“I feel like a ghost,” Princess Cion said quietly, slowly turning as she eyed herself in the mirror.
“You look beautiful,” Lady Anabeth said sternly. “And remember, you hold much of the power now. You are their heir.”
Princess Cion sucked in a sharp breath, clasping her hands in front of her. “I’m ready.”
Soren and the others bowed their heads as they trailed after the princess. When they emerged into the hall, each and every servant and slave they passed did the same. Whether they truly felt any sorrow for the late prince or not, there remained a heaviness in the air. Much of it was probably an act, but here, they did not have a choice. Submission meant survival.
Princess Cion walked down the length of the royal wing, her head held high. Several highborn ladies stopped as she passed, bowing and whispering condolences. She ignored them all, keeping her expression fixed and stern under the veil.
They walked with her all the way to the Great Hall, where King Johannas and Queen Lona waited on the heavy, gold-rimmed thrones lined with spears said to have once belonged to Kronos himself. A shiver raced up Soren’s spine as she eyed them.
She thought it would have been terrifying to live at a time when the gods still walked the mortal realm freely, when the dragons came into being, forged by Vulcan, the god of fire, their seed of life from Sol himself. What was even more terrifying was that King Johannas came from a line thathadlived in a time akin to that. His father, the princess’ grandfather, had lived when magic from the gods still existed. The previous king had seen mortals hold the power of magic, had once held a piece of that power himself. The king’s crown was even crafted into jagged streaks, reminding them all of what his bloodline could do.
Lightning had been his father’s magical affinity many years ago. Soren supposed the crown was a reminder of the power his family once held, a reminder to all of who they dared tally with if they disobeyed the king.
The king and queen wore the same traditional black mourning clothes as the princess. Soren had once heard the thin veils over women’s faces were not just to keep away ill spirits but also meant to conceal their tears.
The queen’s eyes were red-rimmed, but her midnight hair was swept back from her face and under the veil, her makeup flawless as ever. The king’s face was set in grim determination as the princess approached. Various lords and ladies lingered in the alcoves and balconies around the room, watching and waiting.Even little Princess Chelsa, the youngest royal at only nine, stood just below the dais, trying not to fidget.
Princess Cion bowed low in front of her parents. Soren, Mona, Thelia, and Jasmen lowered to their knees, lingering just behind her, watching and waiting, always. They were Princess Cion’s ladies to the grave, and through forced loyalty and conditioned fierceness, they protected her. Soren would not admit, even in the quiet of her own mind, that her devotion to the princess extended beyond any conditions of enslavement or servitude.
The king raised a hand, indicating for them to rise. As Soren stood, she caught a glimpse of the above, where Nyx and Thanatos gazed down upon them from the painted ceiling, surrounded by star-speckled heavens and half-moons in which godlings hung and frolicked. But as soon as her gaze caught on Thanatos’ brow, she quickly looked away. If she was caught lingering too long—if anyone was now—there would be grave consequences. She was sure the king took the mark as a personal message, and anyone who dared to question the occurrence would find themselves without a head.
Ahead, the king gazed across his throne room, a flat expression on his face. He never showed any awe over the grandeur spread before him—never seemed to behold the gleaming marble floors or the enormous pillars coated in creeping ivy or even stop a moment to enjoy the masterpiece painted above them. Instead, he merely sat smugly atop the throne. Still, Soren had noticed the way he tended to grip the handrests. It was as if he was afraid someone was going to rip the power from him at any moment.
When his eyes finally landed on the princess, he said in a booming voice, “Speak, daughter.”
Princess Cion took a short breath, too audible in the still, quiet air of the hall. She needed to keep her nerves at bay. Eachsoul here was watching, waiting for her to rise or fall in the wake of her brother’s death.
“My king,” she began. “I come with a request.”
The princess knew King Johannas was well aware of what she wanted. Everyone in this room, including Soren herself, knew that. But she was purposely feeding him power to appease him, at least at first. Even amongst members of the royal family itself, there were games to be played.
“Continue,” the king said, quieter now, though nothing about his tone was gentle.
Princess Cion lifted her chin slightly, just enough to display her own bit of power. “When I was a child, one of the revered Sisters of Arcane prophesied I was destined to be a warrior, to ride astride the greatest beasts to ever grace the sky. All I ask now is that I am allowed to fulfill this destiny.”
King Johannas sat back in the throne, his brow narrowing. “You are not ill-witted, daughter. I know this to be true. So, I ask: why even make the request?”
Princess Cion’s nostrils flared slightly, and Soren tensed.
Hold your temper, princess,she thought.Do not play into his mockery.
“I request this,” the princess began evenly, “because even royals such as us cannot change the winds of fate. They will direct us to where we are meant to be, no matter how we might try and resist.”
“So you think me a fool?”
The princess bowed her head again. “No, my king.”
King Johannas paused, and the room held its breath. Perhaps this was it, the moment the warrior princess of Aren simply became the ‘heir.’
“I will allow you to undergo the Choosing ceremony and live out your ‘fate’ as a warrior,” the king finally said. “But after youserve your allotted three years in your station, you will return to begin formal training as my heir.”
Soren watched disappointment flood Princess Cion’s features then promptly disappear. It was carefully practiced, the immediate concealment of her emotions. The princess knew she would be a fool not to take her father’s offer, as no others would likely come from his lips.
She lowered her eyes to the floor. “Thank you, Father.”
The king stood abruptly, and so did anyone else seated in the hall. He gave Princess Cion a hard look before sweeping off the dais into the council room behind the Great Hall.
