My mother turned toward the steward and started issuing instructions to him.
I curtsied again—though it was like bowing to a noose—and walked calmly from the room. My steps were quiet, but I could sense the pressure building behind my ribs, a tide of grief I did not know how to name.
The hall sealed itself behind me like the lid of a coffin.
I walked quickly at first. Not fast enough to draw attention, but fast enough that no one dared stop me. I briefly looked over my shoulder—no sign of any guards. I let out a small sigh.
No stewards appeared with scrolls or itineraries. The message had been delivered, and the deal had been sealed. I had become just one more pawn in theirintricate game of appearances and expectations.A familiar tightening landed in my stomach. It was the same feeling I’d had as a child whenever my parents arranged a playdate with someone they deemed 'suitable.'
Two maids rounded the corner near the archway, arms full of linen and sweet-scented sachets. I knew them; Mira and Lina. They had worked in the palace since I was a child and had long since stopped being surprised when I addressed them.
“Good morning,” I murmured as we passed.
“Morning, Princess,” Lina said with a soft smile. Mira added, “We saved the last honey cakes for your tray.”
Their voices were gentle, familiar. I gave them a grateful nod.
I kept walking. Down the long corridor, past the portrait hall, past the window alcoves where Alaric and I used to sneak peachtarts, past the tapestry of the First Queen holding out a blade to the sea.
The familiar marble floors, once polished to a mirror shine, now seemed to absorb the light, their intricate patterns lost beneath a film of dust that shimmered faintly, like a layer of forgotten dreams.
I reached my chambers and closed the door quietly behind me.
The sunlight that had spilled so warmly across the stone earlier was fading now, retreating up the wall like it, too, was unwilling to stay.
I didn’t change. I didn’t wash. Instead, I sat down at the edge of my bed and stared at nothing.
They had decided.
Not asked. Not warned.
I would be sent to Caerthaine to wed a stranger. A prince known more for his perfect etiquette and glacial court than anything resembling warmth. His lands worshipped the god of water, Kaelor, whose temples were quiet, silver, and still. His priests never smiled. The new place would be a hollow drum, lacking the vibrant heartbeat of affection found here within these walls. A long, slow exhale escaped, laden with the weight of the day and what would become of my future.
They said Caerthaine held back Vireth’s ambition. And it was the only thread holding back the tide of war.
But now, apparently, I was what stood between Caerthaine and betrayal.
I rubbed my thumb across the palm of my hand, grounding myself. The skin was still stained with rosemary, still faintly fragrant with earth.
My mother called me delicate, as if it were an accusation.
Maybe I was delicate, but fragility differed from frailty. Flowers bloomed in ash. Kindness thrived where crueltyexpected silence. What did my mother know about kindness? She never gave it.
I looked toward the lavender sprig on my nightstand. I harvested it last summer, dried it carefully, and bound it with a blue ribbon. I remembered laughing as I gathered it. How it stained my slippers and made my hair smell like comfort.
But I had no desire to laugh right now.
I lay back slowly on my soft, peaceful mattress, my skirts still rumpled, hands clasped on my chest like I was waiting to be buried. Stars and ships adorned the ceiling above, a mural from when an astronomer-princess had owned the royal chambers generations ago. I used to trace constellations in the dark.
Now, as I stared at them, I wondered how many other girls had been promised away under the same painted sky.
I closed my eyes and tried not to imagine the sea.
Chapter Two
Wynessa
It was strange, the things we remembered.
