The sigil.
One sentence repeated twice.
Do not believe the story about the cliff.
Elara looked at the Queen.
“She said the Prince did not die when he fell.”
The court erupted.
Seraphine raised her hand.
Silence returned slowly.
The Queen came down one step.
“Your mother died confused.”
“She died frightened.”
“Same thing, often.”
“She was frightened of you.”
The Queen’s jaw tightened.
“Enough.”
A guard stepped toward Elara.
Seraphine pointed.
“Kneel.”
Elara did not move.
The Queen’s voice hardened.
“Kneel before the Crown.”
“No.”
The nearest guard grabbed Elara’s shoulder and shoved.
Her wet boots slipped.
She went down one step.
Laughter came from somewhere in the back.
Elara caught herself on one hand.
The guard reached again.
She slapped his armored hand away.
The sound echoed.
The man stared.
Elara rose.
“Touch me again and I’ll forget you are wearing metal.”
The guard looked toward the Queen.
Seraphine descended another step.
“You think this spectacle makes you brave?”
“No.”
“What does?”
Elara looked toward the windows.
The storm intensified.
“I came to show you who the storm answers to.”
The nobles reacted with confused murmurs.
Seraphine laughed.
“Now you sound mad.”
Perhaps.
Elara had wondered the same thing for three days.
Ever since the storm began the moment she opened her mother’s final letter.
Ever since she rode west and felt thunder following her.
Ever since wolves refused to approach her campfire.
Ever since something enormous moved through the trees beside her road.
She looked toward the great throne doors.
The candles flickered.
Every flame leaned toward the entrance.
Seraphine noticed.
“What did you do?”
Elara whispered, “Nothing.”
The hall shook.
Not thunder.
Something struck the outer courtyard.
Once.
Then again.
The royal guards tightened formation.
Another impact.
A roar came through the palace.
Deep.
Impossible.
Animal and human at once.
Several women screamed.
Soldiers drew swords.
The Queen’s face drained of color.
Elara saw it.
That was the proof she had wanted.
“You know that sound.”
Seraphine looked at her.
“No.”
“You do.”
The roar came again.
Closer.
The doors shook.
The captain shouted, “Hold!”
The first hinge bent.
Men braced spears.
The second impact cracked one door down the middle.
The third tore it open.
Rain blasted into the throne hall.
Lightning flashed behind a shape filling the doorway.
The Beast of Blackthorn.
Every story had failed to describe its size.
It was nearly ten feet tall.
Huge shoulders covered in dark wet fur pressed beneath the broken arch. Its arms were long and powerfully muscled, ending in massive clawed hands. Thick black hair fell around a face that was part man, part animal.
A broad jaw.
High cheekbones distorted by the curse.
Curved ivory horns rising from the temples.
Amber eyes burning beneath a heavy brow.
Old scars crossed one side of its chest.
A torn black cloak hung from one shoulder.
Its legs bent differently than a man’s, ending in heavy clawed feet.
Water streamed from its fur.
For one heartbeat, nobody moved.
Then a soldier screamed and charged.
The Beast struck him aside with one arm.
Not claws.
The flat of its forearm.
The guard flew into a table.
Wood shattered.
Another soldier lunged.
The Beast caught his shield.
Tore it from his grip.