Page 8 of Lady of the Drowned Empire

The foreign army of Ka Kormac had been occupying our country for as long as I could remember, their numbers growing each year. But they’d never been armed within Cresthaven. Never before had we been so outnumbered.

Even Arianna had been surrounded by the soldiers of Ka Kormac.

Something was wrong. Something was so very wrong.

I turned back to Morgana, who’d reached forward to squeeze my hand. One squeeze—hard, painful—then she released me, resuming her posture.

Eathan adjusted his position on the golden Seat of Power, his gray robes a near perfect match for his hair. He’d become the acting Arkasva last night—placed on the Seat the moment my father had taken his last breath. A silver laurel sat atop his head. On a small table beside him, nestled over a golden plate of red rose petals, was the golden Laurel of the Arkasva. It had been the laurel of my father, the rightful ruler of Bamaria, and was about to be claimed by Arianna.

The doors to the Seating Room opened, and the dozen soturi guarding Arianna marched through the entrance, their hateful presence filling the room.

Naria entered next with the usual scowl on her face but also a darkness in her eyes I hadn’t seen before.

I straightened. My mouth was tight, my heart pounding. I couldn’t do this. I didn’t want to do this. I didn’t want to see my aunt. I couldn’t stand to look at her, not when I knew the monster within. I wanted to run and hide. I wanted Rhyan to come and take me away. But he wasn’t here. And I couldn’t call him without risking another secret—the illegal vadati he’d given me, an heirloom of Lumeria Matavia his mother had kept until she’d died.

I clutched at the stone incased in a golden charm around my neck, concealed behind Asherah’s armor.

Inhale…exhale…inhale…. His voice was clear in my mind, commanding me, calming me.

The door filled with Aunt Arianna’s aura. Her red hair was styled into a crown with little golden beads, ready to accept the Laurel of the Arkasva. Her golden seraphim arm cuff was back in place, shining on her arm against her glittering black dress.

The eyes of the black seraphim met mine.

CHAPTER THREE

Arianna’s blue eyes were piercingly intelligent and observant, looking me up and down in that assessing way she had. I froze with fear, my entire body locking. She swept her gaze to Morgana and Meera. My throat went dry as I prayed they didn’t reveal anything, that I’d kept my mind blank enough for Morgana not to know what I did.

Then Arianna’s eyes softened, her expression filling with sorrow and motherly concern.

She didn’t know. I exhaled. She didn’t know I knew.

Her mouth lifted into the soft, sympathetic smile she’d given me hundreds of times before. The smile that had once comforted me, that I’d longed for when I’d been locked up in the Shadow Stronghold. Now, my stomach twisted as I watched her. She was my blood, her face one I knew better than my own—one that had been identical to mine when I was younger. We had looked so alike at my age that when Meera first had the vision of Arianna’s treachery, we’d all believed the girl in her vision to be me.

But I no longer saw the resemblance. I no longer saw my aunt. Only a snake. A viper.

A black seraphim.

My sisters and I moved forward as one, standing beside the Seat of Power in a neat and tidy row. Meera, Heir Apparent, was next in line to the Seat, then Morgana, second in line, then me, third. Three perfect ladies, three sets of diadems.

On the other side of Eathan were the Imperator and the Bastardmaker. The Imperator’s son and heir, Viktor, finished the lineup, his black eyes slitted as he sneered.

Eathan stood, glancing uneasily around the room as we all bowed. He’d always had a quiet strength to him, a commanding presence. But he was not made to be Arkasva, and it was clear he had never expected to be in this position.

“Tonight,” he said, his voice deep, “we must pause our mourning of Arkasva Harren Batavia, High Lord of Bamaria, Bar Ka Mokan.”

“His soul freed,” came the response.

Eathan cleared his throat, his eyes reddening. “I will not name our High Lord’s murderers.” He spoke quietly, like he was barely able to control his emotions. “These criminals, these killers, tried to remove him from power eighteen years ago.” He swallowed, and when he spoke again, it was in a near shout. “They failed. Ka Batavia was stronger. And Ka Batavia remains strong. No matter the crimes they committed last night, they will not win. Not while I draw breath.”

I pressed my hands against my hips, using every ounce of willpower I had to keep from sobbing and screaming out that they already had won, that we needed to fight back, to do something.

We couldn’t do anything, not while openly surrounded by armed enemies. Not when I wasn’t sure who my true allies were and who was a disguised foe.

“Before I may fulfill my duty to Bamaria,” Eathan continued, “I offer my sympathy to my dearest cousins, Lady Meera Batavia, Heir Apparent, and Lady Morgana Batavia and Lady Lyriana Batavia, Heirs to the Arkasva.” Eathan paused, turning toward us, bowing his chin in reverence.

Meera stiffened, and Eathan’s eyes met mine. A wave of sorrow flashed. His aura was always quiet and calm, a steady, reassuring contrast to the intricacies and overwhelming shows of power by others in Court. But now, his aura was full of grief and sadness.

“For eighteen years,” he continued, “I’ve been his Second. I proudly stood everywhere he was not. I take no pleasure in holding the Seat of Power. He should be here tonight. He should be wearing his laurel.” Eathan’s voice shook as he gestured to the golden leaves on the table beside him. “But it is my sacred duty to wear the silver, to rule in his stead for one month. And when our next High Lady takes her Seat, we will mourn him and grieve in the manner befitting our High Lord.”