Her Crow’s betrayal still smarted, still fresh. But even so, her heart lurched—a wild, useless protest.No. No, this could not be happening. Her fingers fumbled for the chain resting against her chest, closing around the golden sun pendant there.
“I will do my best to survive.”That was what he had promised.
But she had sent him to his death.
Olivia was still speaking, saying something about the Dawnspire. Words that didn’t make sense. Words that no de la Croix would ever heed.
“…we must retreat…”
“No,” Seraphina heard herself whisper as she climbed on, drifting now like a woman caught in a dream. Light spilled from the open doorway at the top of the stairs. Her godparents stood there—watching, waiting.
Screams shivered into being beyond them. Footsteps pounded over marble. Shouts to hurry. Panic lay over everything like morning frost.
Her stomach should have roiled. Her heart should have stuttered with every cry.
Instead, there was nothing. The world around her felt distant, muffled, as if she had stepped outside her own life.
As if she were only a bystander watching someone else’s world crumble.
And turn to ash.
“Your Majesty!” Duke Percival cried, his relief palpable. From his place at the top of the stairs, her godfather reached out to take her hand and guide her the rest of the way out. “Praise the Lord.”
She narrowed her eyes against the sunlight of the palace corridor, blinking rapidly as she adjusted to the brightness of the world again. Vaguely, she was aware of Lord Tiberius lingering nearby. Sir Arkwright. A whole host of other armored men.
But before she could finish gaining her bearings, velvet, coarse dire bear fur, and body heat enveloped her on all sides as her godparents swept her into both their embraces at once.
“Did he hurt you?” Duchess Edith whispered, kissing her brow.
Duke Percival snarled, “I will kill him if he did. To think, Wellane—”
“They have his wife,” Seraphina dully informed them, idly surprising even herself that she would bother defending the actions of the man who had just betrayed her. Over her godmother’s shoulder, she watched the world pass her by as courtiers and servants raced through the halls, no longer paying her any heed. As if she were a mere princess again.
The spare. The political pawn. Easily overlooked.
Far away, the bells of the cathedral still tolled.
How long had she been in the tunnels?
Duchess Edith pulled away, carefully searching her face. The older woman’s brow furrowed. “Are you all right, darling?”
Duke Percival scowled, worrying his hand against the top of his cane. “I fear we cannot linger, Your Majesty. We must hurry.”
“Yes, we must,” Seraphina softly agreed. For once, she did not try to paint a smile on her face for the sake of her godparents.
She no longer had the energy for such falsehoods.
“I am fine,” she reassured Duchess Edith before turning to face her godfather instead. “Your Grace, we must lock down Goldreach in preparation for a siege. Send word to the gates. The harbor…”
She trailed off as Duke Percival’s features crumpled. He looked past her, over her shoulder. Toward Olivia.
“You did not tell her?” he asked.
“I tried,” Olivia hissed.
Seraphina expelled a slow breath through her nose. “Tell me what?” she heard herself ask, as if her voice were elsewhere—somewhere far, far away.
Without a word, Duchess Edith took her by the hand and led her toward a window across the hall, narrowly avoiding being slammed into by a servant fleeing, his arms laden with golden candlesticks from the great hall.
