Will my squad be all right without me?
Are the Delasurvian people still being fed?
I hope the refugee camps are thriving.
How does Dante feel about being betrothed to me?
The fire pops again, and Indira’s breathing has noticeably slowed.
And then a snore resounds. Soft. Steady. Genuine.
I exhale slowly, heart hammering, and sit up to glance over. Her mug rests empty on the side table. The open book slips from her hands into her lap.
Though I can’t help the twinge of guilt that flickers beneath my ribs, it worked.
I’m sorry, Indira.
I throw back the covers and rise, grabbing my robe, and move in silence toward the wall behind the wardrobe where the secret passage’s door is hidden.
The panel opens with a whisper, and the cool hush of the passage greets me like a sigh. It’s been weeks since I’ve crept these halls, weeks since the air felt so still and secret around me. I slip inside, pressing thepanel closed behind me, the soft click of the latch sounding far louder in the quiet than it should. The torchlight from my room vanishes, swallowed by the dark.
I wait a moment to adjust. I’m barefoot, and though the chill of stone seeps into my skin, the thought of Dante waiting for me keeps my body warmed. My silk robe glides against my legs as I move, trailing softly along the narrow corridor, and I keep one hand on the wall, fingers brushing across uneven stone. My other hand rests lightly against the hilt of the dagger strapped to my thigh.
I worry my lip. My heart is loud in my chest—not from fear, not tonight. Anticipation rises, hot and quiet, curling low in my stomach. It’s been too long. I’ve suffered behind too many stolen glances, agonized from longing for too many nights of merely gazing at each other over the distance of our balconies.
I round the bend where the corridor forks and follow the narrow path that leads to the hidden entrance near Dante’s chamber. My fingers find the familiar notch in the wall, the pressure point where the panel gives way. I press it open just a sliver—
Voices make me freeze.
Low and firm. One of them unmistakably the king’s.
“Just remember that they are expecting a prince,” King Silas says, his tone a murmur of steel and strategy. “Each realm has already concocted their own idea of what you are, and it’s your job to shatter their presumptions. You are to present yourself as confident—but not arrogant. Cordial. Respectful. But still every bit of man your father is.”
There’s a pause, and then the familiar rustle of fabric. The king pacing, perhaps.
“I want them to see what I see,” he continues. “A man worthy of the Copperhammer name. One who commands attention without demanding it. You are my son, and that will mean something—if you carry that honor properly.”
Silence follows, and I hold a hand to my chest, wondering if they are done speaking.
After a moment, the king’s voice comes again, this time softer. “Because that’s what you will be when this is all over, son. A Copperhammer, by all rights.”
My breath catches.
I can’t see Dante, but I can feel the stillness in the room shift. The silence stretches a moment too long.
When he finally speaks, his voice is quiet, almost a whisper. “Understood.”
It’s just one word. But I can hear the weight in it. The conflict.
All his life, he’s lived in the shadow of a crown not meant for him. All his life, he believed he didn’t belong. Now, with a few words, the king has offered him what he’s always been denied: acknowledgment. Belonging. A name.
Even if it comes at a cost.
“Get some rest,” the king says. “Your entire world is about to change.”
ChApter
Sixteen
