She gives one final smile to everyone before graciously turning on her heel and heading into the castle with her entourage.
Dante gives me one long look before entering his carriage, and I can’t help but wonder what fate has in store for him next.
ChApter
Thirty-Five
We have to travel through the sweltering heat of Bastos to get to the southern realm of Mersos. The air changes as soon as we cross the border, and I swear I can breathe easier. The breeze carries the scent of fertile soil, fresh fruit, and sweet grain. Rolling fields stretch as far as the eye can see—golden wheat swaying like waves beneath the sun, ripe vineyards and abundant orchards dominating neatly divided plots across the horizon. Everything about Mersos is carefully maintained, and it seems as if everyone who lives here contributes to cultivating a sustainable environment. Diligent workers bend low, tending to the crops. Horse-driven carts are piled high with produce, trundling along dirt paths toward the sprawling city that rises beyond the farmland.
As we move through the city, there are artisans working under open stalls—cobblers repairing boots, weavers threading looms, gloved perfumers delicately blending scents in glass vials. Yet despite the bustle, nothing seems rushed. Every motion is deliberate. Controlled. Quality is important here.
The capital of Kernhart is full of a practical luxuriance, a symbol of durability, cohesion, and productivity. The streets are made of pale stone,flat and seemingly perfect. I take in the pristine structure of Sagehold Castle, which is more wide than tall, surrounded by boundless lavender and rosemary fields on either side. The structure sits on a cliff, and the back of the castle drops off into an enormous valley, which would make it difficult for enemies to infiltrate them.
Despite its beauty, there is a sharpness to Mersos. A guardedness. I feel it in the way the workers watch us from the fields—polite, but wary. As if our presence is both welcome and an intrusion. Probably because they know how important this realm is. Mersos holds the survival and wealth of the realms in its hands. They provide more than crops. The fine silk worn by the courtiers of Hedera, the delicate perfumes that scent their chambers, the linen sheets that grace their beds—it all comes from here. If something is made or grown, it comes from Mersos. And they know their worth.
“I usually don’t mind when I’m being stared at,” Nadya murmurs beside me, “but this makes even me uncomfortable.”
I nod slightly, keeping my expression neutral as our caravan slows at the front entrance of the castle. At the center of the forecourt stands a tiered fountain, its marble carved into the likeness of the god of bounties. The guards at the entrance stand at attention by the front doors, their heads held high but their eyes fixed up on us as we disembark from the carriages.
As I always do when we arrive in a new realm, I search for Dante to measure his well-being. When I find him, I take in his downcast gaze, his weary stance, the slight disarray of his hair. This tour is taking a toll on him. Thankfully, it’s our final stop before we can go back to Ivystone.
I’m eager for our gazes to connect, but King Silas suddenly steps between us, clapping Dante on the back before guiding the procession forward toward the front steps of the castle. Silas holds his posture as regally as ever. The people of Mersos might trust no one, but they would be fools not to acknowledge that Hedera is their largest buyer. As long as Silas keeps their coffers full, they’ll treat him well. And he knows it.
I wonder if they’ll extend even a fraction of the same welcome to me.
The thought tightens my throat. The last communication Delasurvia had with Mersos was a message informing my brother that the trade routes to Delasurvia would be cut off as long as our kingdom continued to shelter refugees from Dulcamar. The memory burns. If not for King Silas arranging to reopen the routes—promising Mersos the Dulcamar refugees would be turned away at the border—my people would be starving.
And as far as Mersos knows, we’ve upheld our side of that deal. If they were to find out that Delasurvia is still harboring those who slip through the border, it would be seen as deceit. An insult that would completely block Delasurvia from any supplies in the future.
I lift my chin, determined to keep that secret sacred.
A line of officials comes through the front doors, taking their places as the three rulers of Mersos come out to greet us, standing beneath the banners of forest-green emblazoned with the golden sigil of a hammer crossed over a rust-red plow.
I study the two men and one woman who make up the triarchs, thinking back on the lesson I had with Ezra on Mersos and its rulers. Each of them is impeccably dressed in finely woven garments of cotton and silk. Their clothing is precise and practical, like everything else about this place.
The woman, positioned slightly forward, is Queen Shaylin. She wears a tailored ivory coat over a pale-green gown. Her sleek, black hair is twisted into a coiled bun at the nape of her long neck, and the rings on her fingers gleam with the cold glint of wealth. Her face is unreadable—a mask of composed indifference—but there’s a sharp calculation behind her pale-brown eyes. Below her hooked nose, her thin lips remain in a straight line.
The man to her right is taller, his deep-brown skin accentuated by royal-blue eyes. King Gallor’s dark beard is trimmed close to his jaw, and though he stands with the poise of a diplomat, there’s something in his shoulders—an edge of tension, like he’s always braced for a fight. The second man, King Birchus, is slightly older, a fact only discernable because of the deep crow’s feet beside his green eyes. The auburn-hairedman stands with a broad frame and the kind of steady presence that suggests his words carry weight.
The triarchs are a ruling council of three, but they are also married to each other. They govern together, and—according to Ezra—sometimes disagree on politics, but when it comes to protecting their land and their profits, they stand united.
King Silas inclines his head and strides forward, Dante falling into step just behind him. Queen Eleanor keeps a blank face as her hands remain clasped in front of her. When the Mersos queen finds me, I dip my head politely, my mourning veil brushing against my cheeks.
“King Silas,” she says, her voice warm but carefully measured. “Welcome back to Mersos. It has been too long.”
“Queen Shaylin,” he replies, inclining his head. “It is a privilege to be here. Your city flourishes, as ever.”
“We do our best,” she says lightly, though the pride in her tone is unmistakable. “And we are pleased to welcome your distinguished company.”
Her gaze flicks to Dante for a heartbeat—perhaps weighing his worth, as everyone else has—but lingers on me.
Silas, ever the tactician, doesn’t give her time to prod. “In gratitude for your hospitality, I bring gifts from Hedera’s royal coffers.”
“Then let us proceed inside.” King Gallor extends his arm to the open doors.
As our entourage makes its way into the grand entry hall of the castle, I remember another detail Ezra told me about during our lesson. Mersos’s culture is heavily based on the life cycle. We live, we die, and the next crop always comes along. It explains why they haven’t yet extended their condolences for Torbin’s death. Or Bennett’s. And something tells me they never will.
Once we’re situated in the grand hall, the kings and queen take their places behind a long table that faces us. There is no dais, and there are no thrones. I almost feel as if I were attending a council meeting.
