Chapter 144 Feeding the King

Midnight found Riven crouched on a branch above the heart-grove road, watching Class One creep past in single file.

Dorian led them with a lantern held low, the notebook open against his arm like a map to treasure. Behind him Ormond, Sorrel and Tamsin crept in step, with Pryce bringing up the rear in his enormous hat.

"They are walking into the King’s lap," Nix breathed, hanging upside down from the next branch, "at midnight, with lanterns."

"Is he stupid or only brave?" Mara whispered.

"Neither, he’s following his book," Riven murmured.

’Dorian never wanders without a page to follow... whatever’s in that notebook, he found a fresh Chapter.’

The road ended at a basin ringed with silver bark, where a single enormous trunk rose into the dark. Its branches carried thousands of dark fruit, each one shut tight like an eyelid over a long sleeping thought.

"This is it," Dorian said, raising the lantern, "the heart of the Orchard."

"You swear the book says the King crowns whoever wakes it?" Ormond asked.

"It has never been wrong, and tonight it will not start."

Dorian plucked the oldest fruit within reach, its skin glowing like a coal under ash.

"First-generation memory," he said, "it will show me what the King truly is."

"I would like it noted," Pryce muttered, adjusting his hat, "that I object to everything here."

"Do not eat that," Sorrel warned, stepping back.

He bit it before anyone could argue, juice running down his chin as his pupils swallowed the lantern light. The grove flickered behind his eyes, showing him a crown of branches made from every promise nobody ever kept.

"It is not a tree," Dorian whispered, "it is a collection."

"A collection of what?" Tamsin asked, her voice small.

"Everything people meant to do," he said, "and it pays well for a meal."

’A collection that eats intentions... and he’s about to hand it the plate.’

"That trunk is breathing," Mara whispered.

"Everything in this place is breathing," Nix whispered back, "that’s what makes it so tacky."

Below them the King’s roots stirred, lifting dead leaves like a sleeper turning over beneath a thin blanket. Every loose leaf in the basin drifted toward the trunk, pulled like iron filings toward a patient magnet.

Her tail lashed once, "Give me one reason not to bite that tree."

"It has a thousand eyes, you are wearing a very visible tail."

"My tail is a professional."

Dorian crossed the basin alone, pressing his palm flat against the silver bark as though greeting an old friend. The notebook trembled in his other hand while he offered the villain’s scene to the roots, page by page.

"Wake and eat the boy from Chapter One," he said, "unfinished, uneaten, entirely yours."

’He just sold my funeral to a tree... that’s a new low, even for him.’

Mara’s claws sank into the branch, splintering the bark until crumbs of it rained down on the grass. Riven laid a hand on her wrist, giving one slow shake of his head telling her to wait.

"He is selling you to a tree," she hissed.

"Let him finish the sale... the price only goes up," Riven whispered.

Overhead, a thousand fruit split open at once, each showing an eye the color of old coal. Together the eyes swiveled toward the branch where Riven crouched, as though a single mind owned them.

"Whose?" the King asked, in every voice at the same moment.

"Riven’s," Dorian answered, smiling, "the villain who was meant to die."

"I will grow him from whatever he refused to finish," the voices said, "send him to me."

A pressure rolled across the basin, cold as a well, as the King reached deep into the Margin. Every intention in Class One flared red above their heads, the plan to flee, to claim, to crown.

"My hands are glowing—" Ormond cried, as the first click rang out across the basin.

Shears opened in the dark beyond the trees, dozens of them at once, clicking like crickets with a grudge. Pruners poured over the bark in a hooded tide, snipping at the bright threads above every single cadet’s head.

"Hindsight," Dorian said calmly, the basin rewinding a heartbeat around him.

He rewound again, the Pruners sliding backward over the bark as though the night itself were being reeled in. A third rewind dragged him another step from his squad, leaving him alone at the edge of the trees.

"Wait," Pryce cried, grabbing at his sleeve, "you cannot leave us here!"

The shears snapped shut on nothing beside Dorian, who did not look back.

"Zero," Riven said quietly, "now."

Nix dropped from her branch, slicing a door into the nearest trunk until light spilled out of the frame. Bram came crashing across the basin with the bucket raised, planting himself between the Pruners and two sobbing cadets.

"Behind the bucket, everyone," he boomed, hoisting it high like a tower shield.

"Door’s holding," Nix said through her teeth, "you have five seconds, do not get heroic."

Mara hit the first wave like a thrown anvil, scattering hooded bodies across the roots in a spray. Riven slid down the bark with Overdue drawn, cutting through shears that clicked a half second too late.

He found Pryce on his knees in the dirt, the enormous hat gone and the half-bald scalp shining.

"Up," he said, hauling him over one shoulder like a sack of grain.

"I will not be carried, I am of House Halloway," Pryce wailed, "put me—"

"Sit still, you weigh more than the hat."

"Of all the people in the world to rescue me, why did it have to be—"

"Moving," Riven said, ducking through Nix’s door.

"Count heads," Nix snapped, holding the frame open with both hands while the wood shuddered.

"Fourteen, fifteen... two cadets short of the list, one hat missing."

Pryce sobbed against his shoulder the whole way through, tears soaking into the coat like a warm spring rain. The rest of Class One stumbled through the doorway after them, each cadet missing a sleeve or a braid.

The door folded shut on the shears, letting the cold air of the camp rush in.

Riven set the sobbing noble on the grass, where Pryce clutched at his own bare scalp.

"He left us," Sorrel said, staring at his own shaking hands.

"Three rewinds," Tamsin whispered, "and he did not spend one on us."

"The villain came back," Ormond said slowly, "the villain came back for the whole class."

Class One stared at the man they once mocked for months, jaws slack in the cold camp air. Somewhere behind them a few cadets quietly started to clap, then thought better of it and stopped clapping.

"I will have a portrait of this," Pryce hiccuped, "you will not even pay for the frame—"

"That’s a thank you, isn’t it... you can say it, nobody here will tell your ancestors."

"It is nothing of the kind," Pryce said, scarlet to his ears.

Behind them the night went quiet, the grove’s open mouth breathing out a draft that smelled of old paper. Far behind them, from the heart-grove, a boy with Riven’s face and a white chest wound slowly stepped out.