Sharp tongue

THALIA’S POV

The carriage door stands open, revealing a dark leather interior that looks far more comfortable than anything I deserve at the moment. I climb inside, careful not to put too much weight on my raw feet pressing against the boots, and settle onto the seat opposite her.

The moment I sit down, the door slams shut.

Outside, someone gives an order. The horses shift, their hooves scraping against the frozen ground, and then the carriage lurches forward.

I catch myself against the seat.

Wonderful. I've been married off to a stranger, stripped of my magic, and threatened by a woman whose idea of a proper welcome is informing me that I'll probably be dead within a fortnight.

Duskmere is already making an excellent first impression. I glance at Isolde. If that was supposed to be reassuring, I would hate to hear her idea of a threat.

The carriage rocks as we move away from the outpost. Through the small window, I catch glimpses of dark trees and patches of snow, the landscape blurring whenever the wheels hit uneven ground. The sky hangs low and grey, and the cold seems determined to find its way through every crack in the carriage.

I pull my cloak closer around myself.

I have to admit, the North is living up to its reputation.

Still, it could be worse. I could be in Blackthorne, explaining to another group of self-righteous academics why breaking into a forbidden library to retrieve a spell wasn't an entirely unreasonable decision and their decision to send me to Hallowmere is.

Well, perhaps not an entirely reasonable one. But I had my reasons. And the spell worked. Mostly.

I push the memory aside before it can follow me any further. The last thing I need is to think about that night.

Besides, I'm not particularly interested in giving Duskmere the satisfaction of seeing me frightened.

In Ashen Crown, fear is a weakness best hidden behind closed doors. Showing it in public is practically an invitation for someone to use it against you.

I've spent my entire life learning that lesson.

While my siblings displayed their extraordinary gifts and basked in the admiration that came with them, I learned to smile as if nothing bothered me. I learned to laugh at insults before anyone could notice they had landed. I learned to look perfectly unbothered while everyone around me discussed my future as though I wasn't sitting right there.

Apparently, I've become rather good at it.

My family calls me reckless. Difficult. A menace.

They've never considered that perhaps I've simply grown tired of being the only person in the room who isn't allowed to decide what happens to her own life.

Across from me, Isolde watches me with the sort of interest people reserve for unfamiliar insects.

I meet her gaze.

“Something on my face?”

“Your tongue,” she replies. “It's remarkably sharp.”

“Thank you. I maintain it myself.” I said dryly, not knowing what she was driving at. Her expression doesn't change.

“Let's see how long you manage to keep it.”

I smile.

“I'm beginning to think the people of Duskmere have forgotten how to welcome guests.”

“You aren't a guest.”

“Ah.” I lean back against the leather seat. “That explains the hospitality.”

The corner of her mouth twitches, though whether it's amusement or irritation, I can't tell.

“Women who wear the Duskmere crown don't last long,” she says. “You would be wise to understand that before you arrive at the palace.”

There it is again. The crown. The dead women. The careful little warnings delivered as though she's doing me a favour.

I tilt my head.

“I'm starting to wonder whether the northern climate is the problem. Perhaps your healers aren't very good.”

This time, her smile disappears.

The silver bands around her fingers shift as she curls them into her palm. It's a small movement, almost nothing, but I notice it.

“Duskmere has exceptional healers,” she says. “Our methods are simply not suited to everyone.”

“Of course.” I give her my most sympathetic expression. “Then perhaps it's the weather. Or the food. Or the general atmosphere of hostility. You've certainly given me plenty to consider.”

Her eyes narrow.

I smile more sweetly.

“If this is how you treat someone before she's even reached the palace, I can hardly imagine what the royal welcome will be like.”

“Be careful, Princess.”

“I'm trying. It's difficult when everyone keeps giving me reasons not to be.”

For a moment, neither of us speaks.

The carriage sways over a rough patch of road. Somewhere outside, a horse snorts, followed by the steady clatter of hooves against frozen earth.

I could ask her questions now.

How many women have worn the Duskmere crown before me? How many of them died? Were they all witches? Did they die of illness, childbirth, an accident, or something the royal family would rather keep buried?

And why does she speak about their deaths as though they're an ordinary inconvenience?

The questions crowd my mind, each one more urgent than the last.

But I stop myself.

Isolde is watching me too closely. Every time I speak, she studies my reaction as though she's measuring something. My anger. My fear. My willingness to obey.

She's trying to make me afraid before I even see the palace.

I won't make her job easier. I turn towards the window instead. The trees grow thicker as we travel, their dark branches stretching over the road. Beyond them, the land rises into uneven slopes, and the occasional cluster of buildings appears and disappears behind the passing trees.

I have no idea where we are.

My parents made certain of that.

They kept me away from the northern court, away from its people and politics, away from anything that might have helped me understand the place they were sending me to. Then, when the time came, they dressed me up and handed me over like a sack of winter grain.

At least the grain would have been useful.

“You should learn when to keep your mouth shut,” Isolde says.

I turn back to her.

“Is that advice or a threat?”

“It's a warning. The king doesn't like a talkative property.”

Property. For one ridiculous second, I think I must have misheard her. Then I look at her face and realise she meant every word.

I let out a small laugh.

“Property. Charming. Does he also have a list of approved words I'm allowed to use, or will I be expected to guess?”

“Mock me all you like. It won't change your position.”

“No, but it makes the journey more entertaining.”

Her gaze hardens. I look away before she can see how much that word has unsettled me.

Property.

I knew this marriage wasn't going to be romantic. I wasn't expecting flowers, declarations of devotion, or a husband who would sweep me off my feet and promise to love me until the stars fell from the sky.

I wasn't even expecting basic kindness.

But there is something particularly humiliating about being discussed as an object while sitting right in front of the person doing it.

Something about the casual certainty of it.

As if I have no say in the matter. As if the fact that I'm a person is an insignificant detail everyone has agreed to overlook.

My fingers tighten around the edge of my cloak.

I need to think.

I need to understand where I am, who these people are, what they want from me, and why previous brides apparently didn't survive long enough to enjoy the privilege of being royal property.

Most importantly, I need my magic back.

I close my eyes for a moment and reach inward.

It's instinctive, the way a person reaches for a familiar object without looking. I search for the quiet current that has always answered me, the familiar presence beneath my skin that lets me perform the ordinary commands every witch learns.

A simple spark. A thread of warmth. Even the faintest flicker would be enough to reassure me that my mother's spell was temporary.

Nothing answers.

I try again.

This time, I concentrate harder, reaching past the first emptiness and searching for the smallest trace of power.

Nothing.

My stomach tightens. My mother said the suppression would end once I crossed into Duskmere. She said my magic would return.

I believed her. Gods, I actually believed her. I open my eyes and stare at my hands.

They look exactly as they did yesterday. The same fingers. The same nails. The same faint marks left by years of handling ink, parchment, and spellwork.

But they feel useless.

I flex them, then press my palms together, trying to summon even the most basic response.

Still nothing.

A cold sensation spreads through my chest that has very little to do with the weather.

My mother didn't merely send me to Duskmere against my will. She sent me here without the one thing that might have given me a chance to protect myself.

And she knew exactly what she was doing. A laugh escapes me. It's quiet at first, barely more than a breath, but I can't seem to stop it.

Of course.

Of course my family would find a way to make this worse.

They couldn't simply force me into a political marriage. They had to make certain I arrived unable to defend myself, surrounded by strangers who already seemed to know more about my likely death than I did.

How thoughtful.

I press my hands into my lap and force myself to breathe.

Panic won't help me. It won't bring my magic back, open the carriage door, or transport me to somewhere with a warmer climate and a more reasonable population.

And I refuse to fall apart in front of Isolde.

She doesn't need to know that I'm frightened. She certainly doesn't need to know how badly.

My gaze drifts towards the folds of my cloak, where the edge of a folded parchment presses against my ribs.

My blueprint.