“Thank you!” Shay chirped, bouncing on her toes.
Wilhelm’s eyes sparkled. “We do have one small surprise,” he said, nodding to the stablemaster who grinned and opened the door to the last stall.
A black head poked out, nostrils flaring. The horse was young, not quite fully grown, with a glossy coat like polished obsidian and a mane that fell in a wild curtain over one eye. He nickered softly, curious.
Shay gasped and let out a soft “oh.” She whispered, “He’s beautiful.”
“My princess,” Wilhelm said. “Meet Grimm.”
She inched closer, extending her hand the way Hunter had always taught her. Grimm sniffed her fingers, then lipped at her sleeve. She giggled as his warm breath tickled her wrist. “Does he… does he belong to me?” she asked, hardly daring to hope.
“He belongs with you,” her father said. “His coat matches your hair, after all. It seemed only right.”
Emotion flooded her eyes. She blinked them away and threw her arms around his wide middle. “Thank you, Papa. I’ll take such good care of him, I promise.”
“I know you will. The two of you will grow together.” He kissed the top of her head. “You have his feed and training to worry about now, so you’d better eat a very large breakfast. Can’t have you tired in the saddle.”
They spent a few blissful minutes there, Shay stroking Grimm’s nose and whispering secrets into his twitching ear, Wilhelm watching them with a softness on his face he wore for no one else.
From a high window in the east tower, another pair of eyes watched a very different scene.
Chapter two
A Mirror and A Murder
QueenLiora’schamberswerewarmer than any other room in the castle. She had sent her attendants away shortly after waking that morning. Braziers burned in all four corners, filling the air with the scent of juniper and mint. Thick rugs muffled the sound of footsteps, and heavy curtains billowed faintly around the canopied bed.
The only truly cold thing in the room was the mirror. It hung on the far wall, tall enough to show a person from head to toe, framed in dark, intricately carved wood. Its surface, when Liora was not speaking to it, looked like still water in a deep well: reflective, but with a shadowed depth that made it hard to look away.
Now, the queen stood before it naked. Her skin, warmed by candlelight, was the color of cream. Lips plump and crimson beneath two perfectly symmetrical almond eyes, veiled in long dark lashes. Her hair cascading down to the small of her back, ebony and glistening. Her backside was round and full, curving up over flared hips before turning sharply inwards to a narrow waist. Her legs and arms elongated and slim, leadingto pointed fingers and toes. Her breasts were full and high, nipples pink against pale skin. She possessed a body nearly unmarked by the hunger pangs of her poor, peasant start in life. Although childbirth temporarily stretched her skin, her youth and ritualistic oil care cured her of any sagging. Yes, the queen was truly beautiful in face and body. A look that had turned the heads of nobles and peasants alike. And she knew all this. She had studied herself the way soldiers studied maps.
Liora dipped her fingers into a bowl of perfumed oil and began to smooth it over her shoulders, down her arms. The oil glistened on her skin, catching the light as she moved. She watched herself with intent concentration, as if seeking imperfections. Liora turned sideways, running her oiled hands over the flat plane of her stomach, the swell of her hips. Her thoughts flicked back, unbidden, to the winter market many years ago, when she wore rags and had frostbitten fingers and the hunger in her belly had been for bread, not crowns. Men had stared at her then, too. She had learned quickly that their eyes were a kind of coin, and she could spend what they offered.
“Mirror, soul of silver and glass,” she said, voice low and almost entranced, “who in this land shall I never surpass?”
The surface of the glass shivered, the way pond water ripples when a stone is dropped. The dim reflection of the room blurred and then sharpened again—into the image of Liora herself. Not a different version. Not a kinder one. Simply her, as she was, flawless and formidable. A slow smile curved her lips. She tilted her head this way and that, admiring the way the light picked out the angles of her cheekbones, the arch of her brows. “Of course,” she murmured. “Who else would it be?”
“Peasant,” one merchant’s wife had spat at her back then. “Shameless.” Now those same kinds of women bowed to her.
“The king would give you anything,” she whispered to her reflection. The glass did not answer. It never did. It only showedher what she already knew. “A kingdom, a war, his heir. All for this.” She cupped her breasts, lifting and dropping gently. “For me.”
She crossed to her dressing table, where gowns in rich jewel tones hung from carved hooks. She chose one of dark amethyst that clung to her curves, the color making her eyes look even blacker. As she slid the fabric over her skin, there was a knock on the door.
“Enter,” she stated.
The man who stepped inside moved with the easy grace of someone used to wearing steel. Hunter bowed his head out of habit, the deference he gave her practiced but sincere. “Your Majesty,” he said.
“Hunter,” she said, settling onto the cushioned stool before her smaller, ordinary mirror. “Come in. Close the door. It’s cold in the hall.”
He did as she asked, though the room was already warm enough that a bead of sweat slid from his temple. Up close, the scars on his forearms and hands were more visible—pale silver lines mapping old battles. It was duty that brought him here now.
“Out there,” Liora said, nodding toward the window as she dipped an eye brush into kohl, “your king walks in the snow with my daughter.”
Hunter stepped nearer, curiosity getting the better of him. From this height, the courtyard looked like a child’s toy scene. He could just make out the portly figure of Wilhelm crossing the yard with a much smaller, cloaked shape skipping at his side.
Liora’s mouth twisted. “Such a doting father,” she drawled. “I suppose he means well.”
Hunter glanced at her reflection, but his gaze was respectful, not lingering. “He adores you both, Majesty.”
