My world shrinks more, snuffing out my courage, forcing a small sound from the back of my throat. The Judge hears it. I can tell by the way he looks me over as though he’s deciding what part to indulge in first.
"You’ve gone pale, Ingrid," he says, tearing another piece of meat from the carcass. "Need time to think?"
He enjoys the bite while I struggle to find my breath.
"You know my terms," he continues, sucking his fingers clean one by one. "Agree to be my bride, and I’ll spare your brother’s life. I believe that’s a fair trade. Don’t you?”
My hands tremble. The world spins around me. He looks at me, calm, indifferent, dispassionate. The hint of a smile plays again at the corner of his mouth, and I can barely force myself to stay on my feet as he repeats his offer. My only way out.
“I’ll do it,” I say, breathless. A whisper of surrender. “I’ll do it.”
Finally, he stops picking at the bones. His gaze travels down before lifting up to meet mine.
What have I done?
Worse, what will I have to do next?
The Judge leans forward, his cold smile not quite reaching his eyes. “I was so hoping you would,” he says casually, his interest fading the moment it's agreed.
The bailiff re-enters, beckoned in by a dismissive wave. “See her to the boy,” the Judge says. "He should hear the good news."
There’s a sound as I leave, a loud, echoing clang. The iron door. The certainty of the Judge’s triumph. It burrows in my mind the same way his lecherous looks do, both impossible to forget. As I follow the bailiff through the dim corridors, my eyes are blurry with tears, making it hard to see.
Hard to stay upright. Hard to go through with any of it.
The only thing I can do is cling to what matters:
Phillip will live.
Chapter Two
Xandril
The reach is dying and it’s my fault. My failure. Standing at the window in the shadow of my ill-gotten throne, I can see it slipping through my fingers—barren hills, abandoned farms, icy fingers of the Wilds reaching out to claim what’s ours. Months after deposing Farandir, winter’s grasp still shows no signs of loosening. Our wounds from the battle have healed and scarred, the fallen long-buried, but the fields remain frozen and fallow, our people struggling for every scrap. Not a blade of grass has grown on those graves.
Taking the throne from the stem-soaked traitor who ruled before slowed the damage, but we haven’t been able to stop it, let alone reverse it. One failure after another has proven I’m not strong enough to turn the tide, and no amount of regal power can stop the whispers that a twisted beast like me has no right to rule, that the reach is crumbling because a disgraced Wilds-touched bastard wears the crown. Whether those whispers are from my subjects or my own mind, they sow doubt all the same.
“Are you listening?” Valenar asks from his place hunched over our plans. Plans that I now realize have no hope of succeeding.
How did I ever convince myself I could do this? Being unstoppable on the battlefield is one thing—being able to inspire loyalty among the lower ranks is hardly a skill when I was born amongst them—but outside the barracks and field tents? What reason does anyone have to follow me? I’m a soldier, not a king, and we were fools to think we could trick the throne into thinking otherwise.
My second-in-command exhales heavily, jabbing at the map of our borders. “If the Wilds continue moving at this pace—”
My hands grip the window’s ledge, wood splintering under the force. “You don’t have to remind me.” The words are harsher than I intend, so I add, “I know what’s at stake.”
Val waits a beat, his tail twitching, sweeping the floor at his feet and rustling the dried leaves that gather under the withered throne tree. “Restoring the reach to its former glory is obviously going to take more than brute strength and force of will,” he says, his voice calm. “The throne will want to see you’ve been accepted by the people… To do thatandheal the lands will take…finesse.”
“Which is why it should be you on the throne.” The argument is rote at this point, repeated without even thinking. As usual, it falls on deaf ears.
“Youare the leader the reach needs,” Valenar insists. “Perhaps once you’re convinced of it, the throne will be too.”
I shift, breaking my gaze from the fields. “You have a better chance convincing the snow to melt.” The gravel in my voice is too close to despair, but Val is quick to counter it.
He steps closer, forcing my eyes to his. “When have I steered you wrong?”
“Let me count the scars,” I muse, getting a chuckle from him.
“Truly, though. I know you don’t believe me, but I’m not fit for the crown. It is your destiny, my friend. Don’t shy from it.”
