ChApter
One
The memory of blood is seared into my mind.
It stains the grass in the courtyard of Ivystone Citadel, even if only in my mind’s recollection. From the balcony of my room, I have a clear view of where the attack occurred. The battle has scarred the pristine courtyard of the castle with blood of both human and beast. Obstinate, dark patches on the flagstones refuse to be scrubbed away, and the broken lanterns, glinting like jagged teeth in the daylight, remain unfixed. The wind, sharp and cool, brushes against my face, tangling strands of my long, dark hair and carrying with it the faint scent of lingering smoke from the fires that had ravaged the grounds. Not long ago, this same wind carried the haunting cries of the carnoraxis who attacked us. Now, it is eerily quiet, as if the castle itself holds its breath.
“Celeste.” Nadya’s gentle voice pulls me from my thoughts. I turn to find her standing in the doorway, her usual cheer dimmed, replaced by a seriousness I rarely see in my best friend. Her hands are clasped in front of her, fingers twitching slightly, betraying her unease. Her ebony curls frame her face like a crown, and her deep-brown eyes, accentuated by thick, long lashes, are pools of quiet intensity against her smooth, darkskin. I can see the turmoil behind them, the weight of so much unsaid, and it mirrors the unsettling storm I feel brewing within myself. “The court is gathering,” she says. “The king is about to speak.”
My chest tightens. I can guess what the ruler of Hedera will say, but that doesn’t make it any easier to face. He’s about to lie to the court. He’s about to convince them of a story in order to cover up a much more sinister scandal. Still, I nod and smooth my hands over the silk of my onyx-black dress.
I almost falter, my head swimming with doubt and worry. But I release a sigh and gather my strength. I’m the commander of Delasurvia’s Royal Regiment, after all, and I’m accustomed to pushing my feelings aside for the sake of duty. “All right. Let’s get this shit show over with.”
I take the thin, black coronet from atop my bed covers and place it on my head. A wisp of black tulle flows from its edges, covering most of my hair but leaving my face visible. I’m not always expected to wear it, but today I’ll be standing on the dais with the king and queen, so I need to dress for the occasion.
Nadya and I exit my room to find Sir Holden, my faithful Royal Ward, waiting in the corridor to escort us. It seems he hasn’t bothered to keep his hair cropped short since the attack, and the same goes for his beard. I can’t blame him. It’s been hard to return to “normal” when it feels like life has been stuck in limbo.
The king’s announcement today will no doubt change that, but I’m not positive it will be a change for the better.
“Have you spoken with Dante?” Nadya whispers, leaning close to me.
“No.” I swallow down the trepidation in my throat. “The king has doubled the guards since… well, you know. And after what happened to Torbin, there’s no way he’ll allow me anyway near his only remaining son. Especially not alone.”
But the king doesn’t fear that I’ll hurt Dante. Because I would never do that. The king is keeping us apart as part of his ploy to retain control of my homeland of Delasurvia. He laid his entire plan out to both Dante and me weeks ago. First, he will announce Torbin’s death. Then he willlegitimize Dante. And finally, once the mourning period for Torbin is over, he will announce that Dante and I are to be betrothed. Because if his new prince marries me—the heir to the Delasurvia throne—then King Silas could essentially keep a foothold on both our lands.
In the corridor, Sir Holden Hale strides ahead of us, his posture rigid with the disciplined air of a man who takes his obligations seriously. His polished armor shines across his broad shoulders in contrast to the shadows of growing scruff outlining the sharp angles of his square jaw. He isn’t as massive as Mylo—my fierce lieutenant—but the muscle beneath his uniform suggests strength that could snap a man’s neck without much effort. Despite the weight of his sword at his side, he moves with ease, every step deliberate. Though his face remains impassive, I catch the occasional flick of his gaze. Always watching, always assessing, and ready to defend me at a moment’s notice.
The hallway feels longer than usual, its high ceilings pressing down on me. The golden sconces that once gave the castle a sense of grandeur now seem to cast long, ominous shadows that taunt me. The soles of my ankle boots echo against the polished floors, the sound too loud in the heavy silence.
Nadya must feel it, too, because she reaches out and gives my hand a squeeze.
As we descend the grand staircase, the slight, almost undetectable limp in Sir Holden’s gait is a reminder of the injury he sustained during the carnoraxis attack. I’d healed the injury as much as I could with my fae magic, and to an onlooker, one would never know the tall, muscular guard’s flesh had been torn into by the creature’s unforgiving claws, but I see it. I know the damage is there, beneath the surface. A shudder rushes through me at the thought of the countless lives I hadn’t been able to save, the injuries I wasn’t able to heal.
All because of the fucking Shadow Tsar.
On the main floor of the castle, I catch glimpses of servants darting in and out of rooms, their faces pale and drawn. The mourning ribbons draped along the walls seem to mock me with their emptiness. They arefor a prince whose body was never found, the king’s son, whom I don’t believe is truly gone.
The doors of the great hall are already open as we approach, and the room is overflowing with the presence of Hedera’s courtiers. Sir Holden nods to the guards on the far wall and leads me through the crowd toward the dais. I spare a glance over my shoulder at Nadya, who keeps close to the edge of the room. She offers a small smile to let me know she’s there for me.
King Silas Copperhammer sits rigid on his throne, his tall frame casting an imposing silhouette against the stained-glass windows that stretch behind him. Soft, colored light filters through in fractured beams, but it does nothing to soften the harshness in his face. His white hair, as pristine as freshly fallen snow, is perfectly groomed, but there’s a stiffness to the line of his jaw that wasn’t there before. The weight of loss pushes down on him, heavy and inescapable, yet he holds himself with the same unwavering authority—a man who expects the world to bend to his will.
His piercing, blue eyes sweep the hall, cold and calculating, missing nothing and forgiving even less. When his gaze falls on me, it lingers a breath too long, and beneath the surface of his grief, I catch the faintest flicker of something darker. Distrust. Blame. The accusation is clear: I’m the reason his son is gone.
The emerald-green robes he wears are darker today, almost black in the dim light, as if even his finery must bear the weight of his mourning. Gold embroidery traces the edges in delicate ivy patterns, a reminder to all of the wealth and power Hedera commands. But it’s not the grandeur that unsettles me. It’s the stillness in him, the calculated control, as though if he lets any emotion slip free, the façade will shatter.
His hand tightens on the carved armrest, the only sign of the tension coiled beneath his outward composure. Whatever he’s about to say, I know it won’t be the whole truth. King Silas does nothing without purpose, and whatever that purpose is, I have no doubt it doesn’t favor me.
To his left, Queen Eleanor clutches her linen handkerchief like a lifeline, her red-rimmed eyes belying the grief she struggles to contain. Her posture is as poised and graceful as ever, but the woman before me is not the goddess I first met when I arrived in Hedera. Her pale-blonde hair, once a cascade of shimmering waves down her back, is now cut blunt at her shoulders. I have no doubt the chopping of her hair was an order from King Silas meant to humble her after she received flirtatious compliments from one of Hedera’s lords—a lord whom Torbin beat to death in front of the entire court. But to me, the style only makes her look more fragile. Her light-blue eyes, far softer than her husband’s unyielding gaze, stare out over the hall, distant and hollow. It’s the look of a mother in mourning, yet even in her sorrow, she holds herself with the dignity of a queen.
Her gown, a deep shade of amethyst, hugs her slender frame, the high neckline and long sleeves hiding her from view as if armor could protect her from grief. Silver embroidery winds along the bodice in delicate patterns, and diamonds sparkle at her ears. I can’t help but think the jewels serve to draw attention from the pallor of her complexion or the ruddy skin around her eyes.
Her hands, perpetually gloved in velvet, rest motionless in her lap. Aside from her personal servant and her husband, I may be the only one who knows the real reason she hides her limbs and neck from curious eyes. The king doesn’t limit his heavy hand to ruling over his realm. I notice the tightness of her grip—a small betrayal of the pain she works so hard to conceal. When her gaze drifts to me, it lingers with something I can’t quite place. Not malice, not blame, but a kind of quiet understanding. And yet, like her husband, she does not acknowledge me. Whatever compassion she once showed me is buried beneath the crushing weight of her son’s demise—and the king who will not let her forget it.
I step toward my place on the dais, three steps behind the thrones and one step to the left of the queen. My back is bone straight, my face set in the calm mask I’ve learned to wear.
Thenheenters the hall, and the air shifts.
My breath catches, just for a moment, as if my body recognizes him before my mind does. It’s been days since Dante and I have had a moment alone together, but seeing him now makes me realize the memories I’ve clung to haven’t done him justice.
