Olivia ground her teeth, forcing a tight smile of her own. “I’m afraid I’m in a bit of a rush, Lady Chancellor. Busy social schedule and all that. Surely the king needs you for…” She spared the woman a head to toe glance, deliberately slow. “Whatever it is you do.”
For a single moment, Samira’s smile faltered. A crack in the facade. But then it returned in full force—less bright this time, more sharp. “Walk with me, Olivia.”
Not a request. A command.
Olivia hesitated. Every instinct she had screamed at her to run. But one should never run from a predator like Samira.
Predators enjoyed the chase.
Pressing her lips into a thin line, she fell into step beside the witch. The cool marble underfoot echoed their steps—hers a steady tap, Samira’s satin slippers soundless.
Smiling, triumphant, Samira turned and continued on down the hall. “I find it all rather curious,” the witch mused as they walked. “That His Majesty allows you to walk about the palace so freely. Unattended. Unwatched.”
Olivia shrugged, the motion sharp, controlled. “What can I say,” she deadpanned, “I am a trustworthy soul.”
Samira glanced sidelong at her. Those eyes—golden, unnatural—bored straight through her skull. “I just find it strange. Given the rumors. Whispers that you were…close with the false queen.”
Olivia clenched her jaw, refusing to answer or comment. Her tongue pressed hard to the back of her teeth to keep a sharp retort from slipping out. What did this woman want with her? If she had a problem, she could take it up with the king.
With her father.
Father. Every time she thought about it, a bitter laugh tried to crawl up her throat. Every time, she strangled it down, letting the bitterness sit cold and heavy in her chest instead.
She had known for years. Her mother had left her enough clues to figure it out. When she was younger, she had been foolish enough to think perhaps if she was…goodenough, she might gain his notice. That if she only behaved, only converted to his faith, only made something of herself, he might…care.
How pathetic she had been as a girl.
Squaring her shoulders, she pushed such thoughts away. That was then. This was now. She no longer cared about what “King Hamon” thought about her.
Now, she just wanted to survive.
Now, she just wanted to help Seraphina.
Samira seemed unbothered as the silence stretched on between them—heavy and awkward. The witch kept walking, leading them deeper into the palace. The further they went, the quieter it grew. Fewer nobles. Fewer servants. Only the distant hum of the city beyond the palace walls.
What was left of it.
After a time, Olivia realized where they were going. The guest suites. Where Seraphina and her father before her used to house visiting dignitaries.
Now, the hallway lay silent. Dust motes danced in the shafts of light cutting through the windows, drifting in lazy spirals that made the air look stale.
Samira stopped in front of the third door on the left. She produced a heavy iron key from her sash, the metal clinking against her golden chains, loud in the hush.
With a sigh, the witch mused, “I had always hoped you and I could be friends, you know. Given that you have something I need.” She slid the key into the lock. “And I have something you want.”
The witch twisted the key. The mechanism clicked, echoing in the empty corridor.
Olivia barked out a laugh before she could stop it. “Unless you have some dream petal in your pocket, I don’t—”
Samira flung the door open.
The rest of her words shriveled in her throat as she caught sight of the man tied to a chair in the center of the room.
Tristan Dacre.
His hands were bound behind him. A gag of rough cloth cut across his mouth, digging into the corners. But his eyes—those bright, sea-green eyes—locked onto hers instantly. Even now, they lightened at the sight of her, making her stomach roil.
The man was a mess. His armor was gone. His doublet was torn. Blood smeared down the side of his pretty face from a gash at his temple. It was red and wet. A droplet slid along his jaw and fell, spattering on the rug.
