Anassa left with the rest of the direwolves hours ago, instinct calling her to hunt. She told me she wanted to make a new coronation tradition for the wolves, since all the traditions from the Sturmfrost era had been forgotten.
Occasionally I get a flash of awareness from her as they bound through the snow, skirting around Mount Wolfsbane to the deeper forests—and bigger game—beyond.
Lucky bitch.
Unfortunately, the recent coronation traditions from the Valtieres haven’t been forgotten. The tables in the central ballroom circle around a cleared area, where seven dancers from the city are engaged in a “special performance.”
That’s what Matron Alienor called it when she insisted we needed to have it, that the nobles would expect it.
The “special performance” is some sort of erotic striptease.
The dancers are all stunningly beautiful and talented. I’m in awe of their physicality. But…
“Is this appropriate for a coronation meal?” Izabel says, coming behind me where I sit at the head table. The table has been covered in dish after dish of food. We’ve been eating for hours, one exquisite, absurd, rich thing after another.
We watch together as one of the dancers bends over, wraps her legs around her head and exposes her—thankfully, covered—crotch to a table of practically panting nobles.
“You took the words right out of my mouth,” I mutter as one of the other dancers goes onto her toes. The woman next to her grabs the first dancer’s dress and spins her. The first dancer pirouettes around the room, her dress unraveling as she goes until she’s in only pasties and glittering bottoms. She ends her move in the splits, and several of the noblemen whistle.
“She’s really flexible,” Saela says innocently through a mouth full of venison.
She can eat regular food, another thing we learned from Aldrich’s research, although only blood will provide her sustenance. Food is just meant forpleasure. And for someone rarely exposed to these kinds of meals, Saela is delighted by all her options.
“Do me a favor,” I tell Izabel. “Find out how much Matron Alienor is paying these women and triple it?”
“Done,” she says. “I was coming to let you know that the greeting procession is about to begin.”
I sigh as a long line of nobles forms at the stairs to our dais. “On it, thanks.”
Siegrid’s work has been a victory—the nobles are lining up to greet me, pay respects to their new queen. Everything is going as planned. If only their queen wanted to talk to a single fucking one of these sniveling dipshits.
I rise and step forward reluctantly, taking my place on the throne that’s positioned just by our royal table. Saela comes to stand at my side. She’s doing great so far, but I’ll need to send her to bed after this.
“Your Highness,” an older man intones, his voice a bit nasal. He moves slowly, and I swear I can hear his knees creak as he bends down to pledge his house’s allegiance.
“Lord Blumenfall,” I respond, thankful that Siegrid made me study the names, titles, and portraits of each lord or lady. “And Lady Heir.”
The younger woman to Lord Blumenfall’s right, also kneeling, stands and offers me a gilded box. “Our congratulations, Your Highness. We brought this as just a small token of our gratitude to have the rightful queen returned to us.”
I meet her eyes, looking for sarcasm, but her gaze is steady.
Perhaps these nobles genuinely are open to a commoner, Bonded queen? As the lord’s only child, Lady Heir Blumenfall is set to inherit his estate and responsibilities when he’s gone. She’s solid-looking and flinty-eyed. Maybe in her fifties at most.
She notices me giving her the once-over and quirks an eyebrow, eyes glinting. “We look forward to getting to know you better, my queen.”
As she steps away, I cast my mind around for the name of the next lord who approaches, a tall and thin man with a wispy mustache, but it’s escaping me. He doesn’t offer it, either, and I can see his gaze grow calculating when he realizes I’m not sure who he is.
“Congratulations on this momentous day,” he says, voice dripping with insincerity.
“Thank you for being here,” I murmur, distracted by my effort to match his face to one of the portraits I studied.
He sneers at Saela behind me and then marches off without a farewell. Saela and I exchange glances, but there’s no time to talk before the receiving line carries on.
The next couple is somehow betterandworse: a young husband and wife whom I luckily remember as royal cousins of the Valtiere line, twice removed or something.
Despite the fact that I just recently decapitated one of their family members and snatched the throne from another, they’re bending over backward to fawn over me. The husband bows so deeply his head touches the ground, and the wife weeps as she grabs my hand and presses it to her forehead.
It’s transparently phony, the sycophantic worship, but I suppose I can’t blame them. They’re trying to persuade me not to lock them up for being distant relatives to the previous rulers.
