“Someone else may sit on the throne presently, but it belongs to me, and with the help of Uldarvik, I can take it back.”
The king is now sitting at the very edge of the throne, his face alight with anticipation. “You control fire,” he says, ignoring all else.
Control … that’s one way to put it. “Yes,” I say.
“What are the odds?” He glances at Odgar.
“The flame to my water,” Odgar says with a smirk.
If I’m not mistaken, the king returns his smirk. “You’ve made quite a journey, Princess Carys. Make yourself at home. Sumarvegr is upon us in a month’s time. A marriage before that will not be accepted by the kingdom. I advise that you both court each other, according to our traditions, make the journey to the Hallowed Wood, and upon your return—provided that Princess Carys acclimates to our ways and is accepted by our people—we’ll have a grand wedding immediately.”
Odgar turns to me, waiting as if silently asking me for my thoughts.
“Amonth?” I ask, my voice shaky. My heart clenches. So much can happen in a month. Erleya could be destroyed. “Your Majesty?—”
“Get some rest, Princess Carys,” Freyr says coolly. “And Odgar, make sure that the princess is settled in and made comfortable at the Hall.”
It’s a clear dismissal, and who am I to argue when I have nothing? So, I put on a smile and exude as much gratitude as I can. With another curtsy that strips away what little pride I have left, I say, “Thank you, King Freyr. I will not disappoint you.”
It’s a promise I cannot possibly keep.
Chapter 3
The visions beganas the cold grasp of death ensnared me. My splintered soul feebly cleaved itself from my listless, broken body. It fought my willpower, desperate to make its way to whatever lay beyond this realm, while my lifeblood pooled and congealed beneath me. While my body grew cold, violent tremors thundered in my bones.
I was as good as dead.
Until I wasn’t.
It’s been a year since that moment, and even now, I cannot get it out of my mind. It doesn’t help that each night, pain comes flooding back into my body like clockwork if I don’t take my elixir. Painting steadies my wayward mind; it gives me something other than the distress of this magical curse to focus on. Since my arranged marriage, however, these moments of peace have become rare.
With the paintbrush firmly clenched between my teeth, I admire the passionate red, gentle pink, energetic yellow, and sharp white on my canvas. A likeness to the sunset. Paint streaks my hands and the front of the apron I borrowed from the servants’ wardrobe. I’ve had to stop myself from fidgeting with my hair or touching my face far too many times. The paintingis one I can certainly be proud of, but it doesn’t do the sunset justice. Brush in hand again, I dip the bristles into the black paint to begin working on the silhouette of a tree.
The door flies open with awhooshand Gruffud barges in like a cyclone. It startles me so badly that I jab the brush against the canvas and bite back an expletive. My hands shoot out to steady the tipping easel.
The tall and slender man whose sleek, dark hair compliments his flawless tan complexion gapes at me. Grey eyes flecked with brown shift from the canvas to my face. “Your father has been injured,” he says in his curt tenor.
My pulse scampers as I jump to my feet, dropping my paintbrush on the small tray table and closing the leather case that holds my paints.
“Your mother and sister await you outside.”
I scrub my hands as best as I can on a damp linen cloth before shoving my gold bracelets onto my wrists and tearing my apron off. Flinging the apron onto my stool, I rush around my room and extinguish all the oil lamps. As my husband stands aside to let me through the door, I mutter a word of thanks. Shadows waver in the light of the sconces against the corridor walls, and my heels clack on the varnished dark wood floors. I hike up my skirt, careful not to trip as I take the lengthy, winding staircase to the ground floor.
The sun has long since departed, and I’m fairly certain that the ninth bell has tolled, but I’ve been so absorbed in my painting that I forgot to take my elixir.
Arionna is waiting at the door in a dazzling green dress fit for a ball. I make my way across the soft carpet of the sitting room, past indigo velvet chairs, and beneath a lyre-shaped chandelier with gilded bronze arms and glass prisms reflecting the candlelight. As I draw closer to my sister, I take in her full lips, painted mauve. Kohl subtly lines her dark eyes, giving theman even more sultry appearance than usual. The rouge on her cheeks brings out the reddish undertone in her sepia complexion—as if she needed any augmentation to her beauty.
“Mustyou take an eternity?” she snaps at me. Arionna is nearly a year widowed, and it’s made her an odd combination of bitter and petty.
“Nice to see you too,” I mumble. I’d hoped that moving out of my childhood home a few months ago, when I was married off to Gruffud, would’ve strengthened our relationship, but it seems to have only made things worse. Our family is renowned for owning the most successful book bindery and book trade in Erleya, so we’re already held to a high standard. Having a father who is a revered Queen’s Guard had only increased the number of eyes on our family. Naturally, Arionna gave in to the pressures of being the older daughter of Lord Eurig Davies, choosing to keep up appearances rather than be my confidante. She began reporting all mymisdeedsto Mother, only exacerbating Mother’s hostility for her younger wayward daughter.
After the tragic end to Arionna’s marriage, I naturally became the next tribute, so to speak, through my marriage to Gruffud Pendry. For decades, the Pendrys have dominated the clock-making world, bringing customers from near and far, spearheading various trades, and burgeoning quite an eclectic collection. My arranged nuptials to Gruffud was to join our two eminent households—to secure power and influence that most would only dream of.
Except I was never one to dream of power. I only desire freedom.
Arionna’s gaze snags on something over my shoulder, and I turn to find Gruffud standing against the sage green wall, between paintings in golden frames that match the details in the crown molding. His arms are folded tightly across his chest, his expression unreadable.
“Be safe,” he says, clearly disinterested. He pushes himself off the wall and turns to walk away. I stifle a sigh and follow Arionna out of the grand house.
