THE THRONE ROOM was untouched, unaltered, and just as it had been on Maarit's first night at the castle. It looked slightly more beautiful and impressive in the daylight; all of the dark colours appeared to be saturated with sunlight. The gold embellishments on the walls reflected light magnificently, and the view from the window was one for the ages.

She had noticed the king's throne during her first night, but in her frightened delirium, she had not seen the queen's vacant throne.

It sat slightly to the left of that of the king and had not been occupied for nearly twelve years.

Seeing it all through her alert eyes made the hair on the back of Maarit's neck stand on end. She followed Picard deeper into the room, delving into its regal charm. Her legs moved of their own accord and she was unable to stop them. The throne room and everything within had an allure too strong to resist.

The last time she had seen the room was through a blurry daze, so she had not noted many of the minor details. In the corner of the room, there was a sword and shield collection, all possessing the Rangelov family emblem: a lion standing on its hind legs, mid-roar, with a sword protruding from its chest.

Immediately, Maarit crossed the room for the sole purpose of running her fingers over the gleaming, ruby-encrusted swords. Mesmerized by the way they gleamed as though they had never touched blood before, she ran her fingers over the blades until they touched the cold silver of the largest one. It reminded her of the prophecy she had recited and the visions she had seen.

She turned around, only to see the jittery warlock watching her, his mouth open slightly to show he was debating whether or not to protest.

"Yes, Alexander?" she asked, pursing her lips and daring him to tell her she could not touch them.

"Madam—Maarit," he corrected himself as she shot him a stern look, "be very careful with those."

She laughed and the sound danced across the red-painted walls. "Do not fret, Xander, I am not some little girl. Far from it, actually. I can handle a sword."

"Have you used one before?"

She pretended to contemplate this. "No. But one doesn't need to have touched a sword before to be able to handle it. What exactly is it that you're afraid of? That I'll slip and accidentally slit my own throat? Please."

She turned back to the sword collection and placed her hands on the hilt and pointed it to the ceiling. With such a weapon in her grasp, she felt a surge of power and turned it over in her hands, admiration glazing her eyes. She had longings of might buried in the ivory bones that lay beneath her bronze skin.

Slowly, carefully, her index finger slid over the sharpest part of the blade; she heard Picard suck in a sharp breath.

Then, a thought, ephemeral as any other, dawned on her.

This blade was very, very sharp—surely, if she tried, she would be able to cut her left hand clean off in one swift movement.

Her pulse quickened and for a moment, she really thought she would do it. She stared at the Sorcerer's Tenebrium bracelet, which she had tried to manually pry off too many times to count, and thought she would finally be rid of it.

But reality came forcefully clawing its way into her mind and she understood that it was not the time to escape. If she tried, Picard would stop her and afterwards, she would be watched extra closely, never getting another opportunity to abscond again. Patience—all she required was patience.

She placed the sword back where she had found it and strode over to the two thrones. The king's was larger and more grand, which thoroughly upset her. A deep frown tugged at the corner of her lips and before she even realized what she was doing, she was approaching the king's throne to sit on it.

"Maarit, what are you doing?" Picard hissed, whirling around as if to make sure his king was not watching. "His Majesty would be furious if he—"

"Well he isn't going to know, is he?" she shot back, pausing before the throne. "He isn't some omniscient being. He won't have a clue, and if he does, what exactly is the worst that could be done? He will not kill me. My life is safe from his wrath. My soul, perhaps not, but he will do nothing to harm me physically."

He opened and closed his mouth a few more times before the resolve melted away. His shoulders slumped and he watched her settle on King Theodoracius's throne as though it belonged to her. Contrarily to what she had been expecting, sitting there did not make her feel anything—in fact, she had felt much more power holding the sword.

"I can guarantee with unwavering certainty that you are the first woman ever to sit there," Picard noted, gulping nervously.

"Wonderful. Sit next to me," she offered, gesturing to the queen's throne. Then, in a much more teasing tone, she added, "Be my queen, Alexander Picard."

He chuckled, but bowed his head and shook it firmly. "No, I—I mustn't."

Maarit sighed, leaning back in the throne. "Alright, then, I suppose I'm the only one valiant enough to commit such a heinous act." She gave him a toothy smile and lifted her nose in the air.

"Oh, yes, definitely," Picard agreed, nodding. He demonstrated not even a hint of sarcasm. "I cannot deny that I'm a coward. Would you like to see the library next?"

"Yes!" said Maarit, her voice laden with unrestrained enthusiasm. In her dressing gown and socks (which by no means made her feel like anything close to royalty), rose from the throne. "I shall be memorizing the way there, because libraries are my sacred space. I used to work at a library for magical books back in Fribois."

She followed him out into the corridor. It had been a while since she had thought about her job. She wondered if the elder librarian she worked with, Mrs. Porter, felt about her being missing.

"There isn't that much to memorize," he said, gesturing to the paintings that lined the walls.

Maarit's heart leapt when she saw they were the paintings he had been telling her about—the ones directly outside the library. They only took a few more steps before they reached a pair of wooden doors, complete with brass handles and knockers. Picard pushed the double doors open and the scene took Maarit's breath away.

Before her eyes was the most pulchritudinous sight she had ever had the pleasure of laying eyes on. It was, perhaps, a hundred times the size of Mrs. Porter's library. There were rows upon rows of shelves stocked with rows upon rows of books. The ceiling was a dome of tinted glass that shielded the sun's strongest rays. It was so high that there could have been two floors, but instead the shelves reached up high enough to reach the very top. There were multiple ladders beside them and a chandelier had just enough room to hang from the very middle.

Though she wished for nothing more than to be free and to leave the castle, the library was too beautiful for her not to explore. It was like her soul had died somewhere in the castle, and she was in the heavenly afterlife at last.

This library was like her very own Elysian Fields.

Maarit waltzed inside, her head spinning; she did not know what to look at first. "How do this many books even exist in the world?" she whispered, a jovial expression pulling at each of her features until she was positively beaming. She pranced towards the nearest shelf and ran her fingers over the spines of ten books. "It'll take me weeks just to see what they all are!"

"There will be time for that," Picard assured her, her contagious happiness causing his lips to quirk upwards slightly. "I hate to be the one to draw you out of your mesmeric daze, but we must be going. We can return later today, alright? There is still so much to see."

Sighing, her time in her new favourite place cut short, Maarit tore herself away from the millions of books that she yearned to get her hands on. "Alright," she responded, attempting to mask her dejected tone. "But you had better be showing me something almost as beautiful."

"Believe me, this castle has no shortage of grandiosity, as I'm sure you've noticed from what you've seen of it."

"I do believe you," she said, her eyebrows shooting skywards. "So what exactly is next?"

"You will see."

Maarit followed Picard out. Once they left, the warlock started walking briskly. His legs were spindly and long, causing Maarit to have to jog to catch up to him. He showed her around the kitchens, the lavatories, the oratories, the chapels and the ballroom, each as resplendent as the next. They only ever scraped the surface of each location; she never got to see the details, and perhaps even the secrets, that each one held.

She accompanied him the entire way until she found herself stepping outside of the palatial building for the first time in forever.

"Where are we headed?" she asked him curiously, pausing in the doorway of a pair of glass doors.

"The courtyard and the stables," Picard responded, holding the door open for her. "It's been a while since you've had any fresh air, hasn't it? Follow me."

Her skin burned with yearning to feel the sun again. She stepped out of the castle eagerly, welcoming the warm air and the cool breeze. Her midnight tresses were blown into her face and she felt the familiar sensation of the freedom that came with breathing fresher air. A delightful sound that she had not heard for a while met her ears—chirping of the goldfinches and larks as they perched upon tree branches.

The courtyard was terraced, and throughout, blossoming trees and multicoloured flowers grew and swayed with the wind. Bushes of roses and lilacs bloomed, their sweet scents mingling and being carried by the wind to Maarit's nostrils.

"I nearly forgot that you have no shoes," Picard pointed out, staring at her socked feet.

He bit his lip and conjured a pair of plain, comfortable brown slippers directly onto her feet.

"Thank you, Xander," she told him.

They walked across the cobblestoned courtyard, only to encounter the two guardsmen, both of whom made Maarit's blood boil. They stood together—they were practically inseparable—and were armed with weapons in the off-chance that anyone happened to crawl their way up the mountain to kill the king.

As though he felt her watching them, one of them turned around. Once his gaze fell on her, he nudged the other.

"You look mighty tasty when you're all clean!" one of them called out to her, causing both of them to boom with laughter that was laced with idiocy. He licked his lips.

Maarit shook with fury and stopped in her tracks. Picard had also stopped and came to stand by her side. She grabbed his arm, trying to get his attention.

"What are their names again?" she asked, her voice still quivering. She had pent-up anger and immense disgust directed at both of the guards. She could not help but think that she despised them perhaps even more than she despised King Theodoracius.

"Sergius and Obed," he declared.

His tone towards them was indifferent, so Maarit could not tell what he was thinking at all. She had no clue whether he hated them in the slightest.

Without warning, Picard turned once again on his heel and strode away. She followed him blindly once again. She shook her head over and over, as though it would somehow rid her mind of all of the derogatory things the guardsmen had yelled at her while she was imprisoned.

"Are they the only guards he has?" Maarit called after him dubiously, a hint of doubt creeping into her voice.

"No, no," Picard said with a subtle shake of his head to punctuate the response. "They are the only guardsmen that you have seen around the castle as of late because most of the others are in training at the moment. Practicing their swordsmanship and archery and such."

What are they doing—preparing for a war or something of the sort? she thought, but refrained from voicing this particular thought aloud.

They finally reached lush green grass, and past that, the stables. There were numerous stablehands tending to the horses inside the wooden enclosure. One in particular was being groomed more than the others—Maarit recognized it as the stallion that King Theodoracius had ridden to the servant boy's execution on the morning after his father's death.

Maarit's eyes trained on the pure white stallion. Seeing it put the guards out of her plagued mind for the time being.

The horse was beautiful in a majestic way—she could not help but think that he was just like Theodoracius in that respect. It did indeed give off the aura of grandiosity that could only come with being part of the royal family for so long.

The stallion's mane was braided and clean. His coat was unblemished and he was the exact opposite one would expect a white horse to look when it came to cleanliness. There was not a single patch of dirt on him due to the constant grooming he received.

"That is Cassius," Picard explained, pointing at the glossy-maned stallion. "He has belonged to His Majesty since he was only five years old. It was his second love, after his mother. In fact, he was even the one to name him. They are one in the same, Cassius and King Theodoracius."

Maarit could not help but notice that the warlock almost made him sound human. Perhaps he had had his humanity as a child. She tried to imagine King Theodoracius as a rosy-cheeked child, but found that all she saw was the murderer she knew.

"That means that the horse has his arrogance and immaturity, doesn't it?" Maarit asked pleasantly, quirking an eyebrow upwards in amusement.

He glanced back at her pointedly, but did not oppose her claim.