Are they whispering that I’m a traitor?
Calling for my arrest?
Or have Folke’s whispered rumors worked?
Out of the corner of my eye, I glance at Basten, searching his face, aching to know what his godkissed senses are picking up in the crowd’s murmurs. His jaw is tight, his freshly shaven face grave—the weight of what this day means for him carved into every line.
After all, when the sun sets, he’ll be a king.
Everything will change.
And yet—even standing beside his own crown—his eyes keep coming back to me like I’m the only thing that matters.
And, gods, nothing in this world could ever matter more to me than him.
Ahead of us, Kendan stands on the dais behind a podium that is draped in a banner with Basten’s antler crest, looking official in his Lord of the Iron Banner chainmail sash. On two velvet pillows beside him rest the king and queen’s crowns.
The larger of the two is forged black steel, intricately shaped like a wreath of raven feathers. The smaller—mine—is a circlet made from a single, thin steel feather, dipped in gold at the tips.
I’m so fixated on the crowns that it takes me a moment to notice, from the corner of my eye, bright red robes among the crowd.
A dozen Red Church priests and Sisters stand on either of the dais’s sides, like a gauntlet I’ll have to pass through to earn my prize.
My feet stumble to a stop.
“What—what are they doing here?” I whisper in Basten’s ear.
“We need the support of the Red Church,” he reminds me, low and quick.
Basten might have a point, but the fae in me doesn’t want to hear it. The silver energy beneath my skin pulses with anger, wanting to be let loose. Sure, these aren’t thesameSisters wholocked me in the convent’s cellar for days on end with nothing but brackish water to drink. And yet these Sisters, here and now, wear the same familiar red robes, severe Immortal Crown braids, and deep frown lines edging their lips.
Are they really any different?
In fact, that last Sister on the left, the one with a bandage on her neck, could be the spitting image of Matron White.
In fact, it’s unnerving, the similarities. Every step closer, I keep waiting to see a different chin, green eyes instead of blue.
When we’re ten feet away, my feet stop dead.
It’s…her.
ItisMatron White.
I lurch backward, heart fumbling wildly in my chest.She shouldn’t be here. She shouldn’t be more than ash!
I gasp, clutching my chest, so stunned I feel frozen.
Basten suddenly curses under his breath, and turns sharply to face Kendan, voice a low growl. “She wasn’t supposed to be here!”
Kendan shifts his weight, anxious not to ruffle feathers on such an important day. He mutters quietly, “It was a last-minute decision. We knew you wouldn’t support it, but you’ll see that her presence is necessary.”
“Wait.” I grab Basten’s shoulders, fingers digging in like claws. “YouknewMatron White was alive?”
He winces, turns to me with soft eyes and starts to explain, “Sabine?—”
But Matron White steps forward, stealing the attention, and falls dramatically to her knees at my feet.
Her head bows, her hands reach up beseechingly, her eyes roll back in her head as though she’s prophesizing. “I sense it…a change in the air…divinity itself walks amongst us…this woman, she is not mortal! She is greater even than a queen. She is fae! She is a goddess! She is…Solene!”
