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Chapter Twenty-One

I llian tucks the glass back in my palm, careful not to let our fingers brush, as always. “Miss Moran, is it? A pleasure to find you here.” He tilts his head toward the fireplace, where my father stands. “Say, and who is this? Ah! General, have you met our soloist?”

An unusual panache for him, a cordiality he rarely displays. It would strike me as odd if I weren’t struggling to keep my knees from buckling.

Slowly, General Stova angles our way.

The breath turns to sludge in my throat. I wait for the spark of recognition in his eyes, the moment his cool composure turns to fire.

But he merely gives me a dismissive once-over before bowing his head. “A pleasure, Your Majesty. Miss Moran. Pardon, but I must return to the party. My king awaits.”

Hesitant relief tempts me to sag. He didn’t recognize me; my disguise is intact.

“Do enjoy the party,” Illian says, succeeding in emptying the room—his plan, no doubt.

My father leaves me alone with Illian.

I focus on the flames before me.

“You’re shaking.”

For the first time, his presence doesn’t scare me as much as it should.

I release a trembling exhale, easing my grip on the glass. “A long performance. I’m tired.” Artlessly, I dip into a half-hearted bow, then stride away as if he’d dismissed me, knowing, too, that he won’t let me go.

“Vasalie.”

I halt before the door.

He moves behind me, my phantom with chains. “I do hope you aren’t getting attached.”

Copelan. I can’t let his name affect me here, when so much as a blink might turn Illian loose. I level my chin, hold fast to a mask of vacuity. “It was an act, meant for the performance.” But the words feel brittle on my tongue.

A soft laugh escapes him. “Oh no, Vasalie, not him. You can keep your pup for now,” he says over my shoulder. “If you manage to hang on to him, that is.”

My heart lurches, once, twice.

“The Head of Staff,” he says. “He’s been rather accommodating so far, no?”

The word no forms on my lips. I won’t hurt Laurent.

“A shame such kindness will be his downfall,” Illian says.

Downfall? I don’t stop to think. “Not him. Whatever it is, please, there must be another way—”

“You had to know it was coming.”

“No,” I repeat, pulse ripping through my veins. “Your Majesty, I can’t. I won’t do it.”

Illian rounds in front of me, drawing so close I have to lean back to avoid brushing against him. So close I can see his lashes, the spokes of shadow they cast onto his cheeks.

“Don’t you know,” he hisses, “that you breathe because I allow it?” My chest is tight, aching with panic. He fans a breath across my lips. “Oh, Vasalie, do not force me to leave you in the dark once more.”

Darkness, laughing.

Shadows, mocking.

Steel, cutting, digging, bruising.

My puppet strings go taut.

What a fool I was for thinking he wouldn’t send me back so soon, that I might be sacrosanct, too valuable for him to discard. But here, under his shadow, the fumes of his breath, I feel it.

You breathe because I allow it.

How right he is.

If I wish to leave here alive, if I want to enact vengeance and reclaim my life, the life my father owes me, I cannot pull against my chains.

My eyes burn with my feeble response. “What do you need me to do?”

A serpent’s smirk lifts the edge of his lips, and he whispers my next task into my ear, soft as a lover’s caress.

My feet are heavy as stones. A cool, nighttime wind soughs past windows, loud as a scream. It numbs my cheeks, my fingers. I wish it would numb my heart.

With Illian close on my heels, I emerge once more into the Hall of Thrones, this time under the gilded architrave, the doors slung open to reveal the soirée beyond. But I feel his departure a moment later, just as I feel the pair of eyes that settle on me.

Not for the first time, Anton scrutinizes me with a gaze that sees too much. Even as courtiers congregate around him, vying for his attention.

Tonight, he is adorned in his usual frippery: a dark, velvet jerkin with mauve shoulder seams that arc like scythes, stacks of rings banding his fingers. Even the boots that reach up past his knees are embellished with threads of red and gold.

To his right, Gustav clanks his chalice with a woman in an intricately laced indigo gown that lays beautifully over her deep, ambertoned skin. “Aha! You see, Your Majesty; Lady Reila agrees.” Grinning broadly, his gaze travels over his shoulder.

And catches sight of me.

“Miss Moran!” he shouts, ambling over. “How are you? You look well. And that performance! Once again, you have deprived us of words.”

I hope my smile doesn’t look strained. “I’m relieved to see that you’re well,” I tell him, and mean it.

He links his arm with mine, drawing me toward Anton and his company. “Come, let me introduce you around . . .”

“Oh, no—” I attempt, but he insists, unencumbered in his joy. My eyes skip around nervously. There’s still no sign of Laurent, and my signal has not yet occurred. Even so, nerves stir in my chest like a swarm of wasps. It takes all my strength to stay upright, to not puke on my gown.

Inhale, exhale—I force the commands onto my body.

The light from our performance is unchanged; we remain bruised in shadow, a blue like that of the sea at dusk, while gold falls softly onto clusters of guests now indulging in a dance.

It’s there that I see Copelan, effortlessly guiding the princess into a waltz, the crowd forming a radius around them.

But there’s no room in me left to care, so I force my gaze away.

“Miss Moran,” Anton says by way of greeting, and only then do I realize I’ve missed the rest of Gustav’s introductions.

I sink into a bow, but Anton’s already strolling off, a new escort on his arm, while Gustav and his friends pepper me with questions about the dance, our inspiration.

Answers fall from my lips, but I barely consider them.

I find myself looking for Anton again, and too easily, I find him.

He’s not far, lingering by a pillar near Prince Sundar, who illustrates some tale or other before his brothers and the queen.

Anton’s escort laughs and whispers in his ear, but he merely peers off in the distance, seemingly at nothing.

But he feels my stare, his eyes gliding toward mine.

It’s then that I notice just how tight his jaw is, how different he seems. How disturbed. Gone is the lazy grin. Gone is the spark in those dancing, viridescent eyes, and in its place, there’s something dark, born of shadows. I can almost feel it from here.

Does he sense what I’m about to do?

In this moment, my instincts fall away, and I want him to. I don’t care if he’s good or not, I care only that he opposes Illian.

I want him to stop me.

Save me.

See me.

Gustav notices me staring and squeezes my arm gently. “It isn’t you.”

“Pardon?”

“His mood.”

I pause, swinging my attention back to Gustav. “Is something wrong?”

He hesitates, then tugs me a few feet from his group. “Do you believe in prophecy, Vasalie?”

Emilia had—though only if they had been confirmed. And there hasn’t been a confirmed prophecy in over a hundred years. Then I recall the prophets Laurent spoke of, the ones taken captive, and realization dawns. They must have found them. “There’s been a prophecy. A confirmed one. Hasn’t there?”

He nods solemnly. “Indeed, and it’s rumored that—”

“Gustav,” Anton murmurs, approaching. “Not here.”

And I no longer believe Gustav; now that Anton’s here, it’s clear I’m the source of his glowering discontent.

His court, some of whom had drifted casually away, inch back when they notice the presence of their king.

Gustav moves the conversation away from the prophecy, instead telling tales of Eremis’s life.

The lovers he took, the children he sired, the treasure he hid—a pietersite gem from Morta’s Lair, though some argue it was her hardened heart.

Half the room mills around us now, and I wrap my arms around myself, growing increasingly uncomfortable— especially with the weight of my task pushing down on my shoulders.

My stomach plummets like a stone in water when the general appears.

I shuffle back, back, back until I’m deeper in shadow, though it can’t hide me for long.

A tip to the general was all it took, Illian had told me. A tip to set the general on Gustav’s tail, to announce the poisoning to the rest of the Gathering right when Illian wished it to be known.

I don’t see Laurent yet, and I pray to anyone who will listen that he’s far away.

Fast as a whip, my father seizes Gustav’s arm and shoves up his sleeve, examining the swath of skin. “Who allowed this man entrance into the Hall of Thrones?” he clamors.

Anton doesn’t miss a beat. “General, kindly remove your hand from my subject.”

My father, undeterred, brandishes Gustav’s arm high, letting us see for ourselves. “This,” he shouts. “The yellow splotches here are symptoms of bellamira fever, brought about from a recent poisoning. Your Majesty, King Anton, am I wrong?”

Splotches. Like the ones I have. Sallow in tone, though my cosmetics cover them. Gustav is not so lucky.

Murmurs arise, the packed array now backing off, opening a spacious ring around Gustav and King Anton.

All over, I begin to tremble.

At a mere lift of Anton’s hand, the bustle silences.

“I did not wish to raise alarm until we knew more,” he says coolly.

“Lord Bayard was indeed poisoned, though as you can see, he is quite well. Our investigation was better orchestrated in private. My physicians have alleviated any concerns of contagion, so you need not be worried—”

“You mean to tell us there was a poisoning here at the Gathering, and you kept it a secret?” King Rurik pushes through the horde. “Anton, you’ve put us all in danger.”

A deep chuckle slithers from the shadows. “I shouldn’t be surprised to find you’ve incited such chaos in my absence,” King Estienne says, his dark form propped against a column to my right. “It’s so like you.”