I watched as the servant finished laying down each of the refreshments, a bit of a nervous tremble in his fingers as he adjusted the silver tray’s position. Without saying a word, it was obvious at least some of them knew about Seymour’s disturbing habits, and were concerned when Tritetia walked off to the lake with Amalia. I waited until the door shut softly behind the servant before I finally stood, stretching my legs slowly as I chuckled to myself.

  Seymour had looked smug when he offered to escort me to the drawing room, and I had been more than content to let him think I’d fallen for the act. His voice had the same oily pleasantness it always did, the kind that sounded polite if you weren’t listening closely. I answered in half-phrases, offered noncommittal nods, and let my attention drift to the room’s windows like I was bored. When he excused himself a few minutes later, claiming something about a servant needing direction, I didn’t ask questions.

  I pushed my hair back as my horns manifested, feeling the scales spread under my shirt. I didn’t want them on my arms, and I frowned as I saw my hands covered in the black and gold scales. My hands couldn’t change into claws yet and I examined them, considering what the best action would be as I listened. Most of the servants were whispering to each other, worried about what Seymour would try to do to Tritetia while the few out of the loop merely talked about my presence.

  It took a while, but eventually I heard Amalia’s voice, and she didn’t sound pleased. Her tone, sharp and clipped, carried across the lawn, and became clearer as she got closer to the house.

  “—no sense in trying if she won’t speak,” she was muttering to herself, clearly annoyed that Tritetia had not turned out to be the puppet she wanted her to be. She was still walking with purpose, her heels tapping with far more frustration than grace, and I leaned closer to the window to make sure I saw her path. She was heading back toward the main house alone.

  Which meant Tritetia wasn’t with her.

  I let go of the curtain, letting it fall back into place with a dull hush as I turned from the window and moved for the door. Seymour was already gone, and Amalia had returned by herself; so far everything was unfolding as I had expected. I stepped into the hallway, quiet despite my boots against the polished floor, and I took in a deep breath. It was harder to discern which way Seymour had gone since the house stank of the weed he smoked, but the slight scent of disinfectant was easier to trace. I knew I would be able to manipulate any servants I met as long as I used my eyes, and so I began my slow journey through the estate.

  I was careful to monitor my pace, listening for Seymour’s footsteps amongst the noise of his estate. If I moved too quickly, then I wouldn’t be able to catch Seymour in his secret lab. If I got there too late, then Isadora and Caspian would be held responsible for what happened to Tritetia. My mother’s protection depended on them, and I doubted Amalia would be as willing to make the same deal with me, even if I tried to intimidate her with what I was.

  I eventually reached the lake, and it didn’t take long for me to notice the crushed Vodallas, a clear path in their wake from where someone had been dragged against their will. I sighed, turning to follow the obvious path; no doubt Seymour hadn’t bothered to try and hide his tracks because he didn’t think anyone would follow. Halfway around the lake, I could just make out the shape of a narrow door tucked into the base of a garden wall—nearly overgrown with ivy, but not quite enough to conceal the newer hinges or the scuff marks along the threshold. A keyhole glinted faintly in the filtered light, but I didn’t bother with it.

  I grabbed the handle and yanked the door back, surprised by how easily it opened. Had Seymour even bothered to lock it?

  The air that met me was colder, laced with the sharp bite of something chemical and unpleasant, like burnt herbs and rotting citrus. The faint hum of enchantment, likely something baked into the stones or the fixtures themselves, crawled under my skin like the ghost of static. My boots struck the stone floor in slow, deliberate steps as I descended the narrow staircase that twisted beneath the earth.

  Another door waited at the far end, heavy and reinforced, the kind with a bolt designed to keep people in, not out. As I continued toward it, I could hear Seymour’s voice as if he was standing next to me, and his words quickened my pace.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  “Your skin is already iridescent, even though you haven’t shifted yet. Are these scales?” Shuffling and then a small moan of pain. “They are! And they are in layers. If I keep plucking, will I reach your muscles?”

  I pushed the door open, not bothering to move quickly. Seymour was standing with his back to me, too focused on Tritetia’s shoulder as he continued to pluck at her scales. Tritetia had her eyes closed, barely struggling against the straps that bound her to the slap and I could tell even from where I stood they were covered in spirit runes. Considering Seymours subjects were all magical beasts, it was a smart precaution for him to take.

  “Ah!” Seymour exclaimed, standing proudly as he held a bloody scale to the light. He still hadn’t noticed me in the doorway and I leaned against it, watching as he examined it with a sick fascination. “So, you are more sea beast that your appearance suggests. Lets get that dress out of the way, I need to–”

  Seymour finally stopped as he noticed me in the doorway, and I couldn’t help the smile on my face. I didn’t bother with my golden eyes, letting him take in the sight as I glared with my green ones. My black and gold horns, gleaming in the soft lights, the scales that covered my hands and disappeared under the sleeves of my shirt. A part of me was sad my wings hadn’t manifested yet, but I knew what I had was enough to make Seymour pause.

  “Another one?” Seymour whispered, almost in awe, and I noticed as he put down the tongs, reaching for the sword that leaned next to the slab Tritetia laid on. “Truly, the gods are smiling on me today. Two perfect subjects, so much to learn.”

  I didn’t answer, merely sidestepping Seymour as he lunged for me. The runes glowed brightly on the sword and it was obvious if he managed to cut me with it, I would have been paralyzed from the magic. I let his momentum carry him forward before I reached for his arm, twisting his wrist to make him drop the blade. I quickly caught the handle before it hit the floor, then pivoted hard, slamming the hilt into Seymour’s throat.

  He choked, stumbling backward, but I didn’t give him a chance to recover. I stepped forward and swept his legs out from under him with one smooth movement, watching his body hit the stone floor with a crack that echoed through the chamber. I looked down at him, panting lightly from the short burst of motion, and raised the blade without a word.

  “Prince Cyran, wait–”

  “I don’t see a reason to, Lord Seymour,” I hissed back, my body burning with my anger. Here he was, the man who had desecrated my mother’s body and then tossed it into the very lake I had walked by. Here he was, scared and wide eyed as I held his own weapon against him.

  “Cyran, don’t!” Tritetia’s voice made me glance up, and I noticed she had managed to remove whatever gag had been shoved into her mouth and she was yelling to the ceiling, the strap around her neck keeping her from sitting up. But if she couldn’t see me, then how…

  Seymour moved, but I quickly moved the blade to his throat, stopping the movement before he could try to find something else to attack me with. I kept my eyes on Tritetia as she coughed, clearly struggling to talk.

  “Don’t. You can’t kill him.”

  My jaw tightened as I lowered the blade, turning my attention to the pathetic man on the floor. My eyes darted to the table with his tools and I grinned, reaching with my free hand to grab one of the scalpels.

  “You should thank her Highness, Lord Seymour. Thanks to her, I won’t kill you,” I spoke calmly, not trying to talk like a child. For the first time since being reset, I allowed myself to relax, to speak with all the hatred and anger I still carried for those who had taken my mother from me. “But you had best be quick.”

  “Prince Cyran, I–”

  “Because,” I grabbed his throat as I dropped the sword, forcing two of my scaled fingers into his mouth. Seymour’s eyes widened with fear, and I couldn’t help the smile that spread across my face at seeing his expression. If I couldn't kill him, then I would still make sure he couldn't hurt my mother. “I can’t exactly allow you to talk about what you’ve seen today. So, I’ll just have to make sure you can’t.”

  I pressed the scalpel against Seymour’s tongue and he finally started to struggle, understanding what I meant to do. But even at seven years younger than him, I was easily able to hold him in place, ensuring he would not escape my grip.

  “Don’t worry, Lord Seymour, unlike you, I don’t intend to take my time,” I murmured, more to myself than anyone else. “After all, I also need to remove the offending eyes who dared to look at what they shouldn’t.”

  I pressed the blade down, steady and cruel, carving through flesh with the precision Seymour had so admired in himself.