Page 32 of Lady of the Drowned Empire

Without permission, he swung the door open.

“I did not—” I shouted, but he cut me off, walking into my room without invitation. He slammed the door behind him, his burly arms crossed over his golden armor, his face screwed into a scowl. I was so caught off guard by his appearance, by his brazenness, I was speechless. Markan hadn’t been up here in years. Not since Jules.

I stared back at him. The blatant disregard for my orders, for my permission, took me right back to the temple, to the moment he had chased me down, drugged me. My fingers clenched.

“Get out,” I seethed.

“Your reputation for being a morning person persists, your grace,” he said, his head shining in the light of the torches on my walls. “Much as I wish to oblige, these are the Imperator’s orders.”

I willed myself to calm down, to stay present, to breathe. It was only Markan. As much as I hated him, he was the least of my problems. “I thought you answered to the Arkasva. Your new High Lady,” I practically spat the words.

He shrugged. “Call it her orders then. They’re the same. You just tend to skip faster for the Imperator. Either way—downstairs.”

I stood there, my feet frozen to the ground. Arianna’s orders were the same as the Imperator’s. Shit. “I’m not ready.”

He looked me up and down, rolling his eyes. “You look ready.”

“And you’re the judge?”

“Your grace,” Markan mumbled. “Come.”

Turning my back on him, I faced the mirror once more.

Snow coated my balcony, and winter frosted my windows. The air was frigid, and the last thing I wanted to do today was step outside. I wore a long black dress with my soturion-issued boots beneath for warmth. In the daylight, my Valalumir mark had faded, blending into my skin, but it was just visible enough for someone standing close to me to notice. Asherah’s armor covered it. At least it wasn’t burning me now, though from the cold I’d felt since I’d crawled out of bed, I could have used its heat.

I’d restrung the charm holding Rhyan’s vadati stone around a belly chain and wore it discreetly around my waist beneath my dress. A long velvet cloak—Batavia red—kept my arms warm. And for what was perhaps the last time, I’d pinned my diadem in place, the ends concealed beneath my hair, which would show no signs of red as the sun had been obscured by the snow. I smoothed my hair over the pins again—my hands had shaken the whole time I’d arranged the diadem in my hair.

I’d tried to line my eyes, to look presentable as Lady Lyriana, but they were still so red and puffy from crying all night, I’d settled for mascara only.

“Your grace,” Markan said again. I could hear the impatience in his voice.

Himself to Moriel. This was my last morning like this, but he didn’t care. So long as my heart was beating, he kept his job.

“Fine,” I snapped. “I’m coming. No need to drug me this time.” I marched past him for the door, slamming it open and passing through without turning my head back or looking down as I made my way through the winding halls of the fortress down the stairs to the Great Hall.

Painted columns full of the deeds of past arkasvim—my ancestors, the rulers I’d wanted to emulate, the women I wanted to become—stared back at me. When I was younger, I’d come down here when I couldn’t sleep and stare at their pictures, wondering what was meant for me—how I might find my own place, my own destiny, in such a long and powerful bloodline.

I felt like I was being cut from this bloodline today.

I found Morgana and Meera at the base of the steps, their bodies stiff, backs straight. They wore similar dresses to mine, black, with velvet coats to guard against the chill and snow.

Meera looked pale as a ghost, her mouth half open, her eyes wide with shock.

She knew. Morgana must have told her first thing this morning. Both of my sisters’ eyes caught on my armor, my connection to Asherah. Their escorts stood close, looking sour-faced, as Markan tried to herd me into place.

The Imperator stood at the other end of the hall. Behind him were six soturi, all wolves loyal to him and him alone.

“Good morning, ladies.” His mouth curled into a sneer. He blinked slowly, tracking our curtsies with predatory eyes.

I noted the slight as I straightened. None of us had been referred to as “your grace.” We were still heirs, but he hadn’t wasted one second in stripping us of our titles.

Footsteps echoed down the hall from the Seating Room. Arianna and Naria approached. Neither wore black to mourn my father, but red. Batavia red. Our color. Our symbol of power.

“Good morning, my dears.” Arianna’s steps slowed as she neared. “How are you all feeling today?” She paused, offering a curtsey to the Imperator. “Your highness.”

I managed a blank expression, nodding and noting Meera and Morgana were also offering lukewarm acknowledgements.

A cough from the Imperator caught my attention. His eyes slanted toward me, chin upturned, nostrils flaring as he frowned. A look of utter disdain and impatience was written across his wolfish features. “Do the ladies of Ka Batavia not bow before their arkasva?”