Gleam: The dark fantasy romance TikTok sensation that’s sold over a million copies (Plated Prisoner Book 3)

Three levels below the ground floor of Ranhold Castle, and it’s like being in an icebox. Even wearing my robe and thick gloves doesn’t keep the cold from penetrating. I’m surprised I can’t see my breath every time I exhale.

As I pass by cell after cell, some shadows behind the bars cringe away from me. I suppose the prisoners have been here too long in Fulke’s dungeon to try and speak. Even if they do realize there’s a new king ruling, they know better than to bother with pleas or to cry for mercy.

Based on the smell wafting from a few of the chambers, I’d say there’s a good chance that some of them are already dead or have their foot in the door. Mercy won’t do anything for them, and neither will I.

My steps echo down the gray stone passageway as I pass beneath centuries-old arches built too low for my liking, its height meant to make the inhabitants feel even more trapped.

The ceiling drips with frosted condensation, a gift from the snow hundreds of feet above. The perpetually white-soaked ground seeps all the way down here, dripping with apathetic disdain for its inhabitants in the form of icy stalactites reaching down like frosted fingers pointing with accusation.

The dungeon guards on patrol give me a bow as I pass, and my steps take me up the narrow staircase to the level above. There’s more light up here, given by double the amount of wall sconces, but the ceiling is still covered in frost.

My feet take me straight to the room off to the left where a guard swings open the door without me having to break my stride.

Warmth hits me as soon as I go into the antechamber, coming face-to-face with a thick canopy of leather hanging from the ceiling to split off the room from the outer door. I push past the heavy brown flap and duck inside the huge, steam-filled space.

There are several people hard at work, some of them scrubbing down the walls. In this room, instead of frost or dripping icicles, the stones are slick with hot moisture beading between every crevice. The workers tend to every inch, trying to deter any mold from growing. Others are amidst the long, straight rows of plants, tending to every leaf and bloom.

I look around, eyes bouncing from purple uniform to purple uniform, until I find the castle’s mender at the far end, bustling around at the counter space built against the wall.

The gangly man doesn’t notice I’m here until I’m standing right beside him. He nearly drops the bottle he’s funneling when he does.

“Your Majesty, forgive me,” he says with a quick bow. “I didn’t know you would be coming down here.”

“I had another matter to see to,” I say, casting a glance at the row of blood-red bottles stacked and ready to go, complete with built-in droppers.

A worker comes up, apron wrinkling as she drops into a quick curtsy. She grabs one of the filled bottles, uncorking it as she goes. I watch as she pours the contents into the soil of the nearest potted plant until it’s empty.

There are hundreds of these plants growing in here. They’re fussy, apparently, since they wither in the sun but need moist heat to thrive.

Their branches point straight up like rows of picket fences. Growing from every limb are blossoms leeched of color, the petals white and ashen. The buds are useless and take a long time to bloom, but the mature ones, the ones nearly ready to fall off their stems, those are what the gardeners carefully collect.

If tended to correctly, those drooping petals bead with blood-red dewdrops. A powerful essence that, when ingested, causes you to relax and heightens pleasure. Dew makes quite a lot of coin in this kingdom.

“What can I help you with, Your Majesty?”

I turn back to the mender as he wipes his stained fingers on a rag before tossing it on the worktable. He has a fine sheen of sweat on his lined brow, ruddy cheeks from the warm humidity clogging the room.

“I wanted to ensure that all of the saddles have been given their contraceptive tonics.”

“Of course, my king. I have been distributing them myself.”

Nodding, I swipe at the back of my neck to get rid of the moisture beading there. “And the pregnant saddle?” I ask. “Has she been sequestered?”

“Yes, and I examined her this morning. I have her well in hand.”

“I want reports for every checkup.”

The man tilts his head in compliance and wipes his upper lip with a handkerchief. “It will be done, Sire.”

“Good.”

On my way out, I cast another appreciative gaze across the steam-filled room. Everyone is doing what they should be, everything inside precise and organized. This entire operation is put together like a perfectly tailored outfit.

Fulke might have been a fool, but when it comes to growing and supplying dew, he had enough sense to put the right people in charge.

Leaving the lower levels of the castle, my slicked skin goes uncomfortably cold within seconds, worsened by the moist sweat that’s accumulated. The grime of the dungeon and the dampness of the grow room clings to my clothes enough to make my skin itch. A change of clothes is in order. Perhaps a bath too.

As soon as I make it to the upper levels and back into the public part of the castle, my guards peel away from the walls to follow me. Yet I’ve barely taken three steps when my head guard comes forward, holding out a missive. “A hawk just arrived for you, Sire.”

I take it and keep walking, already planning which outfit to change into, but I pause on the stairs when I notice the white wax seal in the shape of a bell.

I tear it open, eyes quickly skimming left to right.

That cold, useless bitch.

I read through it again, and then a third time, while my teeth grind together to chew on my fury. When I get through it a fourth time, I already have a plan in mind.

Malina doesn’t want to be useful anymore? Wants to deny her husband and king?

So be it.

I turn sharply, abandoning the route to my rooms completely.

The guards shadow my steps as I make my way out of the castle. Past the courtyard, past the ice sculptures, past the stables, my boots crunch on the powdery walkways until I come to an outdoor training ring.

Some soldiers are gathered around and running drills. From my peripheral, I see them stop to bow, but I ignore them and continue to stride forward to the building attached.

“Wait here and close the door,” I order the guards.

Inside, the building is bare bones. Nothing but a small armory for training purposes. Wooden swords lie in piles, and there are stacks of padded chest armor for sword practice, as well as a litter of arrows and unstrung bows. It’s messy and reeks of sweat, the floor made of nothing but dirt and straw to go with the rough stone walls.

Several soldiers look up in surprise at the sound of the door closing, but when they see me, they drop into stiff bows.

“Everyone out,” I order sternly, sending the soldiers scattering before my eyes fall onto the older man. He’s not a soldier anymore, not at his age, but he’s been charged with keeping this place equipped and organized, though I see he’s sorely lacking on the latter.

“Fetch Hood.”

The man’s brows lift in surprise, but he quickly leaves to do as I bid. I pace around the building while I wait, lip turning up in a grimace at the state of my shoes from the disgusting floor. I should have that man whipped for his severe lack of care at his duty.

Several minutes later, the door opens again and Hood steps into the room. I don’t need to see his face to know it’s him—the thick cloak and hood he always wears is telling enough. He never goes without it, face always shadowed beneath the cowl of material.

Even so, I can see the two-toned skin, both brown and pale, showing on his chin and neck. Vitiligo, they call it, a condition of the skin that leaches color in patches.

Some of the soldiers mock him, call him Cowhide, but the man never speaks, never snaps. He was wasted as a soldier for Fulke. It was lucky that I read some of the soldiers’ reports and realized his potential.

I’m going to put that potential to the test.

“Hood,” I say in greeting as he stops a few feet away, hand clasped around his wrist in a soldier’s stance.

While his skin abnormalities may have made him a mocked outsider, his muteness ensured it. It took years for Fulke to realize that the man had magic.

I look at his cloaked form, eyes running over the patches on his hands as if I can somehow see why power chose to run through his veins.

Magic, strong magic, isn’t as common as it once was in Orea. Without any more fae to mix with, it’s slowly petering out of our world. It’s held mostly in the royal lines, but that’s only due to carefully arranged unions.

But the man in front of me is one who slipped through the cracks, who went unnoticed for too long. Just a common, albeit skilled, foot soldier. His secret was discovered only after a particularly bad fight, seven against one, and he disappeared in plain sight.

Luckily for me, Fulke kept good notes.

“I have a job for you.”noveldrama

Hood waits, unspeaking, just as I knew he would. Through the weeks of observing him, he hasn’t spoken once. I view his silence as another asset.

“The cold queen has become a problem. I want you to take care of her for me.”

Part of me is disappointed in Malina. I thought she’d be smarter than this, though I anticipated that she might react this way. Her bold refusal sits creased in my palm, her letter sealing her own fate.

That was the only chance I was willing to give her, and she just threw it away because she overestimated her own importance. With her pathetic scheming to try to keep Sixth, with her refusal to claim an heir, she’s now become ineffectual.

Expendable.

“How quickly does your magic work?” I ask curiously as I walk closer.

In answer, he settles his arms at his sides, lifting his head slightly to reveal the patch around his mouth and nose as his eyelids drop closed in concentration.

The change happens slowly, like a roiling cloud high in the sky. His form builds and billows before it becomes a dark, translucent wisp inside the cover of smoke.

The man is stock-still silence and churning shadows.

I hum in approval at his wraithlike form, at the magic of a hidden phantom who can disappear into his own umbra and bend the light around him to make him disappear. I put my hand out to test these strange shadows, but my fingers pass right through, feeling nothing but cold smoke.

Fascinating. Effective. Perfect magic to put to use as an assassin.

Dropping my hand, I watch as Hood reappears, shadow and light coalescing around him until his body is solid and visible once more.

“I want you to leave tonight,” I tell him. “Don’t fail me.”

Hood dips his chin in agreement at the order and then turns and slips away, leaving just as silently as he entered.

Malina will be sorry she ever refused me. I’m going to ruin her feeble efforts at holding my kingdom, and then, my shadow will extinguish her.