XI

  Prince Tharen's servant Lyrae wore plainness like a dress. That was what made her so perfect for the role. She didn't stand out, her absence went unnoticed, and she didn't talk much. When Cain and Droven brought her to the Passage, her eyes held the silent terror of a hunted animal.

  The snakes controlled by Cain had wrapped themselves around Lyrae's wrists and ankles, rendering her helpless. Her mouth was not covered, yet she did not speak. She only watched our every move—especially me—with fear in her large, amber eyes.

  Shapeshifting was a skill unique to elves, achieved by absorbing the blood of the person whose form you wished to take. Therefore, in the Elven Kingdom, having one's blood fall into the wrong hands was a grave threat. Lyrae's blood, however, was the key that would get us into Prince Tharen's room. At least, that was what Prince Vaelis had said before leaving us for dinner.

  I crouched down to get on the same level as Lyrae. I was about to steal someone's likeness and was determined to embody her character perfectly. “Tell me a little about yourself,” I said. “Do you talk to Prince Tharen every day?”

  The smirk on my face must not have looked very friendly, because Lyrae's face turned pale. She nodded.

  When I reached for her wrist, Cain's snakes uncoiled, allowing me to lift her hand. Poor Lyrae's resistance was as light as a spring breeze. I frowned; the obvious burn marks on the tips of her fingers had not escaped my notice. “How often do you check on Pyra?”

  “Every day,” she said in a trembling voice. Then she swallowed, a spark of courage flashing in her eyes. “Let me go. My Prince will notice my absence!”

  I ran my thumb over the veins on the inside of her wrist. I could feel the thick rush of her blood. “Who said you'd disappear?”

  I saw the moment awareness descended upon Lyrae. “No,” she said in a cracked voice. Her eyes darted around, never resting on any of us. “You're all mad!”

  I felt my chest tighten; I didn't like this. Hurting an innocent person had never been my style, so I decided to end this as quickly as possible without causing Lyrae any more fear. I dug my thumbnail into the skin of her wrist.

  First, my heart skipped a beat. Then I felt Lyrae's image appear in my mind like a costume waiting to be worn.

  Lyrae screamed, bright tears streaming down her freckled cheeks. As Cain's snakes released the girl and slithered back toward him, Droven stepped forward and placed his huge hand on her forehead. A moment passed, and the terror on Lyrae's face dissolved, replaced by an expression of deep peace.

  “When she wakes up, she’ll think all this was a dream,” said Droven.

  Truth be told, it was strange that someone so rough and uncouth possessed such a delicate skill. “So when will she wake up?” I asked.

  “When it’s necessary,” Droven replied, with an air reminiscent of a monk.

  “You could have gotten more information out of her,” Calithra said, her voice half disappointment, half anger. “I can’t believe you showed mercy at a time like this.”

  I waved her off. “What about you? Even with all your power, you knocked me out by hitting me in the head with that thing.”

  “Because you're annoying,” Cain said.

  “And you wouldn't stay still,” Droven added.

  “Anyway,” Calithra said, pinching the bridge of her nose, “have you fully absorbed it?”

  Instead of answering, I closed my eyes and let Lyrae's image flow through the gap in my mind. My body shrank, honey-colored curls that were definitely not mine cascaded over my shoulders, and my fingertips—covered in burn scars—began to throb. I looked at my hands. They were the skilled hands of someone who dealt with a creature that could rise again and again from its ashes. My body, on the other hand, belonged to a servant devoted to Prince Tharen.

  And that was sickening.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  “You're really good at this,” said Calithra. She looked surprised. “You must have practiced a lot.”

  I nodded before transforming back into my own form and taking a deep breath. “Actually, when my cousin Nerissa in Varrendale snuck out at night, I would take on her form and appear before my grandmother so she wouldn't get into trouble.” I smiled, thinking of those times. “She would do the same for me, but she always got caught.”

  Cain began, “And she is a—” but couldn't continue.

  “Her mother is a nymph,” I explained.

  “That's strange. I thought half-bloods couldn't shape-shift,” Droven said.

  Sitting down on the couch, I began to explain, “Actually, that's not entirely true. Half-bloods can shape-shift too, but they can't do it by absorbing blood. They memorize the image of the person whose form they want to take. The more detailed their memory, the more realistic the transformation.”

  “That sounds tedious,” said Cain.

  I shrugged. Cain was right; so far, no half-blood had ever been seen to perform a flawless imitation.

  “I can't believe you didn't ask how to tend to Pyra,” Calithra said, reaching for the pipe on the table. “Tell me, how many times in your life have you seen a phoenix?”

  “I'm training a dragon, Calithra,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Believe me, I can tend to a phoenix.”

  Calithra lit her pipe with a red flame that dripped from her index finger. “Just don't get it on your hands or face.” She blew smoke in my direction. “Lyrae said she talks to Prince Tharen daily. That's bad.”

  “Overthinking uncertain matters is like a maggot that eats you up from the inside,” I said, watching the gray smoke dance around Calithra’s pale face. “I’ll go with the flow.”

  ***

  When the midnight bells rang, I went to see Ilmestys in the Hollow.

  I leaned my back against the dragon’s tail, fast asleep, holding the small bottle Calithra had given me. The blood inside, as if still carrying her power, stirred slowly with an unyielding redness that did not fade even in the cave's darkness. I needed to have a new whip forged with this blood at Iskra's forge. But feeling Ilmestys' breath beside me, the nausea this thought brought to my stomach rose again. In Varrendale, power was measured by wounds, and this time I found myself thinking that power could take a different form.

  I turned the bottle in my palm. Calithra's blood was still a key; I just had to choose the door it would open.

  ***

  Carrying Lyrae's face was not enough. I had to carry her gait, her intonations, even her breathing. The maids did not hold their shoulders straight; their bodies flowed like leaves, their eyes fixed on the stones beneath their feet. They were not a threat.

  The corridor leading to the prince's room was like a stone river that refused to accept sunlight. The windows were narrow, high, and ornate. This wing of the palace was unlike the others; it had been built not for display, but for control.

  At the end of the corridor, a guard appeared. His armor was shiny, his spear deadly sharp. He carried his helmet under his arm, his eyes fixed ahead.

  The excitement I felt quickened my heart. I was neither slow nor fast. I was only as invisible as I needed to be. Neither too little nor too much. The guard passed by without looking at me, his steady footsteps echoing in the stone corridor before fading away.

  Contrary to my expectations, the door to Prince Tharen's room was not inlaid with gold or adorned with jewels. It was a carved door made of dark oak, as if it opened into an almost ordinary room. Still, the weight of the lock and the thickness of the wood made it clear how sturdy it was.

  I knocked, but there was no answer. Vaelis was right; Tharen was out training at dawn.

  I entered.

  The orange light of dawn filtering through the large windows split the dark stone floor in two, illuminating the edges of Tharen's heavy furniture. The air was dry and balanced, the smell of burnt resin and metal mingling together. Here, fire was not a spectacle but a tool.

  The prince's bedroom was connected to his study by an archway. His bed was large and neatly made, as if no one had slept in it all night. At the head of the bed stood a suit of armor, its phoenix-chest engraving scratched in places. The armor had been polished, but the scratches were left untouched. Prince Tharen did not hide his marks.

  In the middle of the room, in front of the windows, stood a massive table. Maps were spread across it, quills and ink bottles scattered around. To the right was a huge bookcase, books arranged in alphabetical order; to the left, a footstool that served as a perch for Pyra's enormous, gold-embroidered cage.

  I approached the cage. The enormous bird shone with all its splendor, as if detached from the sun. Its feathers were like a range of flames in the deepest shades of red. With its long tail, puffed-up chest, and sharp talons, it was a legendary creature worthy of being the motif on the Crown Prince's armor.

  Pyra's coral-colored eyes found me. It opened and closed its enormous beak and tilted its head to the side.

  I swallowed hard and, breaking free from its spell, headed straight for the table.

  The spread-out maps. The books missing from the library. The chaos of pens with red-ink-stained tips. I leaned closer. A map of known lands. Another showing the borders and ports of the Elven Kingdom. And—

  I frowned and picked up one of them. The northern coastlines were marked in red ink, with a note beside them: Ashvael Coast.

  “Damn it,” I whispered.

  I put the map back exactly where I had found it. This was bad, but it proved nothing. I needed more concrete evidence. There were a handful of books about dragons, and if we were to look in the Prince's library, a few of them should have been here. I walked over to the bookcase and frowned at the shelf marked D. No books were missing, and a layer of dust covered them. The Prince wasn't examining them.

  I sighed deeply—but the sound coming from the doorway caught my breath in my throat.

  “Lyrae?”