Page 10 of Shadows and Roses (The Dark Queens #1)

Castien

The next morning, he found a white letter slipped beneath his door:

You have been assigned to the Queen's Escort. Report to the Queen's Wing by noon.

He reread it. Escort. Impossible. Her Escorts consisted of her closest advisors, guards, handmaidens, and favored courtesans—perhaps a dozen people altogether. He'd barely said a word to her, had spent no more than a few minutes in her chambers. Was this a joke? He scowled at the paper. The dried rose petal pressed into the back wasn’t fake. Whatever her game was, he had no choice but to play.

It was early yet. Plenty of time for a bath and breakfast.

When he left his room, a guard waited for him again. Not fake at all. While he was glad to have dodged the nobles after his first thirty days, the letter burning in his pocket was little consolation. He felt like he’d been saved from a pond of piranhas only to be dumped into the ocean on top of a shark.

The guard was another of hers, a rose emblem gracing the metal on his shoulder. Flashing him a smirk, Castien strolled toward the bathing chambers. Heavy footsteps trailed behind him. The sound was actually quite comforting. If not for the ocean he was about to drown in, this change would be welcome.

Breakfast was cut short when the guard cleared his throat. "The Queen is not to be kept waiting."

Castien raised a brow. "Noon is not for a few hours. I thought—"

"Processing a new Escort takes time. …Milord. "

It was clear what the guard thought of him. Castien slowly picked at his bread roll, chewing as the guard watched impassively. Finally, the courtesan shrugged. "Lead on."

The guard promptly exited the courtesans’ hall. They walked in the opposite direction of the palace where her chambers had been. Curious.

A pair of guards in full armor stood at the entrance to this hall, on either side of two closed, large wooden doors. One of the guards stepped forward to block his progress.

"State your business."

Castien glanced at his guide, who only bowed and left.

"I was summoned." To the Escorts. He didn’t believe it enough to say it. Instead, he extended the letter. The guard examined it closely, flipped it to scan the petal, then gave Castien a similar level of scrutiny.

The courtesan raised a brow and a corner of his lips. "Would you like to see the other side of me as well?"

The guard didn't seem to appreciate him as the moment passed in silence. Castien’s letter was returned and he was motioned to continue. Castien had the sense that the guard was watching his backside as he passed, though unlikely for enjoyment. A pity.

"Hello." A youth appeared to be waiting for him. Perhaps twelve years old, she tilted her head up with an expression reminiscent of the Queen’s proud nobility. Like the Queen, her wrists were bare, though her clothes were of leather and fabric more fit for a squire than a lady. But she had claws, even if they were painted a bright pink.

Castien hid his confused smile as he scanned the empty hall. Austere stone walls and simple grey floors weren’t what he was expecting of the highly regarded Queen's Wing. "Hello, lady. Well met."

She extended her hand. "The letter, please."

Bemused, Castien handed over his letter, glancing again at her wrists. "Are you… a princess?" Only royalty would dare walk the palace without bracers.

An entirely unfeminine snort escaped her. Her eyes widened as she rearranged her face and snatched the letter. "Of course not. None of the royal family lives in the palace; Anais would never— That is, the Queen— Um. Hmph." Frowning at him as though he’d done something wrong, she focused intensely on the letter.

Anais. This girl addressed the Queen by name?

Come to think of it, he’d seen no children in the palace. Jesamin had been the youngest person, with a few other servants and courtesans around her age. Not a single child roamed the halls, noble or otherwise.

"Follow me. Please." She added the last word as an afterthought, already slipping away. He trailed after her, wondering what she might have done if she hadn’t liked the letter.

These halls continued to prove less richly furnished than any noble’s home he’d ever seen. Practical iron braziers, currently unlit, were what passed for decoration on the walls. They passed a courtyard that was the highlight of the areas so far, neatly trimmed with a few tasteful arrangements.

Everything was clean and well-kept, but nothing like the castles of dukes he'd served, or the wealthy merchants' extravagant homes. No paintings, no banners, no adornments whatsoever. No chained bodies or trails of blood, either. The girl walked with confident ease.

Castien surreptitiously tugged the sides of his open shirt a little closer together.

Finally, they arrived in a room full of shelves and a few tables. Almost a library, but with more boxes than books. The scowling man who accepted his letter might fit in a library though.

"Back to training, lady," the clerk grumbled.

The girl stuck out her tongue at the clerk but waved brightly at Castien on her way out. He lifted his fingers too slowly with a faint sense of disorientation.

"Name," the man clipped out in a reedy, bored voice.

Completely off-guard and questioning if he’d walked into a different nation altogether, Castien provided his full name and House association. After the man rummaged through some files and pulled out a folder, he continued. "Age."

Ah, now this bureaucracy he was more accustomed to.

"The Night Courts sent my information, and I've already been vetted—"

"Not in the Queen's Wing, you haven't. Age." The man snapped but still didn't look up.

The attitude was familiar. "Twenty-four."

"Height."

Castien rattled off his weight, years of service, years of training, date of entry to the palace, his favorite food, and the number of shits he took on average. The clerk scribbled something down at that last piece of information, then continued.

"Occupation."

"What— courtesan."

"Skills."

Castien was beginning to think this bored clerk was just toying with him. He placed his hands on the table and leaned forward with half-lidded eyes, waiting for the man to finally look up. Castien's mouth parted, tongue wetting his lips as he let his gaze drift to the clerk's mouth.

In a low, sultry voice, he purred, " I'm fairly good at chess."

The clerk blinked several times and shifted in his seat. He swallowed and frowned at his papers, shuffling them until he found Castien's letter again. His face turned a few odd colors, then he stumbled to his feet.

"Please wait here," he squeaked.

With a small pout, Castien straightened and hoped the next clerk wouldn't ask all the same questions again. He might start stripping if they did.

As he contemplated stealing a chair, an older woman wearing a single cuff and an elegant robe appeared, inclining her head in greeting. "Escort Castien. Welcome to the Queen’s retinue. I am Minister Priya."

She extended a hand. The woman had a firm, callused grip. She continued, "I apologize for my assistant; the work is dull and newcomers are rare."

Castien presented a crooked smile. "I was about to give him a show. Think he would have enjoyed it?"

Priya didn’t acknowledge his quip. No one in this dour place appreciated him.

The minister picked out a particular document. "As an Escort, you now belong solely to the Queen—"

"Actually, I belong to the Night Courts—"

"No longer. The Queen purchased your bond in full last night," she said, offering him the paper.

He stared at it. Purchased…? Indeed, the document declared his status as a free man. No few clients had offered to purchase his bond in exchange for his exclusive service in their household. He’d declined. He’d wanted freedom.

This time he hadn’t been given the option to decline. The strands of yesterday’s conversation came together. Master Iberius had arranged for his protection in return for five years service to the crown. The High House wanted him back in one piece, and he would go back—after the palace, the Night Courts would be a comforting home.

Or perhaps the Queen would keep him. Five years was a long time. Was an Escort allowed to resign from their position? He wasn't sure now what the Queen had said—if he would be returned to his House, or kept as her pet. He didn't think those five years could be worse.

To the minister, Castien asked softly, "Why a purchase? The Queen made me aware of an extended contract with the Night Courts. I am hers either way if she desires, correct?"

The woman smiled thinly. "Your contract maintained that you were the property of the Night Courts. The Escorts belong to no one but the Queen." Minister Priya barely shrugged, as if it wasn’t important.

It was important to him. Even if the Night Courts' protection had been more theoretical than practical, it had always been a part of him. Home. Familiarity. Family. He had not been allowed to leave the palace in the last moon. Would he be trapped here for five years ?

Priya handed him a wooden box.

He flipped the lid open with more force than necessary. Resting on a velvet cushion was a pair of three-inch wide metal-studded leather bracers, gold thread woven into both ends. Black silk laces hung loosely through metal grommets on the bracers' undersides. A pretty pair of shackles.

Priya said, "Wear these at all times. They indicate that you are an Escort, and belong only to the Queen. The guards are ordered to cut off the hand of any who dare leash an Escort."

Yes, the Escorts didn’t suffer daily humiliation—not publicly, anyway. In all fairness, none of them looked… broken. Cold, harsh, and hard, they had all seemed dangerous or aloof.

"Do I have a choice?" he asked sarcastically.

She raised a brow. "This is the Queen’s command. You are an Escort."

"I was a courtesan of the High House of Shadows. I had a choice in who I served." The bitter tone of his words curled his lips into a soft snarl.

She paused. "Would you truly prefer to serve the nobles, rather than the Queen alone?"

"I prefer to choose."

"And what sort of choices do you think you had?"

"I was not forced to serve—"

"But you do serve. You fuck who you’re told to fuck. What would happen if you refused entirely? Would they let you reject every client?" she asked.

"That’s not how it works. My bond—"

"Are chains harsher than these. What you had was an illusion of choice. Wear the bracers, and you’ll have more freedom than you’ve ever had."

He stared at her. This woman could never understand. She was a commoner, likely had served the palace for most of her life. The rank of Escort was probably a dream to her. Castien already had his dream—or would have had, in five moons.

Her gaze pitied him. "Ask yourself if you truly want to serve. Do you have plans for the end of your bond? Or will you bow before the Houses until they have no more use for you?"

Maybe she was right. The Masters and Mistresses only cared about wealth and prestige. They didn't adopt orphans out of the goodness of their hearts. But the Night Courts was the only home he’d ever known.

He sneered. "Because bowing before the Queen is clearly so much better."

A flicker across her eyes, then she shrugged. "You are not required to wear the bracers. Without them, the nobles may do as they wish, though they are unlikely to; if you protest and say they took your bracers, they will still be punished. Some of the Escorts enjoy the game."

He glared at her and then the cuffs. Neither responded. The value of choice was clearly not of interest to these people. He reached into the box.

She drew it back and closed the lid. "There will be a ceremony tomorrow to present you as a new Escort. Until then, you remain in these halls and prepare. The tailors need your measurements, you need a new room…" She waved a hand.

"And what role am I to play?" What were the rules to this new game? He always knew the rules. Without knowing what was expected of him, he’d look a fool—perhaps make the Queen look a fool. That was unlikely to be tolerable.

Priya nodded at the box. "You will have the opportunity to ask Her Majesty in person. Tomorrow."

The man from a few minutes ago hurried to the minister’s side. "The tailors are ready. The servants—"

"Can wait," Priya interrupted. "Come, Castien. Let’s begin."

The hint of eagerness in her voice should have been his warning.

While he was whisked off to the harried tailors for measurements, she remained with him, lecturing him about etiquette from the simplest behaviors as how low to bow, when, and to whom. As though he needed to be told how to behave. Well, he’d wanted to understand the court. This wasn’t quite what he had in mind, but he listened as he stretched out his arms and lifted his chin. Rules were weapons, if one knew how to use them.

—

The next day, as he was rushed out of the Queen's Wing in surprisingly well-fitting and beautiful silks, he realized Minister Priya in all her ramblings hadn’t mentioned what he should do during the ceremony itself.

And it seemed unlikely this harried lady would either.

Bowing stiffly, a woman in red and gold robes frowned as she met him outside the Queen's Wing. A dozen servants trailed her. "Escort— Courtesan— Castien. Sir, forgive me, I’ve not slept. A new Escort ceremony with hardly one day’s notice! The Queen has her reasons, I’m sure." Snapping her whip at a servant, she ushered the poor man out of the way and beckoned for Castien to follow at the same time.

After a minute, as she continued shouting at servants and guards alike, it seemed she’d entirely forgotten him. When she took a breath, he interjected, "I have a question, if you don’t mind, my lady…?"

She blinked at him. "Oh! I’m Lady Chrysalm, Mistress of Ceremonies. Please, we must hurry. You have the bracers? Yes, good." In the same breath, she yelled down the hall, "You! Boy with the empty hands! Check with the kitchens, they always forget the chocolate!"

Castien spoke again as soon as she finished her sentence. "Lady Chrysalm, is there anything I need to know for the ceremony? Anything I need to do?"

Her whip already shooting out to leash another servant, she paused. "What? Oh, no, just walk up to the throne and kneel, offering the box. They’ll take care of the rest." Her attention immediately turned to another servant.

That was more than he knew before. Castien thanked the flustered woman and followed quietly as she directed her servants and aides. Upon passing the gardens, two servants rushed through the hedges, murmuring about snakes. There was a menagerie deeper in these gardens, Castien knew. He wondered what snakes had to do with the ceremony.

Castien woke this morning resolved to patience and endurance. He pretended not to notice when Lady Chrysalm whipped a clumsy servant. He set his shoulders and painted a smile on his lips as the doors of the Great Hall neared.

A night’s rest had evened his temper. The Escorts’ hall was quiet and calm, a welcome change to the nightly activities in the courtesan’s hall. His services had not been required, and he hardly questioned it after the minister was finished with him.

He absently smoothed the pure black silk of his shirt. Becoming an Escort could be an opportunity. A pang of guilt crossed his mind. He might as well have abandoned his friends, his last message so brief it was very likely rude. But he couldn’t risk being caught. He wouldn’t expose Damon’s spies or their connection.

When it was time, the herald announced him. No mention of ‘bastard’ now. The doors opened. Castien stepped into the hall.

A plush, deep red carpet ran the length of the room straight to the throne. To each side stood clusters of nobles in their varied attire. He focused on the throne, on the raised dais upon which the elaborate seat sat, on the wide table set with gold dishware. On the woman in that carved rose throne, matching his intense gaze.

All it took was one glance at those cold emerald eyes to burn his calm veneer into ashes. He would not be a toy like those men and women arrayed behind her, immaculately decorative and perfectly obedient—statues, each and every one. Even Madeline stared unseeing as though a puppet, no sign of the soft handmaiden from before. The steward’s dark gaze judged him, and Castien widened his smile, baring his teeth.

Ornate box in hand, Castien glided alone on the plush carpet, his footfalls hardly making a sound in the quiet room. Coiled anger rode his muscles as he displayed himself for the court once again. This time they did not pretend to ignore him. This time, the seat beside the Queen was empty. His spine stiffened.

Up the steps, onto the dais. Lord Darius smoothly stepped in front of him. The baron’s rich tenor rolled over the room. "Who approaches the Queen of Drantar, Her Majesty Anais Renebris, First of Her Name, Mistress of the Realm, The Talons of Justice, Lady of Steel, Heir of Blood and Vengeance?"

Clearly a ritual. Castien almost smirked as the titles went on. With an irritated thought at his poor preparation, he improvised. His bow was precise and elegant with a flourish bordering on mockery, and he spoke in a stage voice, "Castien FitzUmbra of the Night Courts’ High House of Shadows, Prince of the Night." His own lofty title slipped. He couldn’t resist.

The nobles murmured, and the lord’s eyes widened in amusement. Darius inclined his chin slightly, briefly. "Welcome, Castien FitzUmbra. The Night Courts send their son to serve. The Queen accepts. Kneel."

Castien would never serve.

He kneeled, lifting the box with both hands. Darius took the offering and moved behind Castien. Servants rushed the dais.

While cages and platforms were quickly set up, Darius murmured, "I read your Night Court dossier."

This man knew everything about him then.

Darius paused as the servants cautiously handled a larger cage, a soft hissing and rattling making them flinch. He continued in a low voice, "It said you're a good dancer. That wasn't a lie, I assume? "

Castien matched his low tone. "The dossiers are completely accurate."

"This court is just another dance. You don't have to like it, but you do need to dance."

Castien was an excellent performer, but this was not a dance he knew. Even his long-ingrained training and experience on how to read and manipulate people hardly applied when the rules were entirely different.

"Why are you telling me this?"

A tall wooden platform with thick branches thumped down between them and the Queen. The cage was set on the ground beside it, one servant hurriedly unhooking the door before scurrying away.

"I don't like the dance either," came the quiet answer.

Movement from the cage stole Castien’s attention. A rust-colored snake slid out, pausing to lick the air. Dark red-brown splotches ran along its body—a copperhead. The creature weaved up the makeshift tree, winding, coiling in the branches.

The Queen rose.

Shimmering red satin folded into black velvet, her dress settling like a waterfall of blood on a starless night. Turning and stepping in a single motion, she strode casually to the tree. Her steady hand drifted to the snake’s head, palm up and open. A flick of its tongue tasted her, and the serpent slid forward to settle its head on her offered hand.

The sharp intensity in her eyes caught him, held him, demanded he meet the challenge that was always there. Castien wrenched his gaze to a lower, respectful place.

This wasn’t the time to challenge the Queen.

"Come, Princeling," she cooed, beckoning with a curved claw. Soft chuckles drifted from the crowd.

"Just dance," a hurried whisper as Castien straightened, gliding forward. Dance. But what were the steps and what would happen when he stumbled?

Don’t stumble .

Always, he was certain of his value. The few steps between them narrowed. Certainty was a brittle, foolish indulgence, now. He bowed, every motion exact, measured, perfect. The watching nobles sighed. An audience for the dance. Hmm. He wouldn’t stumble, and if he did—intention and accident only differed by confidence.

Castien lifted his head, straightened his shoulders, a smile on his lips.

"Castien." She enunciated every syllable in that cold, arrogant tone of hers. Yet he was drawn to the way her mouth shaped his name, how her lips parted at the end. In this bright light, her mouth was beautiful, terrible bait.

"Prince of the Night. Such a pretentious title the Houses gave you. I think I’ll call you ‘pet’." Her court crowed again.

Humble the servant. Slight humiliation didn’t bother him. His chin dipped. “As it pleases you, my Queen.”

Chuckling, she gestured, a slight flick of her free hand. A servant skittered to Castien’s side with a small cage, practically shoving it into his hands. The creature within squeaked plaintively. Castien lifted the cage.

Smiling that chilling, cruel smile, the Queen unhooked the door and ever-so-gently coaxed out a frightened mouse. She held it firmly, petting in soothing strokes until it stopped quivering. "Such simple little creatures. So easily tamed," she murmured, flicking an amused glance at Castien, who set the empty cage aside. He watched the mouse sniff cautiously at her fingers, pitying that it was too stupid to recognize a predator.

The snake didn’t move, didn’t even blink—until her arms glided together, one hand above the other, and the mouse dropped. The poor little thing was blissfully unaware of its death when widened jaws snapped silently around it in a blur of motion.

Stroking the scaled head, she remarked idly, "So easily gobbled up."

Castien lifted his eyes to find the Queen watching him, tongue wetting her lips while her courtiers sneered and laughed quietly. He lowered his gaze before it turned into a glare. This was the game then. He was her prey, her toy, her entertainment to be humiliated and consumed by her court.

They would not find him easy prey.

The snake withdrew to digest its meal.

The Queen lifted a delicate golden chain from around her neck. A small whistle hung from the end. She put it to her lips, and a shrill, high-pitched call rang out. Her eyes turned to the large entry doors. He had a second to admire her pursed lips before, in the corner of his eyes, a small object dove toward them. Wings flared wide as it approached, gliding until claws gripped the Queen’s outflung arm, the long sleeves of her dress falling back to reveal a leather hunting bracer. Eyeing Castien, the hawk nuzzled the Queen's other hand. She stroked it gently with a claw, as though preening its feathers.

"Beautiful, isn't she?" she breathed, her voice too soft for the court to hear, her face turned as though whispering to the bird.

"Indeed, my Queen," he responded just as quietly. The bird was beautiful. It appeared in perfect health, strong, clean, and bright-eyed. Her wings spread and she shook all over, fluffing her feathers while keeping one suspicious eye on him. He returned the feeling. If he was a mouse to the court’s snake, what was he to this bird of prey?

A servant hurried over with a small bowl, bowing as he presented it to the Queen. She speared a chunk of meat and offered it to the patient hawk.

Still soft, she said, "A snake never sees a hawk coming. The silent dive, claws striking the head while she tears at the flesh. Have you seen a hawk hunt?"

Her tone confused him as much as the words. There was a hint of amused familiarity, as though she was truly curious. The conversational tone was somehow more disquieting than her cold commands. It calmed the tension in him while also making his back itch, wondering when she would strike.

Minding the nobles, he said, "I have, my Queen. A red-tailed hawk nested near my House—my former House. I watched it catch a few creatures over the years."

A puff of laughter left her lips. "So polite. So perfectly correct. That’s good, that’s good."

If she were anyone else, he’d think she sounded tired. Older. He refused to be lured into a trap.

A pause, then a small sigh and her voice returned to normal. Her sharp emerald eyes pierced him. "Would you like to touch her, pet?"

The question was a command. He slowly raised a hand, fingers extending to the hawk's head. May as well give her ample opportunity to protest his approach. The bird went still, only blinking at him as he settled a finger on the top of her head and brushed the soft feathers.

The Queen clicked her tongue. A beak closed around his finger a moment later, but only holding him in a firm grip. The court inhaled as one. He froze. The Queen smiled, the slightest curve of her lips, the darkened cold of her eyes watching the bird, not him.

"Don't move. Look at me." Her lips barely moved, her tone urgent but not a command. Her face was still the cruelly amused, cold Queen, but her voice was quiet, low, and unless his racing heart was playing games with his ears—gentle.

"She'll cut you. Just a little. Don't move or she'll take the whole finger. Ready?"

Another cut. How many times would he bleed for her?

Her smile faded and she clicked her tongue again. The sharp beak closed, slicing the pad of his finger. The bird clacked at him twice.

He pulled his hand back but the Queen caught it, bringing the wound to her mouth. She sucked the blood clean, watching him with cold, cold eyes. Castien offered cool politeness in return, waiting for the moment he could reclaim his hand. The seconds ticked. Silence surrounded them. Even the nobles’ distant chatter was hushed.

She released him.

"Your blood is mine." Her voice rang out.

Red swelled at the tip of his finger, dripped to the floor.

"Kneel, Castien."

He lowered himself once more. Wings fluttered away. Footsteps sounded behind him as Lord Darius held out the box. The Queen lifted one bracer and held it out expectantly, the strings dangling.

The courtesan raised his arms.

"You are mine."

Never . He lowered his head.

"Your life, your loyalty." She fastened the left bracer. Blood trickled down his hand, licking the leather.

"Your body, your soul." The other one enclosed his right wrist. Invisible shackles made tangible.

Did the court understand that these symbols of rank were no more than marks of ownership?

With her own claw, she sliced her palm and grasped his right bracer.

Blood stained the leather—his, and hers.

Darius whispered, "Repeat her words."

In a stage voice, in a steady tone that would’ve made his Master proud, Castien intoned, "I am yours, my Queen. My blood, my life, my loyalty, my body and soul."

She pushed his arms down and touched his shoulders. "Rise." Her claws stroked his arms as he stood. "Rise, Escort Castien."

Did she see the anger in his eyes? Her smile was as cold as always, her gaze set on his lips. She drew him to the throne, sweeping an arm to the side.

"The seat of honor is yours, Escort."

Honor, indeed. He snorted softly as he draped himself on the chair. The Queen cast him a sharp glance, but he could’ve sworn there was laughter in her eyes. There and gone. She seated herself as Octavius wrapped her hand. Her other hand settled on his, her claws stroking lightly.

Facing the hall, she announced, "Welcome my new Escort."

"Welcome, Escort Castien," the court echoed.

She nodded to the side. Music filled the air, servants rushed to set up tables piled with dishes, and the air of formality dissipated.

He hadn’t stumbled. There was a chance yet. Every scrape of her claws scratched at his soul. In his House—

But he was not in his House.

A feast proceeded. No rituals accompanied the dining experience, for which he was thankful. Food was meant to be enjoyed. Even better, he could reclaim his hand while slicing meats.

Beside them, the other Escorts also sat, though only a few of them seemed to touch their food. At his left, Lord Darius flirted with a lady, sipping his wine as she laughed. At the Queen’s right, the steward watched the room, making precise cuts without glancing once at his plate.

Distracted and wondering if the man would cut himself, Castien cursed as he picked up spiny fruit with his injured hand. Blood dripped onto the table.

"Careless for a courtesan," the Queen murmured. "Or do you like pain, my silent shadow?"

Castien wiped his finger on a napkin. "I assume you read my dossier, my Queen." He frowned. The cut was still oozing. Must’ve been deeper than he thought.

Her claws dug into his arm. "Perhaps it was overstated. Go lick your wounds in the healers’ hall, then wait for me in your room."

Wait for her. His lips pressed together as her claws lifted, leaving beyond a few red indents. He stood, bowed, and stepped down from the dais, walking into the murmuring crowd. They reluctantly made way for him. Occasionally, he noticed coins changing hands.

"I was betting on at least a knuckle. How dull," a nearby lady commented, throwing him a glare.

He ignored them, as he ignored his finger throbbing and dripping in time with his pulse.

—

The healer's hall was a different place without Master Octavius—and with his bracers. They almost tripped over themselves to clean and bandage his cut, taking the chance to examine his other hand as well. Lowered gazes and small bows from servants and guards alike were disconcerting after a moon of their disdain. But it was closer to the familiar respect in his House. Respect that he now felt like his arrogance had taken advantage of.

The Escort’s rooms were across a hall leading to the Queen’s chambers. Castien stared at her wooden double doors. A hint of roses and lavender drifted on the wind. He moved on, refusing to let his imagination run wild.

The Queen didn’t request him again that day.

As the night deepened, he sat on the edge of his bed and stared at his hands. All his interactions with the Queen were strange, and it was nagging at him. On the surface, she was exactly the Queen he’d expected her to be. But why would an uncaring, sadistic bitch warn him about the bite? It was a clean cut; it would heal without a mark. That entire ceremony had felt like an act, but with different messages for him than for her nobles. Why did her Escorts, her closest guards and companions, now seem more human than anyone he'd met at court? The kindness, the humanity of the people in the Queen's Wing was a stark contrast to the insanity beyond those well-guarded doors.

Everything seemed to say that the Queen was not what she appeared. Perhaps she was only making it that much more painful when she turned on him.