Disclaimer: All characters, settings, and elements from the Beyonders series belong to Brandon Mull.

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The baroness turned away from the dead body before her to admire her reflection in the mirror beside her. She looked certainly regal; the velvet red hat with the delicious crimson feather and superb gold threading looked positively divine atop her aristocratic head. The rest of her ensemble was also beautiful—all made of the most luxurious cloths and embroidered with lovely designs. How she would hate to leave them behind when she left this world.

Then again, perhaps she could take them with her. Perhaps only some of the boundaries were as vehement as the ones she had passed through previously. The baroness smiled, imagining herself in this attire among her own kind. How they would envy her.

Turning, the baroness glanced at the dead old man on the bed and smirked. Based on all the legends, she had expected more of a challenge from this man. But all the baroness had had to do was reach in and stop the heart while the old man slept.

The shadowman had surprised her. She wasn't aware that any had remained after the return of the Lost Ones, or that any others had left. And she had never heard of using shadowmen as bodyguards. But after her initial startle, the baroness had easily dismissed the shadowman to its homeworld. It had been aching to leave—the man it had been forced to protect had killed three of its brethren.

The baroness took off the delightful hat and set it back down, reluctant but decided. She would return for it soon enough. But the freeze she had placed would be thawing soon, and she had to be in character. The baroness mussed the ends of her hair and sent some blood into her cheeks to make it look like her panicked run had only just been completed. Putting on an expression of despair, she knelt by the dead man's bed and looked down as the people rushing up the stairs finally pushed open the door.

"We're too late," the baroness lamented believably. "He's gone."

A lord fell to his knees by the old man, grasping the latter's still, pulseless wrist; the lord's wife was close behind him.

"How can this be?" the lord cried. "What could defeat such a great man?"

The baroness stood sadly. "Old age." She shook her head. "The weary passage of time. The one enemy he could never combat with a sword."

As the grieving lord and lady began to weep over the body of their old friend, the baroness turned and solemnly spoke to the shocked young messenger in the doorway.

"Send word immediately to Caberton," the baroness commanded. "The king of Trensicourt is dead."