Malachite’s head turns woodenly to look back at me, and Fione’s face tinges both curious and utterly terrified. I don’t know what to say, what to do. Something tells me if I so much as twitch, I’ll be watched, judged, and summarily taken care of. If not by the dozens of eclipseguards on the walls, then by the looming witch monoliths themselves.

They might look still, but something in me screams they are very alive. Can they even use magic? They have to—Y’shennria said the black rose that led her to me was made by a High Witch. One of these seven. Why are they missing their body parts? Magic? Is it like Lucien’s eye or his hand—eaten up by the most powerful magic and then discarded because it’s no longer of use?

How are they alive in there? Is it like my Heartlessness?

All I can do is listen. Watch. Wait for my witch’s orders, just like the eclipseguard wait for theirs.

Suddenly, one of the glass monoliths blazes to life, red light illuminating the glass from the inside—showing exactly the witch inside, missing legs and an arm and half their skull, only one eye riveted to Lucien.

“What honor do you bring us, Prince of Cavanos?”

The voice is deep, booming in the high ceilings. The red light flickers with the cadence of the witch’s voice, like lips moving, like sound becoming visible.

Lucien straightens from his bow, onyx eyes sharper now. “My sister Laughing Daughter has taken the Bone Tree.”

“You bring us information we already know.” Another monolith on the opposite end lights up, a witch with long hair and no arms and a voice like a blade. “Hardly honor at all.”

“‘Taken’ is a generous term,” a monolith of a witch with just their chest and head says, lighting up. “And implies conscious autonomy. The Bone Tree has chosen her. It chose her from birth. Laughing Daughter had no say in the matter.”

I see Fione bristle, her fists clenching under her wool covering.

“The valkerax rise again,” the first monolith says. “With much thanks to your Heartless.”

The eyes move, all seven pairs of them at once, from Lucien to me. I swallow the urge to run, all the magic in the air crystallizing and prickling against my skin. A promise of needles. A promise of pain.

“There’s no use in placing blame,” Lucien starts instantly. “My sister would’ve gotten the tree eventually.”

None of the monoliths speak. Lucien angles his body in front of me, between them and me, and my blood thrums.

“She’s none of your—”

“She is precisely our business.” A monolith flares to life, the voice furious.

“With all due respect to the High Ones, I’m telling you,” Lucien insists, his own voice blooming anger. “My sister—”

Every other monolith lights up, sound and light gearing to explode in argument.