The Feast is almost upon us, meaning Durvla’s departure is almost upon me. I don’t want her to go; I selfishly procrastinate, putting offthe necessary discussion with Iywan. Her talent is wasted in a region specializing in agriculture and wool harvesting. She’s a greater asset here.
It doesn’t escape me that all my friends are in my service or service to the crown. It’s an obligation. Perhaps it’s the same for Durvla. She is kind, patient and controlled, creative and logical—everything I’m not. Yet, I cannot figure out if she’s only kind because soon she can walk away from this godsforsaken palace.
Stop wallowing, an inner voice tells me.
I jump, chilled to the bone.
You don’t need friends.
But I do. Don’t I? … Gods, am I arguing with myself?
To distract myself from my spiraling mind, I leave my bedchamber, and Sir Ren offers me a tight-lipped smile. In silence, we make our way to the kitchen. The rest of the staff is on break, and Eefa’s perceptive gaze settles on me as I step into the kitchen. She knows exactly the kind of mind numbing I need as I tell Ren to stand guard outside the door.
His voice reaches my ears through the roar of my eager pulse while Eefa’s lips are on my neck, her hand grazing my thigh beneath my dress and chemise. We spring apart as a hunched older woman, who I recognize by face only, waddles into the kitchen. Taken aback, the woman places one hand on the counter for balance and dips into a shallow curtsy.
Beside me, Eefa is grinning like a fool. My heartrate refuses to slow down, competing with my mind as it assaults me with a plethora of negative thoughts, though none have any discernible origin. Without bothering to say anything to either of the women, I sweep out of the kitchen, flanked by Ren who, thankfully, asks no questions.
I don’t stop walking until I’m standing in the infirmary, tears stinging my eyes. Alys rushes to my side, worry etched into her plump face. “Carys?” she asks. “What’s amiss, dear one?”
“I don’t know,” I choke out as I glance around. There’s no sign of Briony, thank the gods.
“Tell me what you see,” she says.
I know this routine well enough, but somehow, I can never remember it on my own. Not lately, at least. “You,” I say.
“I’ll accept that. What do you hear?”
I listen and there’s a gentle flap of the white curtain as wind blows through the window. “The curtain.” I draw in a breath. “I feel my feet in my shoes, the floor beneath. I taste nothing at the moment. I smell… something herbal.”
“What a surprise in an infirmary, hmm?” she asks sarcastically.
I smile weakly.
“Well done,” says Alys. “Lie down. Let me make you a cup of tea.”
On Alys’s suggestion, I leave the confines of the castle to get some fresh air in the late afternoon. Back on duty, Callum silently follows me outside. We step out of the stuffy palace and into the cooling air beneath the lavender and orange sky. As we walk farther from the castle and through the floral archway of the garden, Callum draws his sword with ashiiingthat startles me more than the large man who appears in our path.
The stranger is even taller than Callum, with coppery skin and thick, dark blond curls tumbling onto his broad shoulders. Sapphire eyes with a sunburst of brown settle on me. On my diadem.
My heart races.
He steps back, lowering his head. A bronze pin—diamond-shaped with an X intersecting it, a triangular blue-green labradorite gemstone at its center— shimmers on his chest. The royal symbol of Uldarvik.
I hold my hand up to Callum and he lowers his sword.
“Apologies, Your Highness,” says the stranger. “I did not mean to frighten you.” His warm, resonant voice washes over me, his accent thick and melodic.
Callum hesitates but sheathes his sword.
The Uldaran man is clad in leather, a tattoo along his left jawline, peeking out from beneath his short-cropped beard.
“It’s an antler,” he says, and I tear my lingering gaze from the inked design in his flesh.
“I didn’t mean to stare,” I say, lifting my chin despite the fire in my cheeks.
A low laugh rumbles in his chest. There’s something so at ease about him. His posture has a certain sureness … or perhaps arrogance.
“You must be Prince Odgar,” I say.
