Shit.
The king storms out, his jaw clenched, his face a thundercloud. His hand curls into a fist at his side, knuckles pale against the dark-green silk of his attire. For one breathless moment, I wonder if he’s seen me, if I’ll pay for standing here, listening.
But he doesn’t even glance my way.
Farvis bows low as the king approaches, falling into step beside him without a word. The guards pivot and follow. Farvis speaks quietly with the king, and their voices fade as they disappear down the corridor, leaving only the distant echo of footsteps behind.
I exhale slowly, my grip on the dagger loosening. The rational part of me knows I’m no match for the king, not with his entire army at his command. But the part of me that has spent months seething beneath the weight of his decisions still aches to follow him. To make him bleed for every cruel word he hurled at the queen.
Instead, I need to make sure Queen Eleanor is all right. For all I know, he’s left her unconscious on the floor. I step forward, pressing my palm against the door to the lounge. Through the thick wood, I hear nothing but the queen’s soft, broken sobs. I don’t know what he did, but at the very least, she’s alive.
I should go to her. I should offer comfort, something, anything to lessen the hurt of knowing she’s lost three children before they ever had the chance to live. To tell her it’s not her fault, and that she has every right to blame Silas.
Would my presence help? Or would it be one more reminder of all the things she’s lost?
I check the hall again, making sure no one is around. When I finally work up the nerve to open the door, I find the sobbing has stopped, and the queen is gone. I turn a full circle, wondering if my eyes somehow passed over her, but she’s nowhere to be seen. Then I remember the secretpassageways and realize she must have slipped through one.
Gritting my teeth, I leave the lounge and head back to my room. But in my head, I make a mental note. One day, the king will pay.
ChApter
Nine
I’m not looking forward to today. It’s not just the suffocation of the funeral gown, but the weight of what’s expected of me.
The grand prayer gallery looms ahead, its towering stone archways draped in heavy black banners embroidered with gold ivy. Gleaming candelabras line the path toward the altar, their flickering flames casting wavering shadows over the polished marble floor. A faint scent of myrrh and smoke lingers in the air, mingling with the hush of whispered prayers and the occasional muffled sob. To either side of the altar, running almost the entire length of the prayer gallery, large, floor-to-ceiling windows let in the pale morning light.
Courtiers, nobles, and prominent citizens of Hedera fill the hall, clad in black silks and somber wool, their faces veiled with sorrow—or something dangerously close to resentment. Their grief is palpable, and for the families who lost loved ones, my heart breaks for them. But some of them cry for the fallen prince, and for them, I can only feel pity that they believed he was worthy of their tears.
Nadya walks beside me, her hand looped through my arm in silent solidarity. I don’t need to look at her to know she’s gauging the crowd, watching the way people shift, the way their eyes follow me. I notice it,too.
The weight of their stares presses against my back as I move through the hall, their judgment like static in the charged air. Some glance away when I meet their eyes, unwilling to make their disdain fully known. Others do not. For once, I’m grateful for my veil. This one is longer than the mourning veil that’s attached to my black coronet. This one covers my face, though I’m sure everyone can still see me. They hold my gaze, their expressions tight with barely concealed bitterness, as if they know I am the reason their prince is gone.
I refuse to falter. I straighten my spine, lift my chin, and step forward with measured grace, my dark veil cascading over my shoulders like armor. Let them glare. Let them whisper. I know the truth—they mourn a man I could not save, but they do not know the monster he became.
And I don’t believe that he is dead.
Nadya leans in, her voice barely a breath. “They’re looking for someone to blame.”
I exhale slowly, steadying myself as we near the front of the hall. “I know.”
And they’d be right to blame me. I did mean to kill Torbin that day if it meant saving Dante. So if they’re looking for a villain, here I am. The problem is I’m going to be their queen one day, and it will be difficult to carry out the duties of protecting the people and standing up for their rights if none of them trust me.
Nadya and I make our way to the front of the gallery, where rows of darkly dressed nobles and courtiers sit in solemn silence. The seats reserved for the king and queen remain empty, their absence stretching like a void across the room. No one speaks louder than a whisper, and the quiet is thick with grief, reverence, and an uncertainty perhaps only I can sense.
At the center of the altar, where a casket should rest, there is only an ornate pedestal draped in black silk. A golden circlet—the prince’s coronet—sits atop it, a symbol of what has been lost. A pattern of gold ivy leaves embellishes the crown, each leaf sparkling with emeralds. SinceTorbin’s body was never recovered, this is what serves as the focal point of the service in place of a casket.
Leaning against the pedestal, shining under the candlelight, is a longsword with a decorative hilt. It may have been one of Torbin’s swords at some point, but it is not the sabre he had sheathed at his side since I came to Ivystone. The sabre was still attached to him when he fell, and it’s most likely at his side today.
I swallow hard, forcing my expression into something unreadable. No one else questions Torbin’s fate. No one else wonders if the carnoraxis merely carried him away rather than tore him apart. But I saw the way they descended on him, the way they shrieked and keened as they dragged him into the darkness. Almost as if they cried for him. It should have been his end, but something inside me burns with doubt.
Torbin is too determined, too ruthless, to be claimed by death so easily. And the potion he took time and time again made him strong, stronger than any normal human. Strong enough to match a fae. And those beasts served him—or at least were ordered to serve him by the Shadow Tsar. My gut is telling me the carnoraxis carried him off to save him.
A hand on my wrist pulls me from my thoughts. Nadya gives me a small, pointed look before guiding me into my seat. I don’t argue. I settle into place, folding my hands in my lap as the room waits for the arrival of the king and queen.
Footsteps echo, and I force myself not to look over my shoulder. When I catch sight of a tall form emerging at the head of the aisle, I only slightly turn my head to find Dante standing there. He pauses between the rows of chairs, as if he’s gazing upon the pedestal before him. But his eyes are on me. Subtly. Unnoticeable to everyone except me and Nadya.
His funeral suit is fitted perfectly, the high collar framing his strong neck, and gold brocade on his lapels and cuffs giving the black velvet jacket a distinguished look befitting a prince. My heart flutters at the sight of him, especially since he never made it to his balcony last night. Even though I knew he had been summoned to Silas’s private quarters after dinner, I still continued to check for his appearance every fewminutes, well into the night. Indira incessantly asked me to stop pacing, but she thought I was merely unsettled because of the funeral, not because I longed to catch even a short glimpse of Dante.
