Strange walls etched with geometric patterns lined the corridors of the castle. The knight walked them, blind in his search for the throne.

  He expected tapestries, paintings—anything to tell him the story of this place before it had been torn open and hollowed out. The walls were barren, aside from the sconces that still burned. His sword trailed behind him, dragging along the floor. The grip in his hand hummed steadily, driving a persistent ache into his weary arm.

  A tired pain was mirrored in each step.

  “What? This can’t be!”

  A faint voice echoed—bouncing down the stairwell from somewhere far above. His pace quickened despite the ache.

  “What has the mad fool done?”

  It was Sir Draven—unmistakable.

  The flame burning in his chest, in his sword, billowed into a crackling roar. It surged into his legs, pushing him faster.

  “Quiet,” Sir Draven said. “Something is coming.”

  “Let it,” another responded.

  The voice stopped him in his tracks.

  “Marigold,” he whispered.

  He ran. “Marigold!”

  When he reached the landing, he shoved open the grand doors. They swung obediently.

  Dark stone floors, polished and carved with precision. Pillars—four rows of twenty, each as wide as a giant oak—ran from floor to ceiling, vanishing into a gray-black haze above. Chandeliers hung, flickering, casting a warm glow over them. A single throne sat at the far end.

  At the center, a knight stood in white, flawless armor. Behind him stood Marigold.

  “You live?” she asked. He could hardly see her face, but he heard the tears fall through her words.

  “The king sent you, I gather?” Sir Draven asked through the vertical vents of his helm as the knight approached.

  “He did.”

  Sir Draven stepped forward to meet him, cocking his head to the side. “Are you,” he paused, but for only a moment, “injured?”

  The knight readied his sword.

  “You wish to fight?” Sir Draven asked. “The barrier has fallen. Curses will come. You’ll not survive.”

  “Let her go free, and we can part long before any curses reach the castle.”

  “You’ve come for me—mortal and half-naked—making demands?” Sir Draven laughed.

  “His armor,” Marigold cried. “It is cursed!”

  The knight looked at the armor more closely. It gleamed with a polished sheen, untouched by dirt or blood, but a hairline strip of gold ran across the breastplate, resembling a sealed crack.

  Sir Draven raised his sword and aimed it squarely at him.

  “Leave now or forfeit your life.”

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  The knight charged, silent and steady, with his sword at his side. Sir Draven slid his foot back, readying himself.

  Within striking distance, the knight stopped short, leaving Sir Draven with nothing to parry.

  He pivoted on his toe to the right and struck Sir Draven’s back as he spun past. A crack ran through the armor, immediately sealing itself in gold.

  Sir Draven turned to face him with all the urgency of a man unburdened. He held out his arms and laughed. He pointed to the knight’s sword.

  “Seems I’ve fared better.”

  There, splintering out from the first, another crack ran along the knight’s blade to the hilt.

  “It is a jealous armor,” Sir Draven said, turning—arms outstretched to the heavens. “It will not allow harm to come to me.”

  “All curses come at a cost,” the knight said.

  Sir Draven marched up to the knight until they stood only a breath apart.

  “Yours cost nothing,” he yelled, spittle spraying through the slits of his helm.

  The knight spoke, firm as stone.

  “It cost everything.”

  Sir Draven pulled away.

  “Only by its absence,” he said, then kicked the knight. His heel landed squarely on the knight’s stomach.

  The knight stumbled back.

  Three steps, then collapsed.

  The air left his lungs and would not return.

  He dropped his sword. It skittered a short distance across the floor. Gasping, he pulled himself toward it.

  “Please!” Marigold shouted, the vaulted room lending strength to her words.

  Sir Draven turned to her.

  Air surged back into the knight all at once, stinging and welcome.

  “Don’t kill him,” she said. “I beg you. Show mercy.”

  “You love him still?” Sir Draven asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Always?”

  Marigold’s eyes drifted, longing, to the knight. “For as long as he draws breath—and further still.”

  Sir Draven looked at the knight, then back at Marigold.

  “We’ll test that,” he said.

  The knight stood and lifted his sword. At the nape of Sir Draven’s neck, where his helm met his backplate, a sliver of shadow marked a gap.

  He thrust.

  Sir Draven tilted his head back, snapping the gap shut before the blade struck.

  The tip of the sword snapped free and flipped through the air. It landed between them with a bounce, settling with a fading chime.

  The knight stepped back as Sir Draven turned.

  “A coward’s play,” he said, stepping toward the knight. “A fitting reward.”

  In a blink, Sir Draven raised his own sword and slashed.

  Cold steel ripped across the knight’s chest. His grip trembled, and his arms fell to his sides. Heat spread from the wound into his shoulders.

  He made a feeble attempt at lifting his blade, broken as it was, but could not.

  “All these years,” Sir Draven said. “And I was right.”

  “Right about what?” the knight groaned.

  “Who is the better swordsman.”

  “You are no better—just cursed, as I once was. Take off your armor. Let us settle this now.”

  Sir Draven laughed, grabbed the knight by the neck, and pulled him close. “Now you play for my armor? You think so little of me. Always have.”

  Sir Draven lifted the knight, choking him before throwing him. The floor met the back of his head with blinding force, while his sword slipped from his hand.

  “This sword is as weak as its owner,” Sir Draven said.

  The knight struggled to lift his pounding head. He managed—just enough to witness Sir Draven bring his heel down on what remained of the soul-forged blade.

  It shattered like over-tempered steel.

  The room tilted. The knight’s head dropped as he closed his eyes.

  “Look at me!”

  When the knight opened his eyes, Sir Draven stood over him, sword poised to strike—trained at the knight’s heart. Breath trickled in as the room steadied itself.

  “Stop!”

  Her voice was as sharp and clear as crystal, cutting through the ringing in his ears.

  Behind Sir Draven, Marigold raised the broken half-blade.

  As he turned to look, she thrust it into the slit of his helm.

  He didn’t flinch.

  Marigold pulled, but the blade would not come free—clasped tight in the sealed helmet.

  She screamed and twisted, pulling harder until the whole helmet came free.

  “No!” Sir Draven shouted, swinging a fist. The back of his hand caught Marigold on the temple.

  She fell, twisting in the air, sliding a short distance before coming to rest.

  As still as the dead.