Page 65 of The Crown’s Temptation

It was definitely not a nightmare.

I pushed the blankets aside. Yesterday whatever Dali had done left my limbs aching and my muscles trembling but stronger than they had been since I woke up in this place. I had not tried walking since.

Until now.

I swung my feet to the floor. One step. My knees threatened to buckle. Another. Pain shot through my hips and down my legs but they held.

I reached the doorway just as Teorin's voice drifted up from somewhere below.

"And tell the kitchens if they serve her broth and lettuce again I'll feed it to the cook."

I smiled despite myself.

Good. The lettuce had been particularly insulting.

The scream cut through the castle again.

I followed it.

Darkway Palace deserved every story ever told about it.

The corridors twisted back on themselves until they no longer felt built but grown. Mirrors lined the walls, each one fractured differently. My reflection appeared in pieces. An eye here. A hand there. My face divided into six strangers.

A Morrak swept low overhead.

Its claws missed my scalp by inches.

"Rude," I muttered.

It hissed. I hissed back because decorum did not matter in a place like this.

It seemed offended, which pleased me.

The screaming continued.

I reached a staircase.

Asharin. I reminded myself. You have no magic. No weapon. You barely survived walking down the hallway. If you go down these steps how exactly do you intend to climb back up?

I looked toward the sound.

Then I went anyway.

The smell reached me before the room did. Blood. Cooking meat. Something sweet that turned my stomach.

Voices. Laughter. Dice across wood. Then another scream.

The doors stood open.

I stopped in the doorway. The dining hall looked less like a feast and more like a nightmare someone had tried to decorate. Creatures crowded every chair. Some had wings folded behind them. Others had horns. One had three mouths currently arguing with each other while another rolled dice with six hands. At the center sat a woman in a servant's uniform, bound to a chair. Dark hair plastered to her face. Her breathing came in ragged sobs. One arm ended at the elbow. The other still had a hand. Three fingers left. Blood dripped onto the floor.

Another roar of laughter. Dice rolled again.

They were not gambling for money, they were gambling for pieces of her.

Near the hearth a creature squatted and stirred a massive iron pot. Floating in the broth were fingers. It sniffed the soup. Added salt. Someone cheered.

Admittedly, compared to the wilted lettuce and watery broth I had received, it probably was superior in taste.