothes are dark and simple. No crown rests on his head, but there is something unmistakably regal in the way he occupies the seat.

A mask covers the upper half of his face. It is unlike the masks worn at Aelfheim celebrations. Those are meant to decorate and entice. This one is made from a dark material. It covers everything from his forehead to his upper lip.

A fae mask, perhaps. Those are enchanted to conceal everything. It doesn’t just hide the face but the nature beneath it and the essence that should tell me what manner of creature stands before me.

I remain behind the door.

He has not noticed me. Few people do when I do not wish to be noticed. This is my gift. My secret. The thing that kept me alive in Astefar. I could cross an entire room of sleeping predators without disturbing a single one.

So I don’t move. I don’t breathe. I press myself against the nearest pillar and watch.

The masked man appears to be staring into the empty hall. One hand rests loosely over his knee. His fingers are calloused, the knuckles marked with faint scars.

A warrior’s hands.