Emma, who had been dozing against the wall, startled at the violent crack of the door. She leapt to her feet, blinking, a hopeful smile brightening her face. At last, the princess had opened her door.
But…
It wasn't Lorraine.
It was Leroy.
His golden mask caught the lamplight, half-broken from wear, streaked with dust and grime. Behind it, his eyes blazed red-rimmed and feverish, the whites marbled as if he hadn't slept in days. His clothes were soiled, his breath ragged, his hand trembling as it clutched a parchment crumpled in his arms. Ink smeared across his fingers like dried blood.
"You."
The single word hissed from behind the mask, his voice jagged. He raised a shaking hand and pointed at Sylvia.
Sylvia recoiled, her spine pressed to the wall. The mask turned toward her like the face of judgment itself, unreadable, merciless. His voice was wild, possessed, and for the first time in her years of serving him, she couldn't read the prince at all.
