The scream tore through the Gallery of Queens, shattering the midnight silence.

Alyssa sprinted down the corridor before the echo died. Her bare heels slapped the cold mosaic floor. The candle in her hand guttered wildly in the drafts, hurling chaotic gold light over rows of painted faces that seemed to watch her run. At the far end of the hall, Aunt Lenora pressed flat against the stone wall, a trembling hand at her throat, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

"It changed again," Lenora whispered.

Alyssa lifted the candle, her arm stiff.

In the largest, most ornate frame, Queen Sabine stared down through cracked varnish and centuries of dust. Sabine had always worn a small, composed smile—the placid mask of a ruler who had everything under control. Tonight, the mask was gone. Her mouth formed a tight, hard line. Her eyes locked onto something just beyond the canvas edge, wide and terrified, tracking a looming threat she couldn't look away from.

The background had darkened too. A terrace once blooming with vibrant summer roses now lay suffocated under a bruised, turbulent sky. The flowers looked like drops of dried blood.

Lenora crossed herself. The court priests constantly claimed the shifting portraits were merely an old trick of degrading oils, sea damp, and shadows. "Your grandmother used to say the castle remembers. I told her not to say such things around children."

"I'm not a child," Alyssa snapped.

The words landed thin and hollow, swallowed by the cavernous ceiling. Her hand shook, rattling the brass candle holder. The face in the portrait terrified her. Because the face in the portrait was her face.

*You have Sabine's eyes,* the courtiers always cooed, their voices dripping with calculated flattery. *Sabine's mouth. Sabine's stubborn chin.* The dead queen smiled from silver coins, stained-glass windows, and schoolroom walls.