Page 15

Finally, we breach the double doors and glide onto a secluded balcony. Hills spread below us, brushing against the edge of the glossy, black sea. Night bells chime along the docks in the distance.

King Anton doesn’t let go. I tense, waiting for the moment he tightens his hold, maybe even snaps my fragile bones.

A memory seizes me: my father, scowling down at me, lips thinning into a severe line when he noticed the juice spilled across his desk, soiling his military documents and maps.

It was before Emilia came into our lives.

I’d been six, maybe seven, and I’d wanted to play with the little soldier figurines he kept.

He had held my tiny wrist in his hand, squeezing hard, harder—

Pop.

King Anton releases me.

It takes me a moment to realize he’s done nothing. My father had broken my wrist, but now, it is whole. His Majesty didn’t hurt me. Still, I hold it as if he had—until I remember myself and bob a curtsey. “I owe you my deepest gratitude, Sire—”

“Miss Moran, is it?” he asks. His lips, crafted for smirks, peel upward a degree. “Surely you must know that everything has a cost.”

Fear slides down my spine and it’s hard to keep my knees from wobbling, but he merely gives me a roguish grin before strolling away.

I stand there gaping, but only for a moment before chasing after him. “Your Majesty, might I inquire as to how I might repay you? A dance, perhaps, for your court?” My stomach churns as I say it, but I need him to invite me to that banquet.

The King of the East pauses, then spins on his heel to face me. “The dance. Was it your idea, or the Master of Revels’s?” He clinks his rings against the rim of his chalice.

I take a breath, gaze dropping to my slippers, stalling as I arrange my thoughts.

“I admit I wanted to catch your eye, but my method was foolish.” That, at least, is true.

“I had hoped it would impress you, and a compliment from a Crown could guarantee a permanent spot in any theater or court. Perhaps even one as esteemed as yours.”

Amusement flickers in his gaze like a winking star. “And you believe I’ll give such an endorsement?”

Again, I sort through my words, carefully selecting the next ones. “You make waves out of ripples, Your Majesty. Everyone knows of your legendary ambition in the arts.”

And the way he marries it with innovation, to say the least.

King Illian might have a liking for dancers, but that’s nothing in comparison to the extravaganza in King Anton’s territory.

There are said to be hundreds of theaters, the largest within his home palace in Ansa.

It’s rumored to have multiple levels of shifting stages and intricate backdrops of painted glass.

Then there are the glass displays on the streets, the glasswork that spans across courtyards and wraps around entire buildings—a venture begun by his grandfather that he expanded tenfold by dumping an unrivaled amount of resources into since his coronation.

And his exploits draw in not only hordes of tourists but the richest of them from throughout the north, including Crowns. Quite regularly.

I observe the king before me. He’s one of the most influential men in the Northern Kingdoms, let alone the wealthiest, which no doubt affords him a very dangerous amount of power.

And as I stand before him, the truth of that makes me sway.

But I raise my chin, even as my hands tremble behind my back.

“I merely wish to practice the same fortitude as you, Your Majesty.”

His lips spread into a smile. “Such flattery.”

“Is it working?” I hold his stare.

“A good speech, Miss Moran; you have captured my attention indeed. But so, too, have you given yourself away. I see now that you are far too clever to pull me into a Brisendali dance without understanding the repercussions.” I open my mouth, but he taps a finger to my lips.

The shock of it freezes me in place as he adds, “However, these Gatherings are dreadfully boring, and I quite enjoy a good sport. So I will play your game, Miss Moran. Whatever it is you hide, I suspect I’ll take great pleasure in seeking it out. ”

He removes his finger, leaving a spark along my lips. “Join my banquet tomorrow evening,” he says. “It’s a small affair; only my little Eastern Court will be in attendance, save for a few friends.”

Relief fills my chest, though it’s tampered by the note in my pocket. King Illian must have known his brother would invite me so long as I managed to pique his interest. Was it really so easy?

“I would be honored,” I say, even as unease contorts my stomach. Not just from the next command I know awaits me just around the bend, but because King Anton says he will find my secrets.

And I believe him.

The strength to stand dissipates as I reach my room, and my legs give way. The pain from exertion lances every nerve. I hitch in gulps of air, pushing back against the rising fear, but it grows until it fills my throat.

The evening might have been a success, but King Anton’s words haunt me, as do Illian’s threats should I fail. I’ve made a spectacle of myself—the girl who touched a Crown her first night here. I’ve drawn the attention of several courts, and I’ll be watched—not just by Illian but by everyone.

One more misstep in anyone’s eyes, and I am through.

I scoot myself toward the window, nudging it open. Cool air threads through my hair. I focus on breathing, on forcing myself to relax. Nothing works.

Senses. I plaster my hands on the floor, feeling the grit of stone beneath my palms—

My body goes rigid at the sound of a knock.

“Vasalie, open up.”

Copelan.

I groan and rise from the floor, a flurry of stars crackling into my line of sight.

I fumble with the knob and open the door, only for Copelan to take one look at me—at the kohl now smudged beneath my eyes like a bruise, the way I’m leaning against the precipice for balance—and frown.

“You’re drunk,” he says. “Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic. I thought you’d have more sense than that. ”

I open my mouth to refute him, but what could I say? That I am weak because I spent the last two years of my life fettered and imprisoned—and for murder no less? That the only reason I am here is so that I can do whatever foul bidding King Illian foists upon me?

“Foolish girl,” he spits, and something inside me sinks. My trembling body follows suit, and I slide to the floor.

See me, I plead silently—hopelessly. But I know he won’t.

With what sounds like a growl, he stalks over to a small table with a pitcher of water, splashes it into a glass, then shoves it into my hands. “Drink.”

His jaw is tight, pulsing. I grip the glass, the room tilting as I fight to remain upright enough for a sip.

“The whole thing,” he adds, and when I obey, he pours a second. “Another.”

Is it concern for my well-being? The guilt of leaving me here? I’m too disoriented to put it together.

I force down the second to appease him, humiliation heating my cheeks when a queasy ripple sends it back up my throat. It sprays from my lips, splattering across stone. I swipe away my sweat-drenched hair, shaking.

Two arms lift me gently from the floor and deposit me on my bed, voice fraying with still-apparent fury. “Sleep it off. Tomorrow, we’re going to have a talk, and not a pleasant one.”

I should fret over his words. I should beg his forgiveness. I should try to explain, find some excuse, because Copelan could send me packing and I would be finished—both here and everywhere else.

But exhaustion has turned my brain and body to mud. Tomorrow, I will face the consequences. Tomorrow, I will convince him to keep me on. Tomorrow, I will surely receive my next order from King Illian, and I will carry it out, no matter what—because with-out this chance, I have nothing.

So I stay silent as Copelan sets the glass beside me and shuts the door, enclosing me in darkness.