7
The massive wooden doors groaned shut behind them, sealing the chamber with a resounding thud. The force of the impact sent a faint tremor through the floor, the sound lingering in the vaulted ceiling like the final toll of a funeral bell.
Vivienne’s stomach twisted as she turned toward Lewis. Her blue eyes flickered with silent questions, uncertainty pooling beneath their surface.
Lewis adjusted his spectacles, his brow furrowing as he met her gaze. A small shrug lifted his shoulders, an unspoken ‘I don’t know either.’
The King barely acknowledged them. Slouched in his throne, he idly scraped the dirt from beneath his nails, examining his fingertips as though the conversation had already begun to bore him.
"Miss Banner," he drawled, still not looking up, "I imagine you learned about The Great Conflict and The Siege of Vantner during your studies at the Royal Academy."
Vivienne straightened her spine, resisting the urge to wipe her clammy palms on her skirts again. "Yes, Your Majesty," she answered, careful to keep her voice composed.
Memories of history lessons rose unbidden, neatly arranged like the pages of a well-worn book. The Great Conflict had ignited over a century ago, a battle between Fendwyr, the largest seaport on the northern continent, and Osimiri, the collection of island kingdoms that commanded the major maritime trade routes.
Fendwyr wanted greater access to Osimiri’s wealth, its medicinal plants, its glittering gems, its rare and coveted resources. Rumors alluded to items Osimiri neglected to share: miraculous cures for every disease, water that slowed aging, silk so delicate it could bind wounds yet strong enough to be woven into armor.
When King Philomon, ruler of Fendwyr at the time, demanded open trade, Osimiri refused. Not only did they deny the request, they barred Fendwyr from their lands entirely. Trade blockades turned to stolen merchant ships. Refusals hardened into threats. And threats, as they always do, became war. The conflict ravaged both kingdoms for six years. Cities burned, fleets sank, and bodies littered the shores. By the time the dust settled, both nations were fractured shadows of their former glory. King Philomon perished on the battlefield. His daughter, Metis, barely fourteen years old, took the throne in his place. Against all odds, she brokered a fragile peace, securing it with a treaty bound not only by ink, but by blood with her betrothal to Aliferous, an Osimirian prince.
The King flicked a speck of dirt from his thumbnail. "My mother, Queen Metis, and my sister, Sophronia, gods rest their souls, ruled this kingdom in peace for over seventy-five years. That peace was shattered when Osimiri violated the treaty and attacked us without provocation."
The energy in the room shifted. Vivienne didn’t need to turn around to feel it. Lewis had gone rigid, the air around him charged, brittle as glass about to break. He hated discussing the siege. She knew why. It had stolen everything from him—his father, his mother, the future he would never know. He had been far too young to understand his loss, yet old enough to be made to carry its weight.
The King’s fingers finally stilled. His voice, when it came, was a low, simmering growl. "I lost my entire family that night." His grief was a wound left to fester, infected with rage. "I wouldn't be on this throne if they hadn’t murdered my sister in cold blood."
A chill coiled at the base of Vivienne’s neck.
Whispers had trailed Berius for years. Rumors he orchestrated a coup. Suspicions he had used the chaos of war to gather loyalists, to poison the minds of his people against Queen Sophronia. He painted her as weak, too soft, too indecisive to rule in times of war. When the dust of the siege settled, Sophronia was dead and Berius wore the crown.
Convenient. Too convenient.
The King’s sharp eyes cut to her. "We’ve excluded things from your little... library books."
The mockery in his voice tightened her jaw.
"When the monsters who invaded our shores decided mere carnage wasn’t enough, their leader, Velorien, claimed he had cursed my house and my kingdom to end our bloodlines."
The words snapped her focus. Vivienne’s mind stumbled, the name slamming into her thoughts like a battering ram.Velorien? As in the god of justice and balance? Or… someone else bearing his name?
"At first, I dismissed it as a cheap warning shot," the King continued, his tone dripping with disdain, "the vicious bite of a cornered animal, nothing more."
His gray-blue eyes bore into Vivienne’s. "Tell me," he murmured, "have you noticed that despite three decades of trying and multiple marriages, I have no heir to the throne?"
The thought of him ‘trying’ was enough to curdle her stomach. "I suppose so, Your Majesty."
"Over the years, it became clear this was no idle threat. Fendwyr has been cursed. Our children are few, and I am without a successor. Meanwhile, our enemies wait, watching as our numbers wither to nothing, waiting for the day they can claim Fendwyr for themselves and enslave whatever is left of our people."
Vivienne’s mind reeled.A curse? An honest-to-gods curse? And not just from some rogue sorcerer, but Velorien himself, the ruler of the pantheon?She had always dismissed such claims as the ramblings of frightened peasants or overzealous preachers. Now, she found herself standing in the presence of a king unraveling before her eyes. She’d heard of magistrates losing their minds, but she never thought she’d witness it happening in real time.
The King leaned forward, fingers drumming against the arm of his throne. "How much do you know of curses from your studies?"
Vivienne huffed.Curses don’t exist—so, nothing.Instead of voicing the biting remark, she chose her words with care. "Very little, Your Majesty."
The King barely acknowledged her response before barking, "Montaghue, explain."
"Yes, at once, Your Majesty," Montaghue bowed, his wiry frame dipping low.
"The laws of magic dictate that when a curse is cast, the caster must also provide a means for it to be undone, a counterbalance, if you will. To break the bloodline curse, Velorien demanded that tributes from every isle under their dominion be gathered and presented at their palace altar. It is meant to demonstrate our willingness to understand their way of life and our respect for their lands."
