The brightness gathers around everything as we walk, almost aware.
I was never something uncertain here. I was always meant to arrive.
"The Queen has been waiting for you."
CHAPTER 15
The Throne of Alarna
The guards move with me rather than around me. With each step the brightness gathers along the structure ahead, pulling my attention forward whether I allow it or not.
The sound reaches me before the doors open. Voices layered over one another, the low hum of a room that does not quiet for anyone, building until the doors break open.
Trumpets cut through it. The doors swing wide.
"The lost Queen Heir of Alarna has returned to us," the herald declares, his voice carrying effortlessly through the chamber. “Princess of Veynar, she has been called. Now to be known only as Queen Heir Asharanis Floravar of Alarna."
Asharanis? Queen Heir?
The words sit wrong, too large, too certain.
I step forward, and only then do I truly see it. The throne room stretches upward, the ceiling nothing but glass pouring light down in sheets across crystal and marble until the entirechamber glows. Gold traces everything. The air carries a clean scent that has no business reaching me through the salt and blood still on my skin.
At the center sits a woman on a throne of gold. Older, though not frail. Her features cut cleanly, her expression controlled. She has no eyebrows, which should look strange and instead reads as power. Fine chains of gold trace her face, stones set with precision along her cheekbones and brow. White silk gloves cover her hands, every finger adorned. A staff rests in her grip. Her gown spills down the steps in long lengths that command attention without asking for it.
She looks at me with disapproval, then turns her attention to the herald. “Where is the protector?”
The man falters. “H-he did not arrive.”
Her expression hardens instantly. “That is enough, Norasin. Your stuttering grates my senses.” She dismisses him with a wave of her hand, as though he has already outlived his usefulness.
He retreats without argument. The room remains fixed on me.
Behind her stands a young man with hair nearly the same color as mine. He looks like he is trying very hard not to smile and failing at it entirely. To one side, a pale man picks at his nails with permanent dissatisfaction. Beside him, a woman in silver and lavender mirrors the expression exactly.
The court watches. All of them. And I am suddenly, painfully aware of myself. Clothing in torn pieces. Blood dried into the fabric.
I continue making my way toward the throne. When I reach the base of the dais, I curtsy, the motion instinctive. "Greetings?—"
"Unacceptable."
The staff strikes the ground. Light fractures outward in sudden prisms of gold, blue, and violet, scattering through the chamber. It presses into my vision with enough force to make my stomach turn as I rise too quickly and lose my balance.
"The Queen Heir of Alarna arrives smelling of disease and blood and weakness," she says, her voice rising. "And then bends. And curtsies. Abandoned by her protector nonetheless." Her gaze sweeps the court. "Veynar returns my blood to me in such a state."
Silence.
"Sister—" The woman in lavender says, her tone meant to be gentle and landing cold.
The woman ignores her. "Fix it, Balkton. Fix it now,” she screams. The pale man rises slowly. "Queen Heir," he says, “you will step out and present yourself properly.”
I stare at him. At the room. At all of them.
What the fuck is happening?Do I curtsy? Do I not?
Before I can decide, a voice enters my mind. It is low, amused, and entirely out of place.
“Leave. Come back in like you own the room. Flaunt the power they’re all waiting to see. Then demand a seat on the dais. And don’t kneel.”
