I stand, and the women rush to wrap me in a large robe, uncomfortable with the guards leering at me. I tuck the kindness away.Perhaps they can be of use if they so obviously oppose this treatment.
“Miss Hilda will apply cosmetics, and Miss Tura will style your hair. Please, take a seat here,” the other maid whispers. She leads me to a small, polished onyx vanity with gold filigree lining the mirror.
“What’s your name?” I croak, bones aching, throat parched.
She pulls out a small bench seat, upholstered with pitch-black velvet. “Fern,” she squeaks, terrified and meek.
I sit, and my own reflection stares back at me. Mottled bruises, small cuts, and the freckles that race over my nose that Kael loved.
The women set to work—Tura weaves my hair into a twisted coronet that resembles a crown atop my head, and Hilda coats my lashes in dark paint, rims my eyes with kohl, stains my lipsa deep, dark crimson, and contours my cheeks with a bronze-hued rouge.
I’ve never seen myself like this—so delicate. So clean. Soregal.
“Time for your dress,” Fern murmurs, cutting her sentence short so she’s not forced to call me Gutter Rat.
She leads me into a chamber big enough to house a family in the Virellin slums. A wardrobe. An entire room to store clothing and footwear.
A singular black gown sways in the wardrobe.
And that’s when I realize.
The color of The Shadow Wastes.
The crown braid.
The formal dinner.
He wants to dress me as his queen.
And every bone in my body trembles at the thought of what he might do with his crown.
CHAPTER FOUR
KAEL
I’ll get her back.
Ronyn’s and Seren’s eyes burn a hole through my chest. They look ready to go to war for her—so am I. But they’ve never been to war. They don’t know the political games that must be played to resource one, let alone actually win one.
“I appreciate your fervor, child, but you cannot charge headfirst into war,” Lady Sylvaine says to Seren, poised and severe. “Wars are not won on the battlefield. They’re won in whispered rooms, secured alliances, secret deals—of which we have none.”
Seren’s cheeks flush red, and she pushes her golden curls behind her ears before sitting up and leaning into the table of Council Hollow. “You may think me achild, and treat me as such, but who do you think cut a deal with Tvira in Cindralis for the Heart of Ashara? Who do you think planned the journey to all the relics? Who do you think has already secured support from the Vaythari people?” Seren’s voice booms through the Hollow. “When I ask, they’ll come.”
The room shifts.
That is… new information.
She stands, body looming over the table. “I will only continue to be a child in your eyes if you continue treating me as one. Elyssara shielded me from the realities of life in the slums and who did that help? Hm?”
She glares around the room, daring us to speak.
And in a heartbeat, the naïve girl I met is eclipsed by the hardened one in front of me.
“Certainly not her. Fortunately, she taught me to wield my mind how all of you wield a blade. I am not useless, and with all due respect, Lady Sylvaine—I’m the best weapon you’ve got.” Her chest rises and falls fast, her knuckles white against the wood.
“Perhaps there’s more to you than meets the eye,” Lady Sylvaine croons, looking both amused and impressed. Perhaps the old woman was hoping to hit a nerve to see what Seren was made of—she does nothing without intention.
Regardless, Seren’s right.
