Throne of the Fallen

CAMILLA’S MAID CINCHED her stays tight enough to elicit a wince, then helped her into the most magnificent garment she’d ever seen, let alone owned before going to fetch her slippers.

After her father died, she’d used all her earnings from the gallery to keep the staff on. The gallery had come a long way already, earning a nice income for her, but she couldn’t replace her entire wardrobe each season like she used to.

It was either pretty dresses and half the staff, or half the dresses and supporting those she’d known her whole life. The choice was easy.

The gown she wore now was beyond anything she’d dreamed of owning again. Indeed, it was a work of art—lavish, decadent, and undeniably stunning. Camilla felt like a princess in it, not just because the gown must have cost a small fortune, but because wearing it made her feel powerful. It had been a long while since she’d truly felt that.

She twisted one way, then the other in front of her full-length mirror, admiring the flow of the material.

The skirts were ethereal layers of fluffy white tulle, with silver sparkles scattered like glittering stars across the fabric. The bodice was made of diamonds encrusted with silver beads and downy white feathers. She looked like a moon goddess, ethereal, tempting, and completely out of any mortal’s reach.

The gown had mysteriously shown up two hours before Synton’s ball, along with a matching silver filigree mask. No note accompanied the package, but a beautiful new paintbrush was nestled on top of the dress.

Though calling it a paintbrush hardly did it justice—the handle was a solid piece of carved emerald, the exact shade of Synton’s eyes, leaving no room for Camilla to mistake where the gifts had originated.

Surprisingly enough, though made from a gemstone, the brush wasn’t heavy or hard to handle—it fit her palm perfectly, making her long for a few moments to sit at an easel.

Camilla often wondered if paint ran through her veins instead of blood. When she created, it was as if she made new realms, fantastical and beautiful and exactly where she wished she could escape to. With her art, somehow she was connected to the universe far beyond her small gallery. She could live a thousand and one lives, each more magical than the last.

Synton had chosen his temptation well.

The paintbrush was a cunning gift. It made Camilla seriously consider painting the Hexed Throne for him, consequences be damned.

She laid the paintbrush back on the crushed velvet, emotions churning. She needed to give him an answer about his proposed deal tonight.

She wished this decision didn’t feel so much like a betrayal. She recalled the night before her father had died—he’d tried to draw her near, his arms shaking with the effort.

“Darkness… will… not… win.”

“I don’t understand,” she’d said, tears stinging her eyes. Had he known? She remembered thinking, had he always known?

“You… are… good, sweet girl. Never… doubt.”

It was the last thing he’d ever said to her. And Pierre had made clear throughout the years how he felt about hexed objects. How dangerous they were, to be avoided at all costs.

Mixed with Camilla’s rare… talent… should she paint the Hexed Throne it might very well appear. Stories varied on what it did—from granting everlasting power and immortality to cursing all other rulers and even destroying immortals—but Camilla wasn’t sure any variation would be good.

What did Synton want with the painting of the throne?

He’d claimed he wanted it only for his personal gallery, but Camilla didn’t need his uncanny ability to detect a lie to know he wasn’t being truthful.

Could she really risk giving someone like Synton access to an object with the power to do unspeakably dark things? Her father had taught her repeatedly that power corrupted even the purest soul. Synton didn’t strike her as having a pure soul to begin with.

If Camilla painted the Hexed Throne, she would be responsible for whatever happened after. Maybe Synton wouldn’t abuse it, but it could be stolen by someone worse.

A gentle knock brought her attention to the here and now.

“Come in.”

Her maid dropped a polite curtsy then helped Camilla into her slippers.

“The Lord and Lady Edwards have arrived.”

Camilla glanced at her reflection one last time, then donned her mask.

One way or another, the woman who returned to this home would be changed. For better or worse.

The way her luck had been going didn’t inspire confidence.

“Please, Father. Help.” Camilla tried to summon a memory of her father, seeking his reassuring voice, but whatever being heard her plea in the Great Beyond laughed darkly, the chilling echo reverberating through her bones.

Camilla hurried from her bedchamber, hoping that haunting laugh wasn’t a sign of worse things to come.