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It looked like magic had been wrought upon it, though Wren knew that was impossible. Perhaps the palace had been built back in the day when dragons might’ve roamed farther from the isles, and the rare ones which blew fire from their lungs could have been used to reinforce the building and turn it into such a seamless, beautiful thing. It screamed wealth. How many kingdoms had the elves raided to afford such a place? How many lives had been lost for such luxury and greed?

It was a stunning landmark for a cruel people.

She huffed out a breath as she was directed up a set of steep white stairs that lead to the entrance of the palace. Wren kept her head down and focused on not passing out. Her head spun and she slipped. A hand clamped around her forearm, halting her from dashing her brains out on the marble stairs.

She lifted her head and gasped. The prince stared impassively down at her. Wren tore her arm out of his grasp, almost losing her balance again.

“Don’t be stupid.”

“Don’t touch me,” she countered as she righted herself and continued up the steps.

He sprinted up the remaining stairs, leaving her behind with his guards.

The steps weren’t the worst of it.

Their cruelty was only further reinforced when Wren was paraded through the palace toward what could only be the throne room. She tried not to tug at her soiled black shirt that exposed too much of her legs.

Her face flushed with indignation, though she forced herself to calm down. There was nothing she could do about the situation she was in, aside from keeping cool and taking the first opportunity she was given to attack. Who cared if she was humiliated in front of all these people she did not know? They did not care about her, and she did not care about them. Their opinion of her meant nothing.

So why was her heart beating so quickly? Why, with every pair of eyes laughing and sneering in her direction, did she feel even more like she wanted to crawl inside herself and never return?

Only you have the power to let others shame you.

With her mother’s words ringing in her ears, Wren conducted herself as a bloody queen. She’d bring no reproach on Lorne. Cruel laughs and stares would not take her dignity.

A pair of ornately carved doors opened and she was led across a marble floor polished to a high shine to stand in front of a tall, gilded chair. She looked up to find what was potentially one of the most beautiful—and most frightening—faces she had ever seen carefully regarding her.

The High King of Verlanti. Soren.

Even sitting down, Wren could tell that the man was willowy and tall: taller than almost any man she’d ever seen in her life. His white-blond hair tumbled over his shoulders all the way down to his waist and was delicately braided with all manner of jewels, spindle-like gold jewelry, and silver pins. His eyes were framed by lashes of black and blue and silver, accentuating the crystalline color of his irises.

Crystal.

Like father like son.

Wren glanced over at the commander dressed all in black before she could stop herself. The resemblance was uncanny: the same eyes, the same high cheekbones, the same pale hair. The main differences that Wren could see between the two men was that one was slender whereas the other was broad, and that the king clearly preferred fine silks and gems to leather and armor.

It was surprising however to find the prince of a nation in the frontlines of an invasion. Leading it, in fact.Was it because he was illegitimate? The fact that Wren herself had been treated like Oswin’s daughter by blood did not mean that other kings felt the same way about their own children who were still theirs by blood but born out of wedlock to another woman that was not their queen.

She kept her thoughts to herself.

Someone pushed her from behind and she fell unceremoniously to the floor. The resulting crash echoed all around the throne room, and she grunted when her knees cracked against stone. Pain radiated up her thighs, but she didn’t cry. Wren panted through it and then gritted her teeth. She knelt for no man.

Though she was just as likely to be thrown to the floor again, Wren stumbled back to her feet. She held her back straight and lifted her head, peering through her red locks at the highborn courtiers tittering around her. They were dangerous, glittering creatures but what they didn’t know was that the king had let the fox into the henhouse.

Lifting her chin, she pushed her hair from her face and locked gazes with the king. She lazily arched a brow at him, daring him to do something about her impertinence. Unexpectedly, the man laughed uproariously. The dark elf appeared at her side and tried to push her back down to her knees but she struggled against him.

“Oh, you truly are a fiery one,” King Soren commented, his words drenched in aristocracy. “I rather like that. I had heard the Dragon Isles were full of high-spirited people. How exciting.” He laughed again and some of the highborn lords and ladies followed suit.

He wouldn’t be too delighted when he found a nail in his gut on their wedding night. Her lips lifted and she smiled for the first time since her wedding ceremony.

“Just look at her,” someone whispered to Wren’s left, followed by the giggling of some women of the court.

She forced herself to ignore the women. But that comment seemed to open the entire floor to other goading insults and jokes, and then, all Wren could see was red in front of her eyes as she was filled with an insurmountable rage she was struggling to keep back.

The only thing she noticed through her anger was the prince who watched her like a hawk, his hand unmistakably hovering over his sword as if anticipating an attack. Only he truly knew how dangerous she was. She would risk life and limb to get in just one shot against her enemies. At least he wasn’t underestimating her. He knew what he was dealing with.

King Soren sobered and brushed a lock of hair from his handsome face. “I must give my condolences to you for the tragedy that befell your family,” the king said, his lofty voice clear and true and easy to hear, even over the ruckus of the room. The smile on his face was anything but sincere. “I am truly sorry they had to die, especially your little sister.” The smirk curled into something wicked. “The court could have used some fresh meat.”