Lucien’s dark eyes linger on mine, and I see myself in them—my monstrous form bared for all to see. My face is strange; six white eyes where two should be. Like a valkerax. Words and despair circuit unsaid between us as I loom over him. That kiss wasn’t real. His touch—unreal, manipulative. He’s a witch. But all that can wait. It will wait for three years as I have waited, if it must. I am in the silence. The hot tears streak down from my six eyes. Blood tears. I turn my head slowly over my shoulder, the sun throwing my elongated shadow over the blood-smeared snow as I step toward Varia, opening my clawed palm.

“My heart,” I growl, my voice still dark and bestial. “Now.”

“Stay there!” Varia demands, the command slithering through each syllable. But the Weeping has me in its still embrace. It’s so quiet inside me. Nothing moves to stop me—not guilt, not magic, not hunger. I am free.

I stalk toward her, faster now, and her eyes widen. She moves her hand closer to the Bone Tree, and from behind me, Lucien shouts.

“You first, sister. Stay your hand, or Fione is my Heartless.”

Surely she cares about Fione more than the Bone Tree. I’ve seen them so happy together—smiling and golden.

“Surely, Your Highness,” I say, my monstrous voice shredding the air, “your own dear heart is more important than power.”

The crown princess’s fingers hover just above the smooth white of the trunk. I know the Tree has been calling to her for years, infecting her dreams. But the choice is now hers, and hers alone. Behind me, I know Lucien is tightening his grip on Fione’s heart—I can smell the blood oozing from her. The air feels so dense to me, even as a monster, the magic all around us trying to squeeze the life from me, from the moment, from time itself.

“Power isn’t everything,” I say to the princess.

Every sound disappears. Every movement stops except the motion of her hand trembling above the trunk of the Bone Tree. Varia’s proud face wavers, stuck on the edge between timelines. Her, happy with Fione. Her, seizing a power that will destroy her. Two of her selves war with each other in this one moment.

She was ready for five years. I was ready for three.

A snowflake lands on my eyelash. The wind softly moves the Tree, the bone branches clattering together. The princess looks to me, no trace of expression on her face.

“No,” she agrees. “But it is the only thing that matters.”

Varia’s hand touches the bark.