Her gaze ticked that way, drinking in the sight of her traitorous nobles once more. “But not the North,” she whispered. “The Umberlys stand with me, and the North answers to the Umberlys. The northern lords will never stand with you, especially if you do not let me abdicate and retire in peace. I will be no threat to you. The Dawnspire keeps no standing army.”
Her family’s ancestral home was impregnable. It had no need for a standing army.
A humorless smile tugged at the corner of Coreto’s mouth. “Even if Idolet you abdicate in peace, the North will not stand with me. You know that. I know that.”
He heaved a quiet sigh and muttered, as if they were two friends conspiring with one another rather than bitter enemies, “Your godfather would probably die of shock that you had abdicated in the first place, and then his eldest son would declare himself some manner of king in the North or other such nonsense. Even if youdotruly surrender to me here today, there will be civil war. Unless…”
The duke trailed off and tilted his head to the side, surveying her from head to toe. His cold stare crawled across her skin, sending thehairs on the back of her neck prickling. Coreto had never looked at her like that before—like a broodmare he was considering purchasing for his stable.
She prayed he never looked at her like that again.
Olivia shifted closer, her muscles coiled tight, like a serpent about to strike.
Finally, Coreto broke his abrupt silence to declare, “There will be a marriage alliance between our families.” The words slammed into her, knocking the air from her lungs.
He spoke so calmly, so authoritatively. As if she were a girl of fifteen again, standing in her father’s study, being informed that she was already betrothed to Edmund Hargrave—a child ten years her junior. As if it had all already been decided.
As if that were that.
Seraphina could only stare at him—this man who was even older than her godfather. This man who now spoke of a marriage alliance between her House and his. A hiccup of hysterical laughter clawed at her throat, desperate to break free from what shreds of her careful composure remained.
“You must be jesting,” she breathed. “I would never marry you.”
Coreto grimaced. “Not me, you pretty little fool. You would outlive me, and then what would have been the point of it all?”
Olivia nudged her horse forward, edging closer to the duke. Close enough to finally garner his attention. When his gaze snapped toward her friend, Olivia observed on a hiss, “The queen is married already, in case you hadn’t heard.”
Coreto’s lips twitched into another humorless smile. He glanced away, his eyes returning to hers. “A marriage easily annulled. You cannot truly expect me to believe it was ever actually consummated.”
Heat flooded her cheeks. Howdarehe.
Howdarehe seek to humiliate her by speaking of such things. Howdarehe seek to imply that her vows to Aldric could be so easily broken on a mere technicality.
“On the contrary,” Seraphina lied, taking care to enunciate each word, “my marriage to the rightful King of Drakmorwasconsummated, Your Grace. It was all quite scandalous, I can assure you, as my maids and most of the palace servants can surely attest.”
The Lord bless Aldric for having had the foresight to cut the laces on her wedding gown, providing them with evidence and gossip fodder for the servants.
Her brilliant Crow.
Coreto pursed his lips, his arrogant certainty finally wavering. Doubt flashed across his face. Behind him, his mousy son, Lord Bennett, shifted in his saddle with palpable discomfort.
Seraphina fought against the urge to do the same. “And I refuse to speak of these personal matters with you further,” she snapped. “Such things are between me and my husband. What the Lord has joined together, no man will separate. I will not hear any more of this nonsense about a marriage alliance.”
While she spoke, she searched the grove of trees dotting the northwest horizon for any flicker of movement. Was Aldric already there waiting? Was he ready for her to send up her signal?
The duke cleared his throat. As if she had not just spoken at all, he coolly declared, “War makes many widows, Seraphina. The validity of your marriage makes no difference. Therewillbe an alliance forged between House Threston and House de la Croixtoday. I have a Shepherd with me in my party.”
He tipped his head toward Lord Bennett and explained, “You will marry my eldest son, Anthony, before all of these witnesses. Bennett here will stand as proxy for his brother. Even the North will not be able to deny my claim to the throne once our families are joined as one.”
His plot turned her stomach. His words—so arrogant, sofoolish—ignited something in her soul. Something hot and bright. “You think you can make me a widow?” she asked, the words soft, sharp, mocking. “And who exactly is meant to kill the infamous Crow of Drakmor?” She arched an eyebrow, challenging him. “You?”
Coreto’s lips flattened into a thin line. “Even legends bleed.”
“Not even a bleeding legend can be killed by someone as incompetent as you,” Seraphina bit back as she reached beneath her cloak to unwind poor Alyx from around her throat. The duke and his son tensed, clearly expecting her to draw some sort of blade. When they saw it was merely her iridescent usuru, though, they relaxed.
The duke’s expression darkened. “Incompetent?”
Alyx took to the air, flapping her wings and hissing in protest against the bitter cold. Her scales shimmered in the dying light, dancing between shades of blue and green. The signal.
