Pelene’s dark eyes widen. “We were discreet. How did she—” She swallows nervously. “You don’t think she’s going to write about this, do you?”
“I have no idea, Ms. Harcot. I don’t control the Shadow Queen. Nobody does. You know that.”
She shudders. “Of course. Thank you, sir.” She’s shaking harder than ever as she rushes from the room.
The Shadow Queen of Widow’s Hall is as infamous asshe is legendary. She lurks in the shadows, collecting secrets of the powerful men who rule Virdei. Anyone curious about the lives of the elite can find the sordid details in her column. For many, the Shadow Queen is a champion of virtue, holding the Honorate accountable. She publicizes the wicked deceptions of those in power and exposes the truth, no matter how scandalous.
But those whose secrets she gathers like roses for a crown of thorns know the truth: the Shadow Queen does not work for the people. She does not care about justice or truth. She operates for herself. She is more than willing to keep anyone’s secrets out of the public eye—for a price.
No one knows who the Shadow Queen is. She first surfaced three years ago and swiftly rose to infamy.
Some believe she’s the bitter wife of an Honorate; others that she’s a scorned lover, hungry for revenge; still others believe she’s a servant in Widow’s Hall, spying on her employers.
They’re all wrong. The Shadow Queen is me, and I am none of the above.
Widow’s Hall is about as high up as you can climb without freezing your nose off. The view from up here, from the stone balcony hanging off Luc’s private study, is the most breathtaking in the Republic.
The top of the mountain is illuminated by three beacons—massive torches that rise from the roof of Widow’s Hall, magicked to burn year-round. Below me are dense trees lining the stone roads paved into the ice of Mount Saidu. It’s midday, but it’s the dark season, so the sky is the color of midnight and blanketed with thick gray clouds that drop snow lazily through the air.
I tilt my head back, enjoying the soothing sensation of snowmelting against my cheeks, when the balcony door whines open behind me. Luc has joined me.
With a parting look over the mountain, I turn, half smiling—My movements falter.
It’s not Luc standing behind me. It’s a tall, stern-looking man and a short, smug-looking woman. Both familiar, both unwelcome.
My stomach drops into my feet. My eyes dart around, searching for an escape. Nothing. Not unless I want to take my chances and hurl myself over the side of the balcony.
It’s tempting, but I straighten my spine and fix my expression. “Mathson, Yelina.” I try for a polite smile. “I didn’t realize we were expecting you. Luc isn’t here.”
“We know. We’re here foryou,” says Mathson.
Few things scare me. My father and stepmother wanting a private word makes fear cling to the back of my throat like a dry biscuit soaked in honey. I try to swallow it—it sticks the whole way down. “Oh?”
“The time is coming for you to prove I wasn’t wrong to open my home to you, Remira.”
It’s an impressive rewrite of history. After I lost my mother, Mathson didn’t let me come live with him out of the goodness of his heart. At ten years old, I arrived on his doorstep alone and starving, with no home or mother to return to. I begged him to take me in—after all, he was my father.
“You’re either useful to me, or you’re nothing,”he’d said, before slamming the door in my face.
So, I made myself useful. Stole a secret of an Honorate for Mathson to use as blackmail. I proved my worth, and he let me stay. I’ve been proving it ever since.
My thumb traces the golden tattoo on my inner wrist. “If this is about tomorrow’s vote—”
“Of course it’s about the vote.” Yelina cuts me off with a stern glare. “I expect my son to be the longest-reigning Praeceptor in history.”
“He will be.”
“For your sake, I hope so.” There’s a dark gleam in her eyes. She’s a petite force of a woman. Shorter than me by a head, and skinny, yet still terrifying. “The decurio are always looking for new soldiers. I’m sure they’d be interested to learn you’ve kept your gifts hidden all these years.”
My breath mists from the freezing air, and my fingertips lose sensation from her chilling threat. The decurio, the Republic of Virdei’s military force, entirely comprises those of us with magic. All magic users are required to report themselves. Failure to comply can result in anything from imprisonment to forced service.
Some dream of joining the decurio. I know better. Opheran soldiers are expendable. It’s no secret we receive the least training and most dangerous assignments compared to those born in Virdei.
My mother knew a man who turned himself over to the decurio. They trained him for a week and sent him off to die just two days later. There was no announcement or service following his death. The only person who mourned him was my mother.
My tattoo marks me as Opheran. It doesn’t matter that I’m the Praeceptor’s sister—an assignment in the decurio would be my death sentence.
“The order will pass,” I say. “I guarantee it.”
