Page 9

Everywhere I look is glass.

Glossy wisteria coils around a multitude of columns.

Panes, gilded and stained with patterns of aquamarine and emerald, arc along the walls and vaulted ceiling.

Ribbons of light pierce through, dappling a vibrant mosaic across the floor.

Then there’s the glass chandelier: a glimmering, upside-down willow, its branches cascading in tiers along the entryway, draping on either side of me like a veil.

A new addition, perhaps.

I wonder if this place outshines the Fates themselves.

Once more, my thoughts turn to Illian’s younger brother and the stories I’ve heard—particularly the most unbelievable one—that he fell from Miridran’s highest cliff when he was sixteen.

Even now, his blood supposedly stains its rocks.

Some believe the Fates sent a cloud to break his fall.

Others say it was a hoax—a rumor meant to instill fear.

But there are witnesses who swear he died that day. Actually died. And that somehow, he returned to life without so much as a broken bone—as if he made a bargain with the Fate of Morta herself. But even I know she can’t be bargained with.

Whatever the truth, King Anton wastes his second chance at life by making himself rich—richer than both his brothers—all so he can host lavish parties, revel in his Glory Court, and drown himself in expensive wine.

And as I traverse his palace, the evidence of his opulence surrounds me.

He supposedly made a great deal of his wealth by developing a more durable form of sea glass, made from sand and minerals off the eastern coast. No one knows the exact process by which it’s formed.

Not even Illian, who voiced his disapproval frequently.

I don’t blame him. King Anton’s sea glass is supposedly stronger, more resilient, and ten times more versatile than regular glass.

Yet he often uses it as mere decoration instead of discounting it across Miridran’s other territories—when his is by far the wealthiest, no matter how many diamonds Illian pries from his mountains.

It’s still an impressive feat, much as I loathe to admit it.

The resources of the east were seemingly the least valuable, unlike those of his older brothers who trade rare gems, livestock, and ore.

And now his territory’s wealth is thanks not only to his innovations with glass but to tourism—some of which is no doubt drawn in from his ostentatious reputation alone.

Underneath another arch, the space widens even more. Glass stairs, like hardened ice, spiral off along the walls, with hallways opening between them. In the center, clear baubles dangle on strings of varying lengths, each enclosing a different flower: asters, crown imperials, hollies, and more.

I tap my finger against a globe. It swings, triggering an echoing chime. I startle like a thief caught stealing, but no one notices save for a frowning maid, who flits by with a stack of towels in her arms.

I call out before she can round a corner. “Excuse me, Miss . . .”

Pausing, she sweeps her gaze over her shoulder, meeting mine. It catches me off guard, because Illian’s servants never dared. “The Head of Staff,” I ask. “Where can I find him?”

She jerks her chin to my left. “A right at the end of the hall, last door.”

“Thank you,” I say, but she’s already gone, another swarm of servants shuffling by in livery just like hers: loose linen tunics and pants underneath a beige apron, tied at the waist.

Following her directions, I step aside more than once as groups of guards pass by.

They come from all over the northern continents, each donning armor and weapons unique to their nation.

But it’s King Anton’s soldiers who capture my attention.

Despite their sea-green cuirass and baldrics, they wear light-refracting masks, each clutching a large glass-edged halberd, not unlike a reaper’s axe.

Anton’s particular contributions, I’ve heard, to spare the east from expensive metal, armor, and weapons imports.

The hallway quiets around the bend, allowing me a chance to catch my breath until the sound of voices slip underneath the farthest door.

“. . . and see to it the prophets are brought to me first.”

“. . . won’t arrive for another few days, if the correspondence is to be believed . . .”

The door itself towers above me, a framework of gold hexagons bordering fragmented cobalt glass, and the handle is an ornate sword. I wrap my hands around its hilt but pause, peering through the crack.

Two figures hover over a large desk. The first is hooded in a blue, threadbare cloak. The other is angled away from the door, his cream uniform reminiscent of the maid’s, though blue and gold embroidery notates a higher rank. He must be the Head of Staff.

“Here’re the last of the letters,” he says, gathering a stack of envelopes. “On your way to Philam, then?”

“No time like the present,” says the hooded one. “I’ll dispatch them to my contacts in the north.”

“I could always send someone on your behalf.”

“Nonsense. I need the fresh air, and it’s more urgent if it comes from me. Besides, I’ll be discreet.”

“With all due respect, you have not been discreet a day in your life.”

“All the more reason to practice.” With that, the man in the hood pulls the stack into his hands, then pivots toward the door.

Not wanting to be caught eavesdropping, I sweep back, but there’s nowhere to hide.

The door whips open, and there he is, pausing at the sight of me.

Though I can’t see his eyes, he has a regal air about him, a confident posture that feels almost overbearing.

I can’t help but bristle, more so as his lips quirk—a quirk that spreads into a saccharine smile as he calls over his shoulder, “Seems you have a guest, Laurent. And an interesting one at that.” Then he ambles past, whistling, his cloak a whisper against the polished floor.

I remember too late that my skin is still dusted with blue millen.

“Don’t be a stranger,” the Head of Staff—Laurent—calls out. “Do come in.”

Cheeks aflame, I ease into the office. Laurent is bent over his papers, organizing them into different piles. “What can I do for you?” he mumbles nonchalantly, then lifts his head, a warm smile on his lips.

Something about him puts me instantly at ease.

His eyes are silver yet soft as a cloud, a contrast to his cutting cheekbones and jawline.

His hair is shaved, his skin smooth and deep brown, and if I had to guess, I’d place him in his late thirties.

And despite his dignified, gold-threaded uniform, he has an eclectic presence about him that draws me in.

A bronze ribbon coils up one arm, while a silver torque wraps his throat.

Mismatching earrings decorate each ear, and I briefly think about how much Emilia would love them. She used to collect unique jewelry.

His brows climb as he surveys me. “I assume you’re looking for the bathhouse?”

“Actually, sir, I had hoped to inquire about ordering supplies. I’m a performer, you see. A dancer, specifically.” It’s not entirely a lie. While I brought as much millen and dyes as I could, I will eventually need more.

But mostly, I needed an excuse to meet him.

“What sort of supplies?”

“Millen flour, primarily. I use it in my dance.”

“Ah.” He looks intrigued. “You must have just come from the auditions. Part of a troupe, I presume?”

“A soloist, actually.”

“How’d you manage that? Copelan was intent on turning everyone away.”

I suck my lips between my teeth. “I can be annoyingly persistent.”

“I keep telling him to pull the stick from his ass, though I suspect if he does, he’ll deflate.”

I bark out a laugh, then touch a tentative hand to my cheek. My laugh, my smile—it’s a small thing, but . . . I’d forgotten what it felt like.

When he returns my smile, I can’t help but ask, “I take it you and Copelan aren’t the best of friends?”

“Oh, he’s decent,” Laurent says. “But I find endless amusement in his glowering displeasure. As for your supplies, I would be happy to help, but you’ll have to have it approved by him first—even given the nature of what you need.

The way of things, unfortunately.” He grabs a set of keys, then leads me into the hall. “Can I help you find your rooms?”

“I know where they are in theory,” I say. “But this place is . . . rather overwhelming.”

“To think this one was originally built as a mere summer getaway,” Laurent says, shaking his head. “Miridran and its palaces.”

“There are hundreds, aren’t there?” Of course, many date back to before the War of Rites, before Miridran was consolidated into one nation. Half are in ruins still, while others were renovated into chapels, universities, and the like. “I wonder why they chose this one to host the Gathering?”

Guards skim our path as Laurent leads me down a broad hallway banking off the entrance. “An easy choice, I’d say. It’s on its own island, disconnected from any landmass. I suppose that makes it feel safer. More . . . neutral, even if it’s still considered part of East Miridran.”

Laurent then ushers me into the palace’s main hall—the sheer expanse of it even more spectacular than the entrance.

Variegated glass wraps the room in its entirety, patterned to look like a forest at dusk.

Fretwork columns partition the space, and between them, pathways spiral upward, soaring to multiple stories hundreds of feet high.

“Beautiful, no? Much of what you see here was built long ago, by our current kings’ ancestors, such as the foundation, the columns, and floors.

However, there are many new additions, thanks to His Majesty King Anton.

Many of the mosaics, for instance. He spends much of his time here, adding to the construction, even between the Gatherings when the isle is empty. ”

Grinning at my expression, Laurent runs a hand over his shaved head, one of his glass earrings catching the light. “And if you think this is grand, you must not have seen his palace in Ansa.”

Ansa, East Miridran’s capital city.

“I haven’t,” I admit, rubbing my arm. Before, I couldn’t imagine anything more audacious than Illian’s palace. But now that I’m here, I feel a bit breathless.

“I hope you do one day,” Laurent says. “It was once Queen Mercy’s palace.”

Queen Mercy—the first Miridranian queen.

Who, according to lore, later became the Fate of Morta.

A myriad of staff members whisk by, each enrobed in their nation’s fashion. Several from Illian’s court have already arrived, as have his guards, stationing themselves around the palace. Their gazes fix on me when I pass.

Laurent angles toward me. “West wing is that way. The fourth landing is reserved for performers. Don’t forget to be in the dining hall by sundown.

” At my quizzical glance, he clarifies. “The welcome dinner for the performers is in the southern wing, third floor. I won’t be there, but Copelan will.

He’ll be delivering his little speech before seeing how quickly he can vanish. ”

After bidding me good luck, Laurent is pulled away by a frantic maid, gesticulating wildly about a chamber pot disaster. He slides me an apologetic look before disappearing around a bend. At least I made a dent in my first task.

I stagger up endless stairs, my chest heaving. Stars pile in my periphery, and several times I’m forced to sit until I regain my vision.

Finally, I find my room nestled in a dark alcove at the end of the hall, almost as if they forgot it existed.

I’m not complaining. It’s quiet, and the view is unlike anything I’ve ever seen.

The window overlooks a scattering of islands beyond the docks, and past them, the sea is nothing but mirrors and glass, capturing the pink glaze of the setting sun.

I take a deep breath, absorbing the calm before what will surely be a storm.