Half of her wished for harm to Aren’s heir. It would weaken the crown and therefore give Mise an upper hand in the war. Her birth kingdom had been slowly slipping, losing more battles from what she could pick up through whispered rumors amongst the servants. Some said the war was close to an end now.
But the part of her that had been trained to loyalty shied away from any feelings of revenge. She served Princess Cion, and her brother’s death would ultimately harm her. Soren did not want harm to come to anyone.
Though, deep down, she knew that was a lie.
There was thatfeelinginside her chest that she had long tucked away, the one her own mother had once told her to hide.
It tasted of ashes and power.
She buried it quickly—it was too dangerous to feel such emotions. It could crack the encasing of ice she always kept around her heart, and if that broke, she was lost.
Composing herself, she tucked a stray strand of silvery-white hair behind her ear. The color was not Misean by any standard, and it had always drawn some attention to her. But years in the palace had thankfully allowed her to blend in with the others, fading into the background, where it was safest.
She hurried back to Princess Cion’s chambers, knocking softly.
“Enter!”
The princess was sitting on the floor when she pushed the door open, staring calmly out the doors of the balcony. She must have opened them while Soren was gone. Cool air filtered in, fresh and pine-scented. Beyond, the peaks of Ellys mountains towered all around them, watchful guardians of Aren’s mountainside capital city.
“Your Highness,” Soren said, bowing.
Princess Cion looked up, lips twitching. “You were quick,” she said. “You do know I am not truly injured that badly?”
Soren’s cheeks warmed, irritation and shame mingling. She shoved both aside. “Of course, princess. May I see your hand?”
The princess held it out, and Soren knelt in front of her. Carefully, she examined the shallow gash, and after making sure it wasn’t worse than it looked, she cleaned it and wrapped it gently in a bandage.
“There, my princess.”
Princess Cion looked at Soren thoughtfully. Her striking green eyes, flecked with hazel and gold, had always reminded Soren of a forest in the height of summer.
“Soren,” the princess began. “Tell me about where you’re from.”
Soren looked at the princess sharply, her throat tightening, but she kept her breaths steady and even. “I am from Mise, Your Highness.”
Princess Cion sighed. “Iknowthat.”
Soren shifted her aching feet. “I was very young when I was taken—” She cut off, scolding herself for the small mistake in speech. Anything could be construed as treason.
Princess Cion didn’t say anything; she just stood and Soren followed her, eyes trained on the floor.
The princess took Soren’s hand with her uninjured one and said, “Soren, you can say ‘taken.’ You don’t have to spew somebenevolent nonsense that your life here is better or that you’re glad you’re a servant.”
Slave, Soren almost corrected, but she held her tongue. Instead, she merely murmured, “Yes, my princess.”
Princess Cion shook her head. “Never mind my questions. I know it must be painful for you. Come. I want you to attend me while I train today.”
Soren was silent as she helped the princess dress in training garb: thick leather pants and a scaled, armored vest over her tunic. Dragon scales, Soren had been told, just like the dragon that someday soon would be bonded to the princess.
She was destined to be a rider.
Only the best in Aren were conscripted to be chosen as riders. They all came from noble families, training for years before the Choosing, a ceremony during which a dragon personally selected them. If not chosen, the rumor was, they died by dragonfire.
But Princess Cion would be, undoubtedly. It had been predicted by a Sister of the Arcane when she was a child. The Sisters’ prophetic abilities were of the last remnants of the magic that had disappeared from the continent nearly a hundred years ago. No one knew why or how. According to the histories, one day, it had just…disappeared. Aside from the Sisters, the bond between a rider and a dragon was the closest thing to magic these days.
Princess Cion strode towards the door, and Soren fell into step behind her, ducking her head in a familiar act of submission. She had seen enough servants struck because they were ‘looking around’ too much, despite the order that they were supposed toalsobe constantly vigilant for threats to those they served.
The royal wing was still empty and nearly silent, but as they passed Prince Nell’s chambers, Soren could hear the violentretching from within. Princess Cion glanced at the door, and for just a moment, concern flickered across her features. It was quickly replaced by her usual, even calm. Soren didn’t dare comment on the prince’s illness.
