When I lift my head to assess myself in the mirror once more, strength settles in my Sturmfrost blood. I may not recognize myself, but when I look at my reflection, I see a queen.
I see Queen Chiara in her own coronation gown as if she were standing at my side, hand on my shoulder.
I hold fast to that image of myself as I approach the throne room, my sister and my direwolf both trailing behind. Even as I enter and take in the elaborate decorations, I do not let my vision waver.
This is the same throne room I saw Queen Chiara in when I first put on the crown. And now it’s bedecked for a luxurious show.
The room is flooded with flowers from the greenhouses. Thousands of bloodred blooms have been artfully arranged to look as though they’re growing up the walls, curling over the golden throne, and even dripping from the high ceiling.
It gives the impression of a beautiful threat. Exquisite with a hint of potential violence.
I asked for something that didn’t visually scream,I’m a bit deranged and might kill you all at any moment!
Alas, Matron Alienor said that the Valtieresalwayshad scarlet blooms at their coronations and that the nobles would expect nothing less.
The air is heady with the flowers’ natural perfume. It’s so rich that I can almost taste it, floral and cloying on my tongue.
My head twinges with pain, a reminder of the shield against Killian that I’ve continued to reinforce. Anassa and I threw more power against it today. The last thing we need is Killian reaching out to all the Bonded midceremony.
I can only hope it will be enough.
Swiveling, I look back at Saela to make sure she’s still doing okay. Her eyes are wide, but she gives me a nod and a wobbly smile.
“Fix my skirts if they get tangled, okay?” I whisper. “I think falling on my face would ruin the effect.”
Saela rewards me with a faint giggle.
The room is bisected by a carpeted aisle. On either side are rows and rows of chairs. The common people are seated in the back, wearing the nicest garments they own.
Igor makes eye contact with me from where he sits with his wife, Prina, and nods. Next to him are the women from the laundry, my mother’s old friends. They’re dressed more formally than I’ve ever seen them, so much so that I barely recognize them. I smile at Mae, whose hair is painstakingly arranged and adorned with white flowers.
Heat burns behind my eyes, and that feeling of unfairness returns. If only my mother had been here.
The next section is filled with high-ranking Bonded, all brightly dressed in their most expensive finery. Some of them I recognize, like the Kryptos Alpha, Hannelore, who is next to Egith. Many of them I don’t.
My face flushes when I set eyes on Stark, a row ahead of them and next to the Sovereign Alpha.
He wears a dark suit again, this time accented in a deep Daemos red, the color of blood. His broad shoulders and the wicked tattoos on his neck and his hands set off the crisp lines of his suit in a way that’s almost perverse.
As if sensing me—always sensing me—he lifts his head. When our eyes meet, his face softens for the briefest of moments. His gaze moves over me like a feather drifting against my skin. My flush stretches in a warm heat down to my chest.
I force myself to look away from him, my pulse racing with something other than nerves.
The dais at the far end holds the throne King Cyril occupied only a little over a month ago. A trumpet heralds, announcing my presence as I advance down the aisle, my train trailing me.
Saela walks to my right, slightly behind me. Anassa keeps pace on my other side.
Row by row, the gathered assembly rises and remains standing even after I pass. Hundreds of faces turn to watch my progress down the long central aisle.
My journey to the throne.
I’m not sure which is more intimidating: the nobles whose faces show barely masked hostility, their brows tense and lips downturned, or the people watching with genuine expressions of awe.
I push past it all and focus on the Mother Priestess, a person I’d barely thought about before this week but who has now been an unending thorn in my side.
The Mother Priestess stands on the dais in ornate gold robes, her white hair once again wrapped in elaborate braids around her head. Her gnarled hands clutch a filigreed bottle of sacred oil. The priestess’s rheumy green eyes may make her look feeble, but I see the sharpness to them, even if no one else does.
To her side, on a pedestal, is the golden Sturmfrost crown with its leaping wolves.
