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The queen insisted on eating lunch outside. We would have been freezing if not for one of her servants who had the power of flame. He used his magic to create large fireballs that surrounded our table,
radiating heat.
I carefully kept my gaze away from Madinia, who sat across from me, miserable and pale. Lisveth had been forced to sit next to her when Caraceli insisted on sitting next to me. Dread lay in my stomach like a heavy stone.
Lisveth had given me a wide-eyed look as Caraceli hissed insults at me. The woman had taken to drinking more each night, until even the queen had noticed. Today, Caraceli had already had several cups of wine at lunch.
The queen ate quietly, murmuring to Alcandre. A few minutes into the meal, she got to her feet, ignoring the servant who used his power to pull her chair aside. “I have a headache,” she murmured. “I will see you all tonight at the ball.”
She walked away, and I focused on the stew, bread, fruit, and pastries in front of me. I wished I could haul all of this food down to the dungeons.
“I received a messenger from Katina last night,” Caraceli slurred. “Do you know what she said?”
The table had gone quiet. “What did she say?” Pelopia asked disinterestedly, poking at her meat.
“She said there was no illness, no death in her family. Her father never sent the message that made her return home. And yet the handwriting is identical to his own.” Something cold wormed through my chest.
That was exactly how I’d arranged to lure Katina home.
I wasn’t sure exactly how Vicer had done it–I didn’t think replication magic would work since the note hadn’t existed before we created it. But Caraceli was getting far too close to the truth.
“Her father is sure he didn’t send it?” Lisveth had a puzzled look on her face.
“Yes. You know what I think?” Caraceli raised her cup, drinking deep. “I think someone lured Katina back to her village so there would be a spot for Setella.”
I forced myself to raise my eyebrows, my tone mildly amused. “You think I somehow arranged for a woman I’ve never met to be lured home so I could save the queen’s life and spend my days dealing with you?”
Alcandre burst out laughing. Caraceli flushed. A part of me felt bad for making her doubt what her intuition and evidence had put together. But lives depended on my having access to the entire castle. Caraceli was close to becoming a threat.
Stumbling across Patriarch Farrow and Madinia had proven that. “I know you can’t be trusted,” Caraceli snarled.
Across the table, Madinia let out a mocking laugh. “Obviously, when Katina left, she took your ability to reason with her. You’re disgracing yourself, and don’t think the queen hasn’t noticed. If you’re not careful, you’ll be her fire girl once more.”
Caraceli went stark-white. Madinia kept her gaze on her until she lowered her head, focusing on her food. My relief was tinged with disquiet. It was only a matter of time before Caraceli began taking her suspicions elsewhere.
I swallowed. Madinia met my eyes with a tiny nod. It was strange colluding with her.
“We need to get ready for the ball,” Madinia said. I frowned. “It doesn’t begin for hours.”
She gave me a disdainful look. “Unless you want to have half the court gossiping because you look like you belong in one of the northern villages,
you’ll need every second of those hours.”
I did belong in one of the northern villages.
Madinia’s gaze slid over my shoulder. “And look, your maids are here to collect you. Obviously, they feel the same.” She nodded at Daselis, who bowed her head.
I’d rather be in my room being ordered about by Daselis than dealing with Caraceli. Getting to my feet, I nodded to the others and followed Daselis back to my rooms.
As usual, she was silent. Erea smiled at me, gesturing at the lavender dress lying on my bed. “The seamstress was right. It’s a risky color, but it will draw attention.”
“I don’t want to draw attention.” My current circumstances felt as fragile as fine crystal. All it would take was the wrong kind of attention from the wrong person, and that crystal would shatter.
“The good kind of attention,” she said hurriedly. I felt like I’d kicked a kitten. “Thank you.”
“Bath,” Daselis said. “Do you need help washing your hair?” “No. I can do it.”
I got in and began washing. Daselis stuck her head in and glowered at me when I didn’t move fast enough for her liking.
As soon as I’d washed my hair, I got out of the tub and dried off, squeezing my hair with the bath sheet. Erea handed me a robe and gestured for me to sit at the vanity. If she noticed the tiny line of light hair at my scalp, she didn’t comment.
She chattered about the ball while I nodded occasionally, my mind on Thol. I’d been careful to stay away from him, as the color had been slowly fading from my hair. In his mind, I was one of the corrupt. And no matter how much he’d liked the village girl he’d known, I was his enemy now.
If we had married one day, and my corrupt status had become known, would Thol have turned on me?
My stomach churned. I knew that answer. More importantly, if we’d had children who were hybrids, would he have allowed them to be taken to the city? Or would he have fought for them?
Lorian’s dark scowl drifted into my mind. The mercenary didn’t get involved unnecessarily. But now, I suspected it wasn’t because he was cold and unfeeling like I’d once assumed. Now, I wondered if it was because he
felt too much. If it was because he knew that once someone was under his protection, he would die for them.
I knew Lorian well enough to know that if such a thing ever happened to his family, he would slaughter every guard who attempted to take his wife from him. And he would never allow anyone to harm his children.
The idea of him with children should be almost amusing—but instead, it made me…sad. Because it was unlikely Lorian would ever accept the weakness that children would represent. The hole in his defenses. It was possible to keep a spouse at arm’s length, but children had a way of burrowing into your heart.
“You’re quiet,” Erea said cheerfully.
“Sorry. Just thinking.” I glanced up to find my hair almost finished. She’d used one of the many magical tools the courtiers had access to, drying my curls while ensuring they kept their shape. She’d left some of them free to tumble over my shoulders, braiding the rest back from my face.
Daselis nodded at Erea. “Nice work. I’ll finish here.”
Erea smiled at the compliment and stepped aside, moving toward the dress lying on the bed.
“Close your eyes,” Daselis ordered.
I complied, keeping them closed as she swept brushes over my face. By the time she was finished, I’d almost been lulled into a doze.
“There,” she said, and I heard satisfaction in her voice. I opened my eyes. Wow.
With the curls falling over my shoulders, I could have looked almost innocent. But Daselis had darkened and lengthened my lashes, adding something shadowy and purple to my eyes so they looked bigger. She’d also applied some color to my cheeks, and my lips were poutier, shimmering in the light.
I was losing track of the different versions of myself I’d discovered so far. But I was no longer that girl stuck in her village, desperate for an answer to her problems.
Now, I found those answers myself.
“Thank you,” I said. She merely nodded, gesturing for Erea to bring the dress to me.
They held it for me while I stepped into it, and Daselis handled the row of lavender buttons at the back.
“You look beautiful,” Erea sighed.
“Would you…would you like this dress?” She gaped at me. Even Daselis went still. “I’m not— What—”
“You said the queen’s ladies weren’t supposed to wear the same dress to more than one formal occasion.” A stupid rule. “That means it’s unlikely I’ll wear it again.”
“It was a gift from the queen.”
“And now it’s a gift from me. Please. It would make me happy for you to take it.”
Erea’s eyes met mine. That crooked tooth glinted as she smiled. “Thank you, Setella.”
I just gazed at myself in the mirror, at the armor these women had helped me don. Armor that would ensure I could pass unnoticed as I listened to drunken conversations and plotted just how I would make these people pay.
“No,” I said. “Thank you.”
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I was in a dark mood that night when I watched Prisca walk into the ballroom. The seamstress…her aunt—and wasn’t that a strange thought?— had dressed her in lavender. The gown fell to her feet in layers, each panel almost translucent, offering teasing glimpses of her legs when those layers parted as she walked.
It was daring and different, most of the court wearing dark colors and their best jewels.
Thol watched her, a puzzled look on his face. Did he recognize her?
With a frown, he looked away, clearly dismissing the resemblance.
Idiot.
What did it say about me that I’d recognized her across a dining hall the moment I’d seen her again?
She nodded at something one of the other women said, and then she was turning to that fucking blond courtier. Peiter.
He took her into his arms, and she smiled up at him.
She looked beautiful—even with her darkened hair and eyes. She also looked tired, almost fragile, and I clamped down on the urge to haul her over my shoulder, dump her on my bed, and order her to sleep.
She would likely attempt to gut me. My mouth curved.
“I’ve been thinking,” Marth said.
He was watching Prisca in a way that made me want to tear out his throat. I somehow managed not to snarl at him.
“You’ve been thinking?” I prompted.
His face paled at whatever he saw in my eyes, but he stuck out his chin, turning his attention back to Prisca.
“I think you’re afraid.”
Insult flashed through me, but I kept my voice neutral. “Afraid?”
His skin was almost bloodless now, but he continued talking. “She’s the first woman you’ve felt anything for since—”
“Careful.”
He took a deep breath. “And she’s the same woman you left to die. Now you’re pushing her away because, deep down, you know it will be worse when she eventually sees who you really are. And hates you still.”
I angled my head. “You’re becoming surprisingly perceptive, Marth.” He shivered and took a step away from me.
I had many reasons I’d attempted to stay away from the little wildcat. Among those was the fact that I was as different from these courtiers—and from her village boy—as night was from day. My affections were dark, possessive, all-consuming.
Sabium began his speech, spewing his usual poison. Thankfully, it was shorter than usual, and I politely clapped with everyone else as the music began once more.
Rythos appeared at my shoulder. He’d been staying out of sight, but he leaned close. “There’s something wrong with Prisca.”
I went still. Wrath rose inside me, a beast that howled for vengeance.
The world narrowed, until all I could see was Prisca, weaving across the dance floor toward the wall. Fear flickered in her eyes, and she stumbled.
“Lorian,” Rythos hissed, but I was already moving.
My arms came around her as her knees almost buckled. “Too much wine?”
I knew the answer before she managed to lift her head, her gaze clouded. “You. I know you.”
A chill began in my stomach and radiated outward. “Prisca. You’ve been poisoned. I need you to do exactly what I say.”
She tugged weakly at my grip. “Let go.”
“No. You’re going to walk toward that door over there. Can you do that?”
“Gold door.”
“That’s right. The gold door.” “Pretty.”
My pulse thudded as the color began to drain from her face. She stumbled, and fear plunged into my chest, as sharp as my sword. Whatever she had been given was fast-acting. I had to get a healer to her before she collapsed.
“Prisca, listen.” I was trembling, I realized. Shaking more than the woman in my arms. My every instinct told me to carry her away from here. But Sabium was already frowning at me, clearly wondering why I was taking the time to dance with a woman so far below my station.
Sending him a wicked smile, I waited until realization crossed his face. Let him think I’d decided to bed one of the queen’s women. A woman who was clearly incapacitated.
The king smirked, his gaze drifting away, and I let out a long breath. There was no way Prisca could walk alone. She could barely stand. We would both have to deal with the rumors and interest.
Wrapping my arm around her shoulders, I turned and escorted her off the dance floor, ensuring my expression showed nothing more than bored amusement.
Not a single person stepped in front of me to ask what I was doing steering a clearly drunk woman away from the ball. Most of them smirked, turning to whisper to their friends—already creating vicious gossip.
Rythos fell into step next to me, his expression serious, eyes hard. Courtiers glanced at his face and away, and we suddenly had a clear path to
the door.
“You’re being remarkably well controlled,” he murmured.
I glanced at him, and he stiffened. “Fuck. Keep your head down.” Turning my attention back to Prisca, I allowed Rythos to lead the way. “What happened to her?” a feminine voice asked.
I recognized this woman. This was Farrow’s daughter. The hybrid who was now beholden to Prisca. Our first piece of luck.
“We need to get her to her room,” Rythos said. She gave me a cool look. “I’ll take her.”
I showed her my teeth. Rythos elbowed me.
“She’s unwell,” he said carefully. “We will escort her.” “I’m not letting you take her alone.”
“Come with us, then,” Rythos gritted out.
I was already turning, guiding Prisca up the steps. She stumbled again, almost going down, and Rythos took her other arm, until we were practically carrying her between us.
As soon as we were far enough from the ballroom to avoid most of the curious eyes, I hauled Prisca into my arms, striding faster.
“Get a healer,” I ordered Rythos. “One of ours.”
Our eyes met and he nodded. He knew exactly who to find.
“Why would she need a healer?” The woman puffed behind us, her shorter legs and heavy gown making it difficult for her to keep up.
Ignoring her, I glanced down the corridor. “Which room is hers?” No one could know just how much I knew about this woman.
“That one,” the woman pointed. She opened the door, and I strode inside, laying Prisca on the bed. Her breathing had turned thready, her skin almost gray. She shivered occasionally, and her lips had already taken on a blue tinge. Dread expanded through my veins, tinged with a kind of brutal helplessness I hadn’t felt in a long, long time.
“You can leave now,” the woman said.
My gaze met hers, and she flinched at whatever she saw in my eyes. “Get away from her,” she hissed.
“What is your name?” “Madinia.”
“Madinia, look at her.”
The woman complied, and her eyes widened. “Poison.”
“Yes. You need to leave.”
She immediately shook her head. “I’ll inform the queen.”
My dagger was nestled against her throat before I was aware I’d moved. “Say anything of this, and you’ll wish for a death as kind as poison.”
She shuddered, but to her credit, she met my gaze. “You’re not the prince. Who are you?”
I just smiled. She stared at me. “I won’t say anything.” “Good. Leave.”
Her breath hitched, and I reached for patience I didn’t have. “You’ll be noticed missing. We’ll take good care of her.”
She frowned. “Please don’t let her die.”
The thought was intolerable. Ridiculous. Prisca wouldn’t die. I wouldn’t allow it.
Whatever the woman saw on my face convinced her. She nodded at me, then stepped close to Prisca, taking her hand and giving it a squeeze. “Fight. Please.”
With a whirl, she left the room.
Rythos immediately appeared, opening the door and signaling for the healer to approach the bed.
He entered and moved toward Prisca, his dark eyes narrowed. I’d known the hybrid for years, yet his existence—and immense power—was such a secret that no one knew his true name. He was simply called “the healer.”
I watched intently, waiting for him to begin his work. But he took one look at Prisca and sighed. “Viperbane,” he said. “A terrible death.”
“Fix her.”
He bowed his head. “Impossible. Some poisons have no antidote. This is one of them. Most people survive only minutes after ingestion. All you can do now is gather her family to say their goodbyes.”
Fog filled the edges of my vision. I couldn’t hear over the sound of the blood thundering in my ears. Someone was hitting my arm, and I slowly turned my head.
“Let him go, Lorian.”
I snarled. Rythos’s eyes had gone wider than I’d ever seen them. “You’re killing him, Lorian. He can’t help her if he’s dead.”
Slowly turning my head, I found my hand wrapped around the healer’s throat. It took everything in me to slowly unwrap my fingers until he slumped to the floor, still choking.
I was vaguely aware that I was speaking, and that each word made the healer turn paler. Rythos bowed his head, and even my friend refused to look into my eyes.
The healer turned and hurried to Prisca’s side. The room was silent. “Find her brother,” I rasped.
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I was in hell. The flames burned me alive until I cried out desperately, begging for it to stop.
Someone was talking in a low, gravelly murmur that both hurt my ears and made me long for the voice to come closer.
There were no words for this kind of agony. Darkness called to me, and I wanted nothing more than to be done with this pain. Done with all of it.
The voice paused, and I ached for it to continue. Somehow, I managed to crack my eyes open to slits. I was on my bed, surrounded by people. Lorian’s eyes met mine.
“Dying.”
“You’re not dying. Don’t be dramatic,” he snarled.
But the deep line between his eyes told me he lied. I attempted a smile, but my eyes were drifting shut once more.
“Tell my brother…brothers…”
“I’ll tell them nothing. You die here, Prisca, and I won’t tell anyone a single fucking thing.”
His hand was cool as it brushed my forehead. What had happened? One minute, I’d been dancing, and the next…
“Poison.”
“Yes. But you will fight it.” “So tired.”
“I know you’re tired. I know. But they need you.” He leaned closer until his mouth was pressed against my neck, right below my ear. “I need you.”
Was I imagining his words? My eyes were shut, but Lorian was close enough that his scent drifted toward me, and I basked in it.
He lifted his head slightly, and I mourned the loss of his heat. “Those prisoners in the king’s dungeon? If you die, they’re all dead too. All of them. Including your friend and your brother.”
My heart twisted. “Save them.”
“Never. You hear me? You fight, or everyone dies.” My eyes burned. I opened my mouth to beg, to plead… Unconsciousness beckoned.
I opened Demos’s door. He was so young, his cheeks rounded. His eyes had a mischievous glint in them, and he gave me a very adult, put-upon look.
“What are you doing?” “I’m scared.”
He sighed. “Come here.”
He held out his hand and helped me climb onto his bed. “What are you scared of?”
“I’m not sure.” Everything frightened me—the dark, the sound of branches tapping against my window, the shadow they cast on my bedroom wall.
“I think Mama and Papa are scared too,” Demos said. They couldn’t be scared. They were adults.
“They keep whispering,” Demos scowled. “And Mama was crying yesterday.”
“Crying? Really?” The idea of Mama crying made my stomach churn. Something tapped on the window. The tree.
Demos stiffened. He didn’t have a tree outside his window. “Nelayra, go get Papa.”
I heard fear in Demos’s voice. My feet tangled in my nightgown as I hit the floor, rushing for the door.
Strong arms wrapped around me. I cried out for my parents, for Demos. “Shh, it’s okay, little one. Come with me.”
My eyes met Demos’s. He was bound to the wall with dark threads of magic. Papa’s servant had magic like that. I’d seen him show Papa one day when I was hiding in the crawl space near his office.
Demos was roaring, but the black thread across his mouth muffled the sound. I inhaled to scream for our parents, but something was pressed against my face, and I suddenly felt so drowsy…
My eyes slid closed. I reached for Demos, but the woman was dragging me toward the window.
When I opened my eyes again, I was in total darkness. I kicked and writhed, punching at the fabric. A horse snorted beneath me, and in the distance, I could hear my mother’s screams.
“Is she going to be okay?”
I shuddered, still half in my dream where Demos waited for me. The fear and sorrow mixed with the pain in my body until I wished I had the energy to howl.
Was that…Madinia?
“She’s strong.” That was definitely Tibris. His voice was hoarse, filled with pain, and I attempted to open my eyes, but they were far too heavy.
“Why are you here?” Tibris asked. “You made Prisca’s life hell.” “Prisca? Oh, that’s her real name.”
Lorian let out a low, warning growl. “Forget you ever heard it.”
There was no “or else.” Likely, the dark expression on his face was all the warning Madinia needed.
“I won’t tell anyone,” Madinia whispered. “And why should we trust you?” Tibris asked. “I’m on your side.”
“That’s likely.” Sarcasm dripped from Tibris’s voice. “I’m…corrupt.”
“You mean you’re a hybrid.” “Yes. That.”
“Enough chatter,” Lorian said. “You’re disturbing her.” “Tyrant,” I muttered.
A large hand squeezed my own. “Just stay alive.”
