“Please, Zev,” I implore, squeezing his hand.
Zev inhales deeply, then pins the man with a glare that could turn stone to ash. The color drains from the man’s face. He stashes the fruit behind his back.
I breathe a sigh of relief.
Minutes drag by. My heart beats in my throat. Until finally—the palace looms ahead.
It’s a monstrosity. A fortress of gray stone and steel, with metal spires jutting from every tower. Tall wrought-metal gates surround the sprawling structure, and I catch a glimpse of greenery tucked behind its stark walls.
We ride into a vast courtyard. Where I might have expected a fountain, there stands a massive statue of King Varad—arms raised in triumph. Disgust coils in my gut at the sight of it, a monument to arrogance immortalized in stone.
Zev slows the horse to a stop and helps me dismount, handing the reins to a lanky blond stablehand. A cluster of servants scurries around us. None of them meets my eye.
I count the cobblestones beneath my boots, willing my hands not to tremble as we walk to the palace. I want to reach for Zev—but I don’t. I can’t. Not anymore.
I’m marching toward my future, but it doesn’t feel like mine anymore.
We cross the threshold, and another wave of servants descends, swarming like anxious birds. Zev waves them away with a flick of his hand. They scatter instantly. One hurries ahead to announce our arrival.
Grim-faced statues line the winding hallways as an equally grim-faced Zev leads me toward what I assume is the throne room. My steps are weighted, as if I’m wading through knee-deep snow instead of striding across gleaming marble.
My heart lurches as we halt before two towering doors, the Arbinji crest seared deep into the dark wood. Four guards flankthe entrance, their silver armor polished to a bright shine. The sight makes me acutely aware of the grime clinging to my skin, the wild tangle of my hair, the dirt crusted beneath my nails. We’ve been trudging through wilderness for over a month. When the weather warmed, I stole moments to rinse in streams, but it’s been nearly three weeks since the last true wash.
“Hey,” Zev says softly. “You look perfect.”
I don’t, but I offer him a weak smile for his kindness. There’s a tangible sense of grief shadowing his eyes, though he tries to mask it with a smile of his own. It frightens me how well I’ve come to know him. How well I can read him.
And how well he can read me.
His hand hovers on the handle, face twisting into a pained grimace. His head swivels as he scans the hallway on either side, almost as if searching for an escape. His hand tightens. His shoulders drop. He must’ve realized what I already know in my heart—there is no escape. Not from this.
Zev opens the door, and we enter.
The floor is polished marble, veined with silver and charcoal like storm clouds frozen in stone. In the center of the room is a long, raised platform—dark and smooth. I do a double-take. From the center, two large, leafy trees erupt, reaching toward the vaulted ceiling.
Twin thrones are carved directly into the trunks. Burned into each side are jagged lightning bolts, scorched into the bark. One throne rises slightly higher than the other. In it sits King Varad—my mother’s murderer. Fractured light from the stained-glass windows glints off his dark hair, thick brows set over narrowed green eyes. His face is lined with age, yet traces of Zev’s striking features still break through.
My stomach curdles at the sight.
Standing beside Varad, one arm braced casually against his father’s throne—though nothing else about him is casual—is atall, lean man. Long blond hair cascades over his shoulder, a large crown perched atop his head. He has his father’s green eyes, and his lips are curved in a cruel smile.
Crown Prince Faramir. My betrothed.
He hasn’t taken his eyes off me since we entered.
“Father,” Zev nods to Varad. He doesn’t bow. “Faramir.”
His brother doesn’t even get a nod.
“Zevayr,” his father drawls, mouth stretched into a tight smile. “You can’t imagine how pleased I am to see you home safely.” His lips turn down in a scowl. “The rebels grow too bold.”
Then, his sharp emerald gaze slices into me. “And Princess Mayah. What a relief to see you delivered safely. Your father will undoubtedly be pleased. Perhaps he’ll stop threatening to flood my kingdom.”
I hide my glare by dropping into a low curtsy.
Faramir snickers. “I’m surprised,” he sneers. “Who would have guessed they teach manners in that backwards wasteland?”
I stiffen, a frigid tide of anger rising in my chest.
