On the other end of the hall was the Sky Court, its wall bearing the symbol of an eagle. And beneath both symbols were rows of seats. Officials—men,Ana noticed—lounged beneath.
Yet it was the center of Godhallem that drew her attention as they approached. Water flowed in from the open-air balcony, cutting a square around the center of the court before flowing back out. It rushed into a pool at the open end of the hall, which spilled over the edge and then disappeared, plunging into the ocean below.
And on the small island at the center, like a little fortress in itself, was a raised dais that bore a throne. It seemed to be molded from a combination of ironore and searock, the blue and black intertwined like oil and water. Its arms were bronze, and upon it sat a boy.
He looked to be several years younger than Ana. Hair so dark it appeared black spilled to his shoulders, framing his delicate face, a shade paler than the tanned complexions of most Bregonians Ana had met. He wore a navy-blue Bregonian doublet threaded through with gold, and atop his head sat a crown.
This was the King, Ana realized with a sharp pang of surprise. King Darias Rennaron was smaller and frailer than she’d imagined. He was fourteen years of age now, but he still resembled a child. Above all, she was struck by the emptiness of his expression as his gaze met hers.
For a moment, she thought he would react, thought she saw a spark in those eyes, the shifting gray of storm clouds, of rain.
But just as quickly, the moment passed, and the King’s eyes flicked back to an empty spot on the back wall. He gave no other reaction.
Beside the throne, a figure stepped forward, and immediately, the entire hall’s attention shifted to him.
Ana recognized him instantly for who he was. That long, slender face, hawklike nose, cunning eyes and sandy hair—she could see traces of Ramson in the Admiral’s face, in every feature.
Ahead of them, Sorsha seemed to straighten, the erratic stagger to her steps falling into neat, rhythmic clacks. She came to a standstill and lifted her hand in salute. “To His Royal Majesty the King and the Three Courts of Bregon, may the Gods of Old defend,” she recited in Bregonian. “I bring to you guests from Cyrilia.”
The Admiral’s gaze swept over Ana, and she had the impression that she was being pulled under black, moonless waters. Whereas Ramson’s were a playful hazel, the Admiral’s were cold cut steel.
“Guests,” the Admiral repeated from his place by the throne, his voice low and deep as a starless night. “Very well, Lieutenant, you may step aside.”
Just like that, Sorsha was dismissed. The girl gave a sharp bow and melted into the shadows.
On the throne, the boy king continued to gaze at them serenely, his lightless gray eyes as vacant as smoke. Ana felt a chill run through her. There was something about this arrangement that struck her as so…wrong. Where was the Queen Regent?
Her stomach twisted as she turned her gaze back to the Admiral. Though he stood beneath the throne, the attention of the room focused on him. His expression held amusement whetted by cruelty. “Well then, nameless guests. I bid you introduce yourselves.”
The balmy Bregonian air was suddenly cold against Ana’s skin. She knew her hair had come partially undone from its bun, and the plain tunic and breeches she wore felt like rags compared to the sharp gilded livery of the Three Courts. On either side, the highest-ranked men of Bregon watched and waited.
Ana threw her shoulders back and stepped forward. “Your Royal Majesty,” she said, addressing the King. “Three Courts of Bregon. My name is Anastacya Kateryanna Mikhailov, rightful Empress of Cyrilia. These are my allies.”
King Darias only blinked. It was the Admiral who spoke. “Rightful Empress,” he repeated, and his eyes trailed her body once, up and down. A few laughs broke out from either side of the court, and Ana wanted to wrap her arms around herself.
Instead, she lifted her chin a notch. “Yes,” she said. “Rightful Empress. And I seek an audience with your Courts today.”
Roran Farrald swept a hand over the gilded throne. He wore a large gold ring on his left hand, which glimmered as it caught the light. “This, my dear girl, is the Blue Fort,” he said. “We entertain foreign ambassadors and the most powerful men from around the world in these halls. Not little girls in beggar’s clothes dreaming up fantasies of being empress.” He lifted his shoulders in a slow, mocking shrug. The badges on his silk uniform gleamed gold and silver and bronze, their lights flashing against the thin tunic and worn felt boots she had on.
Words evaporated from Ana’s lips. A familiar fear curled itself around her stomach, squeezing until she could barely breathe. Throughout her childhood, she’d come to fear public events. All those eyes on her, the voices whispering, wrapping stories and lies around her. She wanted nothing more than to disappear, to run out those doors and never look back.
But, Ana thought, that had never been an option. Fail, or try—the choice had always been hers.
She swallowed, straightened, and held the Admiral’s gaze. “You must be mistaken, Admiral,” she said, her voice carrying across the hall, loud and clear. “For I am a girl, and I am standing in your halls. I only ask for an audience with the Bregonian government.” She turned, and this time spoke only to the King. “Your Royal Majesty. Please hear me out. I come seeking an alliance with you.”
“I think not,” the Admiral said, and stepped in front of the throne. His hand went to the hilt of the great sword at his hip. “You come into these halls requesting an audience—analliance—yet you bring in unwelcome guests.” He turned suddenly, and that was when his gaze slid to Ramson for the first time. “A traitor and deserter kneels among us. Guards, arrest Ramson Farrald.”
—
It felt as though the ground were tilting beneath Ana.
The slice of metal sounded all throughout the hall as the Royal Guards lining Godhallem drew their swords in unison. By her side, Linn reached for her daggers.
Bewildered, Ana held up a hand. “Admiral—”
A hand closed over her shoulder, warm and steady. “Trust me,” Ramson murmured. He stepped forward, positioning himself between the dais and her, misericord drawn. “I didn’t expect this warm a welcome,” he said, his voice growing sharp, “Admiral.”
A shadow peeled off from the walls at the side of the hall. Sorsha drew her sword from its scabbard, flashing silver in the sunlight. “He’s mine,” she called out.
