“Use my position in the Honorate to make Ophera better. More funding, for a start.”
I’m used to lies, and I’m growing ever used to Kaidren’s. Usually, they don’t make me so incensed, but listening to this, my hands round into fists.
Growing up in Ophera, I found it easy to learn my source. My mother was a compulsive liar, and my magic flared just about every time she spoke.
I let them glide off me. Because no matter how often she lied, those rare moments she told the truth—“I love you, Mira”—made up for it.
We barely had food, our house was drafty, and my clothes were thin as parchment, but it was enough for me. Close enough, anyway. At the time, close to enough was all I needed.
I never told her what fueled my magic. She knew I was aikkari, but it seemed cruel to call my own mother a liar—so I didn’t. I told her I didn’t know my source, and she believed me. She always did. Together, Aja and I dreamed of our grand escape from Ophera.“You’re going to get out of here, Mira. That house on the mountain, more food than you know what to do with . . . you’re going to have it all,”she used to say. For eight years, she meant it, and it was almost enough for me.
When I was nine, she told me again of the grand life I was going to live someday, and for the first time, her words filled me with fire. Her expression was the same as always. She was smiling and hugging me and she loved me, she loved me, she loved me—
But she didn’t believe anymore.
Losing her broke my heart. When I left Ophera and arrived at the Kylers’, I swore to myself and the stars that I’ddo whatever I could for people like Aja. Opheran dreamers who deserved better. I think of her when I write orders for the Honorate. When I look in a mirror and see her features reflected in my own. When I hug my brother and remember what it felt like to be loved without conditions. Aja and Ophera are forever tucked in a corner of my heart.
Kaidren might be from Ophera, but he doesn’t give a damn about the people who live there. He has no intention of doing as he says. It isn’t surprising, but for him to dangle my home over my head like this . . .
I hate him so much right now, it burns. “It’s nice to finally have someone in the Honorate who wants to improve things.” The smile I’m faking strains my cheeks and my self-control.
“I hope they accept me enough I can actually make a difference.” Kaidren clears his throat. “Youseem to have done well, winning the Praeceptor’s favor. Any advice how I can do the same?”
Here come the questions about Luc now that he thinks he’s softened me up. “Just be yourself. People respect sincerity.” I back away and begin gathering my things. “Is that why you came to Widow’s Hall? To endear yourself to the Praeceptor?”
“I’m here to improve the Honorate.”
“Interesting.” I sling my bag over my shoulder. “I’ve never heard of someone coming here without a hidden agenda.”
He chuckles. “Guess I’m the first.”
It’s rare I meet as skilled a liar as myself, but Kaidren lies without so much as a twitch of the eye. If I didn’t hate him, I might be impressed.
“What about you?” he says with a teasing grin. “Doyouhave a hidden agenda?”
“Me?” I smile sweetly. “I’m just the help. What you see is what you get.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
TOUCH OF RUIN
Kaidren Vale doesn’t know where to sit. While the other Honorate stream into the chamber and flock to their assigned benches, Kaidren hovers in the back, awkward and small.
No one spares him a glance, let alone offers to guide him to his father’s bench (now Kaidren’s). It’s only after the final Honorate takes his seat that Kaidren rushes for the only remaining bench in chamber. He reeks of embarrassment as he tumbles haphazardly into the seat.
A few Honorate snicker, loud enough to echo mockingly.
If they resented him yesterday—and they did—it’s nothing compared to now. The Shadow Queen’s latest column, released early this morning, announced to the world that Kaidren Vale is Opheran. An unforgivable offense.
Tension crackles as Luc enters the dais, and the meeting begins. There’s only one item on today’s agenda.
The spiteful whispers have dried up by the time ballots are collected. Luc doesn’t even try to mask his pleased smile when he’s finished counting. “There are nine opposed and eleven in favor. The order passes.” He beams as he repeats the words I practically carved into his memory: “I would like to take this time to formally announce my bid for candidacy for Praeceptor once again.”
I curve my lips in an expectant smirk, waiting for the warmth of happiness to sink in.
It doesn’t.
I’m not happy—I’m only relieved. Relieved that Luc will be Praeceptor for a second term, relieved I won’t have to endure threats from his parents for at least another five years.
