Page 38

She shows me the belt, which gleams like a priceless piece of jewelry. Slippers crafted from the same silk as the dress boast tiny golden tassels that will catch the light with every step.

Mother has always said that armor comes in all shapes and materials, and that the only difference between courts and battlefields is the type of wounds inflicted.

Based on the arsenal Rhiann presents me with, she’s not expecting a skirmish but a full-blown battle.

Looks like I’ll be playing the role of rescuer coming to save my poor, beleaguered prince.

I square my shoulders and raise my chin. “Then we should not keep the crown prince waiting. I’ll wash up.”

Light flickers in Rhiann’s eyes. “Frida will get the cosmetics set up and ready for your return.”

Spinning on my heel, I head to the bathing chamber. After a quick wash, I return and place myself in the capable hands of Rhiann and the maid assisting her.

While Frida applies my cosmetics, painting my eyelids, cheeks, and lips, Rhiann works her magic on my tangled hair, weaving it into an elaborate updo. She finishes just as the maid holds up a mirror to show me what they have accomplished.

Unless someone personally witnessed them wielding their tools on my face, they’d never believe I was wearing any makeup at all. Yet my hazel eyes appear larger, my lips fuller. A healthy flush that doesn’t occur naturally tints my cheeks. My hair is twisted and folded in a way that accentuates the golden, sun-kissed highlights, giving an overall impression of several hues woven together instead of the simple dark brown I’m accustomed to seeing.

I can’t help but marvel at their deftness and artistry. “You work wonders, Rhiann. You, too, Frida. Thank you both.”

Rhiann meets my eyes in the mirror, a flicker of warmth in her otherwise austere demeanor. “There’s a reason I am the Lady of the Bedchamber.” Her voice rings with pride. “It is not simply because I am cousin to kings.”

“Let’s get you in your dress.” Frida lifts the gown off the bed and helps me carefully step into it.

Rhiann fastens the belt around my waist, and as she lets go, the weight of it surprises me. Stepping into the shoes, I’m stunned to find a hard heel.

“One more thing.” Rhiann picks up a wooden jewelry box with ornate carvings, and the two women cover me with more gold at my neck, wrist, and even my hair. “And now your wings.”

Surprised, I bring my wings out. Then I realize this entire ensemble was designed to complement my skin, hair, and wings. An outfit specifically dedicated to enhancing my beauty, with the gold of my eyes and wings mingling with my jewelry.

I glance at Rhiann, wondering how long she’s been planning this. “It’s incredible.”

Her eyes shine as she gives me a nod. “Now it’s time to go.”

Frida follows at my back while Rhiann ushers me through the apartment to the hallway. She opens the door with a flourish and gestures to a pair of guards stationed outside adorned in white tabards. “Please escort Lady Lark to the crown prince.”

They bow, their faces an impassive mask, and I step forward, the soft tap of my heels against the marble floor reverberating in the hallowed halls.

The click of my shoes will draw attention to me. I have no doubt Rhiann intends for me to be seen.

The guards flank me, their presence a testament to the importance of this summons. They remain a decorous step and a half behind me, more of a living backdrop than a security measure.

As we approach the throne room, murmurs and soft laughter seep through the grand double doors, which swing open to reveal a tableau of beauty and ambition. Marble floors meet marble columns before giving way to a wide-open area large enough for dragons to walk side by side.

At the far end of the room, the throne is centered to serve as the focal point. However, the gathering at the base of the throne is what currently occupies everyone’s attention. A collection of women, each more striking than the last, stands before Sterling, their eyes alight with dreams of queenship.

Immediately, I understand the nature of the emergency and why I was dressed this way.

The noble houses have converged like vultures cloaked in finery, presenting their daughters as if they were prized thoroughbreds at market. The dance is as old as the monarchy itself, each move calculated, each smile practiced. They’re here to pressure Sterling to choose a queen consort.

“Any of them would make a suitable queen consort,” a royal council member who I think is Lord Serle Hamilton murmurs, his pale blue eyes darting from maiden to father as if weighing the bloodlines of each. There’s a stiffness about the dark-haired man that unsettles me.

My heart clenches, my rib cage suddenly too tight.

I pause in the doorway, unnoticed for now, watching Sterling—mySterling—with these women vying for a position I’ve never coveted, yet am compelled to defend. Jealousy claws through my chest. They flutter around him like moths to flame. They’re draped in silks and laces, each one a living, breathing promise of alliances and heirs.

These are the games played under gilded ceilings, where power dresses in silks and performative smiles can cut deeper than swords. I am armed only with my wit and the fire magic coursing through my veins. A fire all too eager to ignite at the sight before me.

But this is not a battlefield.