Forcing a smile, Alora took the ends of her dress and bowed low stiffly. “Your Majesty.”
The Queen tilted her head, her gaze sharp with cold scrutiny.
“Strange,” Delphi said, her voice as thin as the silk of a spiderweb. “When you were sent away, I never expected you to darken these halls again. You should never have left the Midlands.”
Anger surged up her throat.
“I’m sure you didn’t expect my brother to die so soon either,” Alora replied before she could stop herself.
The slap came sharp and swift, echoing in the hall.
Her head snapped sideways, hot pain blooming across her cheek. The halls seemed to shake around her a moment, but Alora drew in a shallow breath, swallowing the lump in her throat. Guilt settled like a stone in her stomach.
She shouldn’t have said that. Not to her. Not here.
Queen Delphi straightened her shoulders and tilted her chin. “Do not grow comfortable here, changeling,” she hissed. “You won’t be staying long.”
She turned and stalked away.
“As you wish, Your Majesty,” Alora replied, tone cool with indifference. “I will leave this castle ever in your care… once my mother’s portrait is returned to me.”
Delphi paused for a moment, then continued, vanishing into the corridor with her guards.
Alora exhaled shakily. Her fingers brushed her burning cheek, somewhat gratified she had finally stood up to that contemptuous woman. But she looked up at the vaulted ceiling and whispered a soft apology in case her brother’s spirit still lingered here.
“Forgive me, Rihan.”
Her whisper lingered in the quiet.
Alora flinched again at the sudden blare of trumpets outside.
A deep, echoing blast rolled through the castle from the outer gates, announcing an important arrival. One her father failed to mention last night, or better yet, withheld.
But she could already guess who it was.
Alora rushed to the nearest window. A carriage gilded in gold rolled into the courtyard, flanked by mounted soldiers riding white steads with manes of flame. A massive banner unfurled inthe wind, bearing the mark of a golden six-headed Hydra on a field of white.
Calveron had come to call.
Alora crept through the upper corridors of the east wing, careful not to let her slippers echo on the marble. Reaching the mezzanine, she stood behind a pillar as she overlooked the foyer below.
Her father and servants waited to greet their guests.
Guards marched in, their armor strangely angular and faceless, helmets shaped like snarling snakes. At the center of the procession came a man in sharp ceremonial armor. King Thalion, she assumed, stern and hollow-eyed. And beside him…
Prince Eldrik.
His armor gleamed like forged sunlight, every plate wrought in white-gold so polished it nearly blinded her eyes. The filigree traced in molten patterns along his breastplate caught the torchlight like fire, and a golden cloak spilled from his shoulders. Even his helm, crowned with a plume of scarlet, lent him the bearing of a radiant conqueror.
His skin was warm, his pale hair resembling waves of silver sand and eyes like the clearest seawater. A beauty that was slightly too perfect, edged with something predatory.
The Prince of Calveron was tall, broad-shouldered, a crown of gold on his brow above his pointed ears. His expression was one of quiet satisfaction as his gaze swept over the castle, perhaps imagining the kingdom he intended to own.
Not if she could help it.
As if sensing her stare, the prince looked up and found her immediately.
Alora ducked out of sight, heart pounding.
