Page 105 of Blackheart

Arthur Pos nodded in agreement.

Xavian’s voice silenced the room. “Whimcastor Hold will bow to their king, betrothal or not, or it will cease to exist. My sister is not a chess piece, nor livestock to be sold.”

My face paled. Never in my life had someone stood up for me in such a manner.

Arthur Pos shook his head. “We would be fools to turn away?—”

“I’ll do it,” I interrupted.

Everyone turned to me, but the only eyes I could meet were Riven’s. He exhaled slowly, smoke brushing my face.

My desire to help did not change the desire I held for him, or whatever had sparked between us.

He burned his piece out on the table, leaning forward. “Has the wine affected your senses, Princess?”

I gathered myself, as Lady Jocelynn had advised, before saying something that would not represent myself well.

There were too many people suffering and dying for me to be picky about how I contributed, whether it pissed Riven off or not. Maybe I was being impulsive, possibly desperate, to make something of myself in comparison to my brothers. Or perhaps it was Lady Jocelynn’s speech that brought me clarity. One thing Iwaspositive about was how sick I was of being the victim. Standing out of the way while people like Xavian made ties with Lestivia, Amzee and Zephy protected ships of the Dark Natured, and even Arthur Pos spent his time tending to our kingdom.

“If I wed the heir to Whimcastor Hold, will it help with the war?”

Avan coughed. “Uh, yeah. They forge our fucking weapons.”

Xavian kicked the top corner of Avan’s chair, sending him falling back.

“It could be beneficial, but nothing is guaranteed.” Xavian eyed every man sitting at the table one by one, daring them to speak again before I gave my answer.

Sitara and her village did not die for nothing. Beck did not lose Arielle for nothing. I did not leave the Waywards and cross the Sea of Blades fornothing.War required weapons and men, and if Whimcastor Hold had such resources, I would not be the one standing in the way.

“I’ll do it.”

Chapter 32

A Request

“Castivian history is as unruly as the land itself. The records are chaotic; the literature often poor.”

—Dreary Nightsong, The Onyx Scholar

My first consciousnight at Xavian’s home—our familyhome, he’d given me a tour of the stone scaled manor, and had seen that Riven and I were paid well for delivering the deed, and that as a council member, I would receive regular compensation.

None of it felt real, but I was proud to pay for my new wardrobe. I had also visited a glamour shop and purchased a basket full of cosmetics and a few pieces of silver jewelry.

The day was young, and I sat for tea in a black gown with a silver-threaded corset, similar to the look the woodland tailor had created. The tailor master in Eiden had been incredibly understanding of my wanting to continue the style. The skirt was not as voluminous as Lady Jocelynn’s, but it was long, loose, and comfortable.

Lady Jocelynn refused to pay me any compliments, but she did not try to convince me to change it, unlike most other things about myself.

Three days prior, when she had first invited me to take tea with her overlooking the training grounds, I was hesitant. Not because of her abhorrent demeanor, as that was to be expected, but because of the experience I endured the last time that I drank Castivian tea.

She assured me there would be no hallucinogens, since we had much to accomplish and little time for poppy brain.

Three days had passed since the private ceremony was held to name Xavian king, and since then, Lady Jocelynn had been tasked with teaching me what to expect each day and how to not stick out like a sore thumb among nobles. We had less than a week until the meeting with the lords, my betrothed being one of them.

Having a betrothed to begin with was nauseating, but I had made my bed and I was fully prepared to lay, wallow, and fuck in it.

“Why were you late today?” Lady Jocelynn asked, focused on a crow that sat on the arm of her chair. Another was on the circular iron table between us, anxiously waiting to be fed a piece of powdered cake or lemon tarte. Lady Jocelynn was so fond of her crows, we hardly ever spent time inside.

“My nightclothes needed a wash.”