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Then, twelve years ago, King Junien, Illian’s father, decided to split his kingdom into three distinct territories and divide these among his sons instead.

Each territory would be responsible for its own trade and economy, while the army would act as one unit rather than three.

He announced it at a Gathering before the Crowns’ Syndicate on Estienne’s name day—and crowned him on the spot.

Estienne was gifted with Miridran’s central territory, leaving the western territory for Illian once he came of age two years later.

And the east, which Illian loved most, was reserved for Anton.

More than once, I overheard Illian complaining about his youngest brother, namely his arrogance, his debauchery, and, most of all, his greed.

That so many adored Miridran’s youngest king, and his hedonism, disgusted Illian.

The multitudes who overlook his vices only do so because he keeps their chalices full.

I assume relations between them are still tense. If I make it into the Gathering, I suppose I’ll see firsthand.

Still, it was here, under this rose, that I practiced.

Rehearsed. Orchestrated steps and planned my shows.

It was here that I dreamed. This small, abandoned ballroom at the end of a quiet hall was a gift from Illian after a long night spent impressing two dignitaries from foreign lands—all the while ignoring their jabs and jeers, the comments labeling me his pleasure princess, and a pitiful replacement for his former favored dancer.

In addition, he gifted me a title he hadn’t yet offered to anyone else.

His Jewel.

But I’d earned my place without entering his bed.

For enduring their cruelty with grace, Illian escorted me here the next morning. He had it cleaned and swept free of dust, the mirrors polished, the floors cleared. For you, he’d said, as I gawked at a space so drenched in light it felt almost ethereal. And one day, I’ll give you so much more.

Like the lonely, gullible girl I was, I believed him.

It was so easy back then. He made me feel adored.

Just enough attention, the right amount of praise, that I always craved more.

And it was a craving he often fulfilled in the most lavish of ways.

Diamonds for my ears. Gold quatra snuck into the pockets of my costumes. A bracelet, engraved with my name.

Whispered promises that layered onto one another—a currency in themselves. I will give you more.

Anger swells inside me and, with it, determination.

Pushing back against the ache in my ribs, I straighten and walk to the center of the room.

There I settle onto the floor and stretch, following my old routine.

The one I tried to do in my cell, even as my body deteriorated. First my feet, then my calves—

A loose board shifts beneath my weight.

It can’t still be here, can it? I move aside, hesitantly sliding my fingernails underneath the wood. Splinters needle my flesh, but I pry until it comes loose.

Inside, a tiny lump of white velvet and fur sleeps right where I left it.

I lift the fabric, then cradle it against my cheek. I run it along my nose, my lips, covering the hitch of my breath.

It still smells like her.

It was the only thing of Emilia’s I couldn’t bring myself to sell—this one, single glove.

Both had been in the bag she’d packed for me, but one had gone missing, and no matter how hard I had searched for it, it never surfaced.

I had been devastated, because—oh, I loved them so.

She had worn them the first time I met her, a lifetime ago.

A girl no more than twenty-five, lost in fur and dripping with pearls, my father’s diamond engulfing her finger.

At eight years old, I had been determined to hate her.

I hadn’t even wanted to meet her. I don’t need a new mother, I’d told her.

And she’d answered, I know, but how about a friend?

Emilia.

Emilia.

My chest tightens. “I’m sorry,” I tell her—my chorus throughout the years.

“I’m so sorry.” I repeat it now in broken whispers until I’m starved for air.

I’d hidden her glove there years ago to remind me why I was here—why I worked and strived and danced until my muscles tore and swelled.

Why I ignored the comments and glares. The jealous courtiers.

Their husbands and the way they cornered me when Illian wasn’t looking.

It was all for Emilia, once.

But then I was swept away by glitter and gold and the promise of more, more, more.

Just a little more, I thought, and then I’d be done.

I would return to the home I’d fled and face my father.

I’d drag him before a court to face the crimes only Emilia and I had witnessed. I wasn’t a helpless child any longer.

But I was never ready. My life grew intoxicating, and I chugged it like wine. Even now, a small, traitorous part of me feels the pull. It wasn’t until Illian threw me into the dark and left me there that I was forced to face the depths of my failure. Who I’d forgotten. Who else I let go free.

I forgot, because it was easier than remembering.

Eyes burning, I tuck the glove into the band binding my breasts, and as I slide the floorboard back in place, the soft lull of a violin teases my ears.

It’s a familiar tune—so familiar it sends a pang through me. I trace the soft curves of the melody through the air. It fills my broken soul with a long-lost desire because this is a song I’d written. A gift.

For him.

He plays it now, probably knowing I’m nearby. The guards would have told him by now. Is it a taunt? Another joke? Or does it mean so little to him that it is but an idle tune, a harpist’s choice for a mid-morning stroll? Perhaps he thinks nothing of it.

Slowly, I rise to my feet and tread down the hall.

The song heightens as I wander farther, and I pause behind the wide leaves of a potted fig tree.

Before me is one of the king’s preferred lounges.

Scallops of velvet adorn the ceiling, suffused in the afternoon sun from skylights high on the walls.

Chaises encircle the alabaster floor, each occupied by courtiers attired in their finest. King Illian himself lazes on a chaise near the center, sipping from a gold-hammered chalice, his dark green robe open at his chest and spilling onto the floor like ivy.

Brigitte tells me to put him out of my mind and focus on my recovery, but she doesn’t understand.

He is etched into the fabric of my being.

Both his kindness and his cruelty are braided into a tangle of memories I can’t escape.

Even now, I see both versions of him: the man who gave me everything and the one who took it all away.

Two dancers perform a rendition of my Illiuna for him—a sultry song with sweeping movements, heavy arcs. I recognize them both: Marisol and Donatette. They were my students. I taught them this dance.

I’d loved them like sisters.

Donatette wears a creamy gossamer gown the same delicate pallor of her skin, while Marisol is resplendent in a lavender dress that flatters her deep, golden-brown complexion. They weave together effortlessly, a poise to their strides that opens yet another wound within my battered spirit.

I hadn’t realized I would miss it so. Hadn’t thought I’d long to move like that again. To see them dancing the way I used to, the gentle strength with which they pose . . .

Illian clearly made them a well-deserved offer similar to mine.

But why hasn’t he made one of them his Jewel?

Donatette stretches her arms, and Marisol clasps her from behind, arching her back into a crescent. But before Marisol can slide underneath her partner, her eyes catch mine. She gasps and releases Donatette, who falls to the floor in a heap of silk and mortification.

The music ceases.

Marisol’s lips shape my name.

I run, ignoring the way my muscles scream.

I can’t bear to face them. Not when I fail to resemble even a shadow of who I once was. Not when they think I’m a murderer. I round a corner and slip back into my dance room, the bare wooden floors gleaming up at me. I settle my back against the wall, then slide to the floor.

Minutes pass, and no one comes for me. Instead, soft chords of melody arise; they’ve begun their performance once more. Marisol must think she imagined me. I let out a breath of relief, my eyes falling shut until my heart eases its pace.

As the music swells, I visualize the steps they take. I’d loved this dance. I’d spent months choreographing it.

I lift my arms, the rhythm as tangible as ribbons.

It beckons me, and I listen. I rise from the floor.

My arm glides over my neck then down, graceful like the dip of a wing.

This feeling, this freedom to move, it was stolen from me.

But I imagine the chains falling off, disintegrating like the late autumn leaves.

I let the chords direct my steps, guide my pace.

It’s a whisper, a promise, a solace I’d missed for so long, and I hold on to it with all my strength.

My throat aches with unshed tears. My muscles tremble, even as the music builds into a crescendo—

My breath whooshes from me in a painful lurch. I hit the floor with a thump, nerves aflame, feeling as if blades are dragging along my ribs. Water pools in my eyes, only to spill down my cheeks.

Because my body will never be the same. I will never reclaim what I lost. I am weak, frail. I could shatter as easily as glass.

The door swings wide and two guards rush in, jerking me up.

Of course they followed me. Then Brigitte is there, her heavy eyes taking me in.

The scene must be obvious—what I tried to do, how I failed.

But she’s swept aside like dust as the king enters.

He pauses, jaw tight, then commands me to rise.