An endless darkness deluged the palace. The prince tried to call out — on his lips, Mother! His mouth guzzled the tide until his lungs and stomach were thronged with black. His throat swelled like a sponge. The darkness tasted sweet and rich like wine. His heart was sopping, heavy. The burden brought succor.
A presence waded through the dark — familiar. His mother met his plea. Her face was shrouded. She spoke with two voices, You’re not my son. Pairs of hands forced him forward. He shuffled for footing, but found no ground.
He fell.
He landed in a mane of grass, down Eila’s back in Moorsea.
He rolled down the hill.
The valley was bestrewed with the ruins of a hundred women. Their bodies were cracked and broken eggshells. Their entrails ran out like yolks. Intestines draped across petrified, outstretched arms. Other organs hung from their hips like bustles. Blood painted the pasture in brilliant ruby. Sunlight hit the valley just perfectly, and the sturdiest corpses sparkled like chandeliers. The massacre was a ballroom.
Across the carnage, the prince’s eyes met another’s. She was more like a statue than the other cadavers. She was straight and still and strong. She would not move towards him. Her gaze drew him in.
He approached the ghostly pillar.
She drifted further from him, disappearing over the hilltop.
The prince scrambled after her. At the hilltop, he searched the pasture for her. She was gone, and the palace laid before him.
In a blink, the prince was inside the palace. He stood in front of his own bedroom door. It was summer. The air was sweet. There was no darkness here.
The prince grew dizzy.
He opened the door.
The prince found himself inside, hunched over his desk, reading. Hatred swelled within him. He grabbed the imposter’s hair, yanking him back out of his chair. The imposter was unrecognizable to the prince. He had the queen’s soft tree bark eyes, round and youthful face, and coiling hair. His complexion was tanned and glowy, used to sunlight and baths and hearty meals. The prince had him by the neck, yet he smiled up at him. He smiled easily; his face creased deeply. The prince drilled his thumbs into the imposter’s throat until he felt the cartilage collapse. When his body went limp, his smile remained.
The sun’s touch turned the curtains berry red. A mourning dove cooed at the window. She pecked at the pane until it cracked. The prince stalked toward the window and opened it. He cradled the creature in his palm. It couldn’t fly. He closed his palms over it and squeezed until its delicate bones were gravel.
He tossed the bird out the window. The sunlight shifted and illuminated the letter opener on his desk — the Diviner’s answer. He grabbed the silver trinket. He didn’t notice the dove flying away into the sun, not a feather out of place.
Darkness descended upon the room. There was no darkness here. He brought it. He tried to smile, the way his imposter dared to smile. His cheeks quivered, muscles resisting. The paper knife was blunt and dull. It cuts roughly into the imposter’s chest. He met bone. He abandoned the knife for his hands.
The crush of the man’s ribs was pleasant. He sank his arms deeper, until he captured the man’s heart. He forced the organ out, cupping it gingerly. He kneeled and lowered his head. He brought his cupped hands to his chest, then up toward his mouth. The movement was thoughtful, ceremonious.
The heart burst under his teeth. Its blood was sweet and rich.
THE DIVINER'S SON 