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Chapter Two

T he King of West Miridran lounges at his gilded desk, its thick, four-pronged legs digging into the carpet like claws.

He does not bother to glance up. Not even as I’m ushered inside and Brigitte turns to leave, the door clicking shut behind her.

His brows are furrowed, his black quill gliding against parchment in smooth, steady strokes.

I take the moment to study him.

He is just as I remember. Young, nearing thirty. Only a handful of years older than I am. Strong shoulders, jaw still angular and sharp as a scythe, though his dark curls are shorter now, trimmed over his ears.

I draw in an uneasy breath, a spark of anger simmering in my belly.

There he is—my defender, my protector. The king who’d gaze upon me as if I were his most precious gem. The savior who’d offered me the world, so long as I came and danced only for him.

The liar who’d promised me refuge and opulence in the comfort of his court, only to abandon me to the rats.

I still can’t understand why it happened, why he had punished me for a murder he knows I didn’t—couldn’t—commit. Had he grown bored with me? Had I done something wrong? Or had he discovered who I really was or where I came from? But no, that couldn’t be; I’d left my old life behind with no tracks.

Over time, I’d realized the answer didn’t matter. He could simply do whatever he wanted.

I’d thought I was special to him, but what is a single jewel to a king who has thousands?

I drag my gaze away, allowing my eyes to drift over the room. Low-hanging lanterns throw fragmented light across the walls, the ceiling, the ominous statue behind his desk.

The Fate of Morta.

Courtesan of Death, Reaper of Souls.

She stands tall, crafted from gold-threaded marble. An intricate hood shrouds her eyes, her nose, revealing only her famous full-lipped smirk. Her hair, long and flowing, drips down her gown like oil. King Illian always found her fascinating—perhaps because he’s obsessed with beauty.

Lore tells us she offers every soul a chance to return to their life among the living, but she’s so beautiful that no one can resist her, so alluring that refusing death is impossible. Some say she changes forms, or perhaps your perception, because everyone takes her hand.

Everyone accepts their death and is led willingly to Morta’s Lair. Death’s Lair. Everyone but me, because I never had the chance.

I waited and waited, but she never came.

King Illian releases a sigh, finally dropping his quill.

Then his attention drifts up, slowly, as if time lags in his presence.

His eyes crawl over me, pausing at my legs, my waist, my shoulders, before meeting my gaze.

I want to shrink away. I feel like a fallen star—a once glittering gem now dragged through the mud.

He is still so elegant and I . . . I have withered away.

“Vasalie Moran,” he says, his onyx gaze holding mine. “The past two years have not been kind to you.”

I don’t answer, though a retort climbs to my lips. You did this to me, you lying swine. But then his words hit me like a blow. Two years. I hadn’t known how long. I’d lost track.

The king studies me, his lips pulling into a frown. I hope he remembers everything—the color of my blood, the pitch of my screams. I will him to see it in my eyes.

I hope he sees a ghost come to haunt him.

He blows out another exhale. “You wonder why I’ve brought you here, no doubt.”

At my silence, he eases back, his long fingers twining around the arms of his chair.

“I am merciful,” he says, almost wistful.

“I always have been—especially to you. I allowed you to live, after all, despite your horrendous crime.” I tighten my jaw, but he continues.

“And here you are, out of prison. So relax, my Vasalie; fortune has smiled upon you once more. Follow my commands, and you will never see your cell again.”

My Vasalie. His property, as always—though a kernel of hope unfolds within my chest. Follow my commands, and you will never see your cell again.

But I know him. I’ve learned the taste of his lies. Whatever he says next will be tempting, like a gown strung with rubies and pearls, the flashy gems hiding the steel-boned corset underneath. Another cage.

“The reward,” he says, “will be your exoneration.”

“Exoneration . . .” The word escapes before I realize I said it aloud. It shatters on my lips, rough and broken, pitiful even to my own ears.

His lips peel upward into a knowing smirk—the same smirk he showcased at the end of my performances.

“I want you to join the entertainment on the Isle of Anell during the Crowns’ Gathering,” he says.

“As my informant, so to speak—though you’ll be so much more.

Of course, I can only guarantee you an audition.

You must impress the Master of Revels to be granted a performer’s spot. Succeed, however, and after . . .”

I sway and lose my balance, almost fall, but the guard behind me clamps my shoulder.

The Crowns’ Gathering. My mind reels as memories return. It’s a monthlong conclave for the united northern nations—also known as the Crowns’ Syndicate—hosted by Miridran’s three kings. It occurs every three years as a way to renew trade agreements and keep the peace among once warring nations.

An invitation to perform at the Crowns’ Gathering is an honor, one any serious entertainer would kill for. Such a coveted position would bring as much fame as it would riches.

Despite being hosted on an island in East Miridran just a few days’ ride from here, King Illian has never allowed me to audition before. It didn’t matter how much I pleaded. And now, after all this time, after what he’s done to me . . .

“Vasalie?” he prods. Impatience spreads across his face.

Anger flushes my cheeks and my voice cracks in what sounds like shock. Is this a joke? “Look at me, Your Majesty.”

“I am looking.”

My eyes drop to the floor—to my bony feet, my thin legs, no longer padded with muscle.

Scars pucker the skin around my ankles and wrists, visible beneath my shackles.

“I am in no condition to dance. I haven’t been for a long time.

” Thanks to you. But my voice sounds frail, lacking the bite I wish I could muster.

“You will be,” he says. “We have two months to prepare for your audition. But I won’t sit here and convince you, Vasalie. Refuse my order, and you can go back to your dungeon and rot.”

He can see it on my face; I’ll do anything to avoid going back.

I’m on a hook, and all he has to do is reel.

“What will be required of me should I make it in?” I ask, almost a whisper.

“As an entertainer, you will be allowed access to places my other informants cannot go. You will act as my spy, reporting to me on everything I wish to know. And once the Gathering ends, you will be released with a full pardon. I’ll return your title, your apartment, whatever you wish. Ask for it, and it will be yours.”

Whatever I wish.

Back in my cell, I spent countless hours wondering what that was. What I would have done differently; what I would do if, by some miracle, I escaped. That was before hopelessness set in, absorbed like ink into the fibers of my being.

Whatever you wish. Ask for it, and it will be yours.

For the longest time, I thought it was revenge. I wanted revenge against the man before me, who threw me away without half a thought. I imagined all the ways I wanted to hurt him, and I don’t deny that rage still exists. I still want revenge.

But more than that, I want to be free. I want to forget my past, my pain, and disappear. I want to pretend I never came here. I want to forget everything.

I want to forget him.

I look at Illian. “My name will be cleared?”

“Yes,” he says.

“Then I want permission to leave West Miridran.”

He opens his mouth, pauses. It was bold, I know, but I’ve realized something. He must need me, and only me, or he would have chosen a dancer who doesn’t loathe the carpet on which he stands.

But . . . why ?

“If you wish,” he finally says.

“I want it in writing. Stamped with your seal.”

“Fine, Vasalie,” he drawls, scribbling on a document before snatching his seal. Once he finishes, he holds it out so that I can see. “But I will hold on to this until the Gathering has concluded.”

I study him. If there is a lie there, it’s hidden beneath the surface of his dark, hooded eyes. But . . . “Why? What is it you wish to discover?”

King Illian gives me a sour look. “To you, it matters not.”

I swallow, threading my fingers together.

Whatever he intends to uncover at the Crowns’ Gathering, it is no small thing.

Not when the whole of the Crowns’ Syndicate will be in attendance.

Not when he’s offering me whatever I wish if I obey.

There’s something he isn’t telling me, some hidden agenda.

But if the cost of my freedom is lies and deception, I’ll pay it.

I dip my chin, just once, in acceptance, even as I strain to keep my spine straight.

A smile creeps over his lips. “My Vasalie, returned to me at last.”

My stomach turns inside out at the possessiveness once again coating his words.

He motions toward the door, and a guard allows Brigitte inside once more.

He juts his chin toward me, addressing her.

“Take her from here. Do whatever is necessary to ensure she is ready, but she is not to leave my personal corridor.”

Brigitte offers her arm, and I need her strength more than ever. I lean on her as she turns, leading me toward the door.

“And Vasalie,” King Illian calls after me.

We halt.

“I have eyes and ears everywhere on the Isle of Anell,” he says. “If you run, I will find you. If you speak ill of my name, I will hear of it. If you betray me, I won’t only revoke your reward . . .” He pauses, and his eyes go cold. “I will kill you myself.”

And just like that, new shackles bind my wrists, hewn from promises and carved from threats. But with them comes a second chance, and I won’t take it for granted.

Muscles spasm in my back and legs the moment Brigitte and I emerge from the king’s office, and I collapse, doubling over in a heap.

I expect the guards to yank me up. Instead, I hear Brigitte ordering them to fetch the physician and the meal she fussed at them about earlier.

“Foolish, the lot of them,” she grumbles as their footsteps recede.

I feel her arm around me next.

She stays that way until the physician arrives.

She remains by my side even after, when I’m carted away on a stretcher into the physician’s ward, when the physician examines me from head to toe with his dainty, pale hands, wrinkled with age.

She watches him like a hawk, and all the while, I fade in and out of consciousness.

Surely this was what she was instructed to do. Except it also feels somewhat like kindness, and I don’t understand why. Illian no doubt told her who I am.

Hadn’t he?

I don’t recognize her from before. She wouldn’t recognize me, either, considering she must be new.

Besides, I was kept away from the public, save for when I was in full costume, with paints and cosmetics layered on my face like a mask.

And even then, it was only for a select audience, chosen by King Illian himself, that I performed.

I break my silence when the physician leaves the room. “You know the reason for my isolation, don’t you?”

Because others would talk if I were let loose and recognized in the palace. They might even do more than that. Lord Sarden, who I was framed for killing, was beloved—especially among the staff.

Until King Illian absolves me of guilt, no one can know who I am.

Brigitte takes a moment, folding her hands in her lap, the only hint of her discomfort thus far. “I am sworn to secrecy, so you needn’t worry. But yes, Vasalie Moran, I know who you are and what you are said to have done.”

What you are said to have done?

Does she not believe her king?

The physician returns. He makes me stand, sit, stand, measuring my pulse; I faint more than once. He pours tonics down my throat, with Brigitte’s help. He concocts salves. He stretches my muscles, wriggles my joints, notating every spasm and wince of pain.

It takes him three days to give us a diagnosis—or lack thereof.

“Two years with such limited movement; it’s a wonder she can walk at all,” he says. “She may never get her full range of motion back. Nerve damage, if I had to guess. Muscle damage, too. And then there’s the issue with her heart . . .”

I stiffen. “My heart?”

“A syndrome of sorts, I suppose,” he says. “Nothing like I’ve ever seen. Your heart rate is too rapid—far more than it should be at times. But I can’t seem to find a rhythm or reason for it. I suspect the triggers are quick movement, exertion, and heat, but even then, it is not consistent.”

Brigitte asks what I can’t. “Will she recover?”

“I don’t know the severity of it. Conditions like these are unpredictable and often chronic.

” He sighs, giving me a pitying glance. “Whether you will recover or not, I cannot say. A routine of exercise and stretching may help, along with better nutrition. The pain and the fatigue, however . . .” He trails off.

“I suggest you learn to live with it. Make the best of it.”

The fight I’d felt upon seeing Illian vanishes, leaving me empty and hollow. Little more than a shell. It felt good for a time, but now I realize he has tasked me with the impossible.

For him to taunt me with exoneration—freedom, even—was heartless.

I curl into my cot and will the world to disappear.