Chapter Thirty-Two · The Three Poisoned Cups

The mage led them to a remote mountain. Jagged outcrops jutted up like blades.

The place lay cut off from sun and wind. Mist hung thick in the air.

They stopped at the mouth of a cave. Inside, it was pitch-dark. Something clicked and turned, over and over.

The mage struck his staff against the ground.

“My lady. It’s Mydrin.”

A swarm of bats burst from the cave. Lyra and Sion ducked, raising their arms to shield their faces.

“Come in,” an old woman’s voice called from within, low and resonant.

They stepped inside. Light bloomed at once.

It was a small chamber, crowded with candlelight.

An old woman sat at a spinning wheel, one hand drawing out thread.

The mage bowed his head.

“My lady. The High Lord has returned.”

Her eyes widened. A faint smile touched her lips.

“Has he now? And what miracle brought him back?”

The mage glanced at Lyra.

“The princess. She offered herself so the spirits could enter.”

The wheel slowed, then stilled.

The old woman rose and studied them.

“Aethrador’s blood?”

She stepped closer and reached out, running her fingers along a strand of Lyra’s hair.

Circling her once, she took her measure from head to toe.

“I see it now. There’s presence in you.”

She turned away, a faint curl at the corner of her mouth, her gaze lowered.

Then—

Clink.

A needle flashed out, fast as a strike.

Lyra snapped her blade up and knocked it aside. The needle skittered across the stone.

Sion recoiled.

The mage raised his staff.

“My lady.”

The old woman gave a thin smile.

“A small test, nothing more. Fine steel.”

Her expression shifted. In an instant, her smile warmed.

“Come, Your Highness. Sit.”

Lyra held her ground, her gaze no less guarded.

Whatever the old woman appeared to be, she was far from simple.

The old woman set cups on the table and filled each one with tea.

“Mydrin, bring them over. Let them sit.”

The mage inclined his head and stepped forward.

Lyra followed. Sion trailed behind, glancing around.

Sion whispered at Lyra’s back.

“This place is worse than the tomb.”

The mage offered the old woman a cup, then took one for himself. After a sip, he spoke.

“The princess has done Aulith a great service. Please grant her the map fragment to the Awakening Spring.

I believe she is worthy of that power.”

“Very well.” A knowing smile touched the old woman’s dark-painted lips.

She lifted a hand and murmured a spell. The needle rose from the floor and flew back into her palm.

“Courage like yours is rare.

Let me offer you something… suitable.”

She turned away. Silver hair, lined skin, yet her movements remained graceful.

The mage leaned in, his voice low at Lyra’s ear.

“She is High Lord Melthir’s second wife.”

A moment later, she returned with a silver tray and a set of finely worked cups.

“These are the finest brews I’ve distilled in many years.”

She reached for Lyra’s tea and flicked it aside.

Then she set the tray down.

Sion started to reach for one. The old woman slapped her hand away.

“Not for you. These are for the princess.”

Sion pouted and drew back.

The liquid in the cups glowed amber in the candlelight.

The old woman sat across from Lyra.

“Your Highness, all of Aulith knows you were born without magic.”

Beneath the table, Lyra’s hand tightened on the hilt.

Sion cut in, her voice sharp.

“So what? Magic isn’t what makes someone strong.”

“Some say it is divine punishment,” the old woman said, idly tracing the length of her needle, “for those of tainted blood.”

Something tightened in Lyra’s chest.

Sion scoffed.

“Rumors. That’s all.”

The old woman laughed, the sound echoing thin and cold through the cave.

“Your Highness, magic is what proves you worthy of the throne.

With it, the King and Queen would take pride in you.

The court and the alliances would bow without hesitation.”

Lyra said nothing.

Hollow.

She needed power.

Not to prove she was worthy.

To prove they were wrong.

The old woman drew a pair of shears from her sleeve and flung them. They struck the coil of black thread on the opposite wall and began to cut on their own.

The threads flared with light. A strip of silk appeared within, bound tight.

Lyra frowned.

Enchanted thread.

The old woman gestured toward it.

“The map fragment. Long ago, to keep Aethrador from finding the Awakening Spring, we divided it among four fae houses.”

She turned back to Lyra.

“For Mydrin’s sake, I will give it to you.

But first… drink.”

Lyra kept silent.

She tracked the needle in the woman’s hand.

“This one.” The needle dipped into the first cup, stirring.

“Immortality.”

The liquid darkened to black.

“This one.”

The second cup turned a deep green as the needle circled.

“Any mind, laid bare.”

“And this one.”

The third flared orange.

“Strength without end.”

She withdrew the needle.

“Choose, Your Highness.

A token of my goodwill.”

Sion narrowed her eyes, leaning in to whisper.

“Don’t drink it. This feels wrong.”

The mage drew breath to speak.

A black thread slipped from her sleeve and shot across the table, stitching his lips shut.

“Mydrin. Be still,” the old woman said without looking at him.

Sion froze, clapping a hand over her own mouth.

Lyra snapped her sword across her lap.

Her left hand closed tight around the hilt, ready to draw at any moment.

So this was the woman who had sealed Ravok’s mouth.

And yet… she bore Aethrador no goodwill.

Forced, perhaps. Bound by the High Lord’s soul within the Orb.

Would she turn that needle on me?

Lyra didn’t look at the cups.

She watched the woman’s hands.

The old woman nudged the cups closer one by one.

“Or perhaps,” the old woman said lightly,

“you drink all three.

Then there is no need for the Awakening Spring.

You would be the strongest in the realm.”

Above the table, Lyra sat perfectly still. Not even a blink.

Beneath it, her foot slid back. Slow. Measured.

A lure with its hook hidden.

Leave now, and the map is lost.

Stay… and pay in blood and honor.

No.

If the Awakening Spring was beyond reach, there were other paths.

Sonareth. Training. Time.

It was just… Sonareth would be at risk.

The chair shot back.

Lyra rose.

“Sion. We’re leaving.”

Sion was on her feet at once. Together, they headed for the mouth of the cave.

“You don’t want the map after all?” the old woman’s voice carried after them. “No regrets?”

Lyra slowed, but didn’t turn.

“One cup is all it takes,” the old woman went on. “Immortality… or any mind laid bare?”

Lyra spoke, her first answer since they had arrived.

“Every ambition has its price. You’re welcome to it.”

The old woman laughed.

“You get one chance. Walk out, and this door will never open for you again.”

Lyra glanced at Sion.

“We’re leaving.”

They stepped out into the gray light and led the horse away.

Inside, the old woman flicked her hand. The black thread sealing the mage’s lips vanished.

“My lady, because of her…”

Thwip.

The strip of silk tore free from the hanging coil and flew into the mage’s hand.

“Enough,” the old woman said. “Go after her. You can still catch them.”

The mage bowed. “My thanks, my lady.”

He hurried out, staff striking stone.

The old woman turned back to the table and swept the three cups aside.

The brews spilled, hissing as they ate into the wood.

“If Aethrador were still alive,” she murmured, “he’d lose his mind over that princess.”

She laughed, low and echoing, until the sound filled the cave.

Outside, mist curled low across the mountain path.

Lyra had just tightened her grip on the reins when the staff sounded behind her.

Sion’s hand darted into her satchel. She drew a dagger halfway out, then slipped it back when she saw the mage.

The mage stopped a few paces away, panting as if he had run the whole way. In his hand lay a narrow strip of silk, dark thread still clinging to its edges.

“Your Highness,” he said.

Lyra looked from the silk to his face.

“The map fragment?”

He bowed and held it out with both hands.

“My lady said it belongs to you.”

Sion blinked. “After all that?”

The mage’s mouth tightened, as if the memory of thread still tugged at his lips.

“She does not give anything freely. She tests the hand that reaches for it.”

Lyra did not take it at once.

The three cups flashed through her mind. Immortality. Any mind laid bare. Strength without end.

All of them offered like kindness.

But each of them waited to make a servant of her desire.

And she had walked past them.

At last, she reached out and took the silk.

The thread was cold against her palm.

“Tell her,” Lyra said, “I don’t regret walking away.”

For the first time, the mage gave her something close to a smile.

“I believe she knows.”

He stepped back and bowed again.

Lyra tucked the fragment safely beneath her cloak, then mounted her horse.

Behind them, the cave mouth sank into the mist until it looked less like an entrance than a closed eye.

They rode down the mountain as the mist folded shut behind them.