Page 5 of The Poison Princess and the Lord of Misrule

My pulse hammers, blood roaring loud in my ears. “Search?—?”

“It’s protocol,” the steward says idly, marking something off on his parchment. “No one enters the king’s presence without being searched, of course.”

The moment one of the guard’s hands closes around my booted ankle, my muscles tense, ready for a fight?—

“There,” the steward remarks, nodding his head to a table loaded with weapons. “You’ll get your…dagger,”—he narrows his eyes at the rusted metal—“back afterward. Now, name.” He holds his quill over the scroll.

I swallow. “Renick Ashbourne.”

He scrawls it on the parchment. “Off with you.” He literally shoos me into the throne room.

I glance back once at the table, at my dagger just lying there. I could grab it. I could rush past theguards…and I might make it halfway to the throne before I’m struck down.

Seven hells.

Unsure how to proceed, I enter fully into the throne room, and my jaw falls open. Eyes wide, I take it all in. The throne room is obscene.

Vaulted ceilings textured with gold. Columns of pale marble veined in silver, soaring upward like the bones of some ancient beast. Tapestries the size of cottages drape the walls, woven with scenes of hunts and conquests. Crystal chandeliers drip from the ceiling, each one worth more than every life in my village combined.

And everywhere…people. Courtiers in silks and velvets, draped in jewelry, their faces painted and powdered. They lounge on cushioned benches and lean against pillars with goblets in hand, watching me with bored expressions as I wander toward the center of the room.

The stone floor feels slanted beneath my mud-caked boots. My footfalls echo, the tarnished bells on my hat make a crude jangle, catching the gleam of light through an arched window. I’m leaving tracks on the king’s pristine floor with every step. Some petty part of me gloats at this.

The same steward announces me—or tries to, pausing to look my way with a raised eyebrow.

“Your name?” he asks, quill poised over the parchment.

My mouth parts to remind him, until I realize he’s asking for a stage name. A jester name. Something clever.

“Ren,” I tell him. “Just Ren.”

There’s no reason to give him anything other than that. Standing here before the king, hand fisting at my side, I want mine to be the one known for ending this smug bastard’s reign.

Even if I now have to kill him with my bare hands.

Staring right into Aldric’s narrowed blue eyes, his smirk tipping his lips, I feel as though I can.

Besides, I’m going to be dead within the minute anyway, so what does it matter?

“Now presenting,” the steward calls out, his voice ringing through the hall. “Just Ren. The…jester.”

The pauseis telling. He looked at me, looked at my clothing, and clearly couldn’t bring himself to say the word without that hesitation. A few courtiers snicker. Whispers circle the room. I feel their judging eyes like a blade lodged into my back.

As I walk toward the center of the room, my gaze lands on the elevated dais of dark stone, where, three steps up, sits the fucking king on his throne.

King Aldric Vaelstrom of Kravenholt himself.

I’ve never, not once in my miserable existence, been this close to him. He’s taller than I expected. More toned, too. For a young king who’s been catered to his whole life, I admit, I was expecting a more delicate build, weaker. No matter. Even if I’m malnourished and lack his muscular definition, I have enough loathing in my shriveled heart to take ten of him down.

His crown sits on a head of white-blondhair, just like the late Queen Mother before him. His eyes are pale blue, ringed with deep gray. Adorned in dark crimson and gold, a goblet rests loose in one hand, and he’s watching me approach with a lazy, half-lidded expression.

I hate him immediately. I hated him before, in the abstract—the faceless king whose taxes bled the countryside. But now, seeing him in all his excess, draped in lavish wealth, my hatred grows sharp teeth.

My hand twitches at my side. I mourn the loss of my rusty blade. Maybe I could shove one of my bells down his throat, watch him choke on it. Then I spot my opportunity just a couple feet from me. A dinner knife lies on a tray. I start to ease toward it, ready to snatch it.

Only when my eyes land on the throne left of the king, I stop moving entirely.

And the world falls out from under me.