Page 3

Chapter two

A strid stalked toward the Royal Hall’s imposing entryway.

Double-beamed oak doors towered above her.

Metal inlaid snakes with jeweled eyes decorated the panels.

A bitter sense of loss cracked her resolve.

This might be the last time she entered through these doors.

She straightened her back and took a slow breath.

Tonight, they would meet the queen they bartered for, and Astrid would make a lasting impression.

An orange haze glowed beneath the doors. She spared the footmen a withering glance, her face draped in shadows. They remained frozen, staring at the smear of crimson coating her throat and sternum.

“Open it,” Astrid ordered.

One of the males stepped toward her. “Princess, your—”

“Open it!”

The footmen scurried to do as she commanded. Astrid stepped into the Royal Hall as the doors parted.

“Your princess, Astrid Noctis,” the footman announced as her heeled boots strode across the polished floor.

By her second step, the collective chatter abruptly ceased.

On her fourth, every head turned to their king.

Her father’s eyes, however, remained fixed on her. He was dressed in ceremonial robes. The same dark, flowing material he would wear when she married in a few short weeks. She would never inherit the Serpents’ Crown that rested atop his long black hair.

Clorea’s crown was a gold circlet closed by twin snake heads.

An amethyst glittered in one serpent’s eye; a rose quartz embedded in the other.

Between their biting jaws, a quartz crystal reflected the candlelight, affixed by their mirrored fangs.

She coveted the golden crown woven with intricate silver threads, but it would never be hers.

Daughters were passed over entirely.

Clorean succession passed to the oldest male in each generation. The best she could hope for was to produce a male heir to take her father’s throne… and murder her male cousins preceding his succession.

Astrid buried the idea. Her future husband would expect her to spread her legs like a dutiful wife until he cursed her with his winged heir. But to Astrid, his wants and expectations were meaningless. He would be dead long before he could force his expected wifely duties on her.

She lifted her chin higher and prowled down the walkway created by the ornate tables rowed along either side of the vast space.

The tall, narrow windows lining the east wall were open, and their gauzy white curtains swayed gently.

The garden’s sweet fragrance that floated in on the warm evening breeze added an air of sophistication to the room.

A raised dais divided the eastern wall, backlit by twin pointed arch windows. Two tables with formal settings occupied the space. One table remained empty and her parents occupied the other.

Her father folded his napkin in his fist and drew it onto his lap, the only indication of his displeasure. The table to their right was reserved for their guests of honor—who were barred on the opposite side of the Royal Hall until she was seated.

Astrid unhurriedly took her seat between her parents, dismissing her father’s glare and her mother’s pleading gaze.

Let the winged brutes wait.

King Ambrose would do well to realize this arrangement would be conducted on her terms.

Her father inclined his head as he reached for his drink. “Clean your fucking neck,” he whispered through an otherwise beaming smile, lifting his wine glass to address the crowd. “Let our kingdom of Clorea welcome the kingdom of Ledivion.”

A footman placed a small silver tray between Astrid and her mother. Curls of steam rose from the folded napkin.

“Asti, where have you been?” her mother asked, and Astrid bristled at the pet name. Asti was the young female who thought she was as important as her male relatives, more so because she was of her father’s blood. Asti believed a female heir held as much weight as a male.

Astrid knew better.

“We’ve been waiting more than thirty minutes,” her mother continued, dabbing the heated, wet cloth against her throat.

Astrid snatched the reddened rag and threw it behind her. “I made an offering to the Three-Faced Mother asking them to guide my path.”

“Your path is what I name it,” her father snarled, but remained poised for the masses.

She made eye contact with a footman holding a pitcher of wine. Her night-streaked nails clinked against her empty glass, and he immediately started toward her.

“The serpent guides me,” Astrid answered simply as sparkling, honeyed wine filled her champagne flute.

“You will sit beside your new king and bring Ledivion under our control. If Ambrose deigns you to suck his cock…” Her father turned toward her and tapped his glass to hers. “…by the Fates, daughter, you will do so.”

Astrid didn’t bother masking her discontent behind a smile as her father did. “There are more effective ways to steer a kingdom than spreading my legs,” she bit out, before sipping her drink.

“You are not a son. Know your place.”

Astrid’s temper flared as the footman announced, “His Majesty, the King of Ledivion, Ambrose Morana.”

“He’s quite handsome,” her mother said in a low tone as he entered the Royal Hall. “This is a good match, Asti.”

It most certainly was not. Astrid steeled her expression.

Ambrose’s grotesque wings swayed with each of his steps as he proudly strolled to his table with his equally-deformed entourage.

Their complexions were a bronze-kissed brown, despite coming from a harsh and sprawling wintery kingdom. Their lands nearly eclipsed her own.

He moved like a king, confident with his head held high.

The light from the glittering chandeliers overhead reflected against his crown of daggers.

The blades cast shadows over his face, emphasizing his sharp cheekbones and the strong cut of his jaw.

If she could manage to cut off his wings, she might find his appearance pleasing.

He peered at her as a stray lock of dark hair fell across his eyes. His gaze didn’t soften at the sight of her. Kindness and affection were absent from his expression.

Astrid gave nothing, offering Ambrose the same pleasantry he’d extended.

Her future husband narrowed his honey-colored eyes, and a thin line of muscle ticked in his jaw.

She smirked. If this male thought the Anima Carnifex was a simpering female eager to get on her knees, she would rectify his misjudgment.

Immediately.

Astrid studied the rest of his entourage and paused on the females.

Swords, hatchets, and what Astrid could only infer were metal sticks were strapped to their backs and hips.

Did Ambrose allow females on the battlefield?

Astrid inspected him again and her opinion of the male rose a notch in her mind.

A female caught Astrid’s attention. The bones framing her wings were white and the coloring spread in patches through her leathery membrane. They looked like snow scattered across obsidian. The others avoided meeting her gaze as the winged guests took their seats among Astrid’s people.

Ambrose stepped onto the dais, followed by a taller male. His night-gray wings were larger, the tops menacingly curved behind him to halo his sharp features. Ambrose’s eyes were the color of honey in sunlight, but this male, his irises gleamed like polished gold.

The male bared his teeth in a smile. His heated gaze lowered to the crimson smear down her throat and followed it between her breasts.

A flicker of amusement lit his molten eyes before they rose to hers.

He popped a small piece of bread into his mouth before silently turning toward his king’s table as Ambrose stepped in front of her.

Her betrothed stabbed two fingers onto the table and spoke in a rough accent. “You’ve kept us waiting, Princess.”

Astrid leaned back in her chair and craned her neck to meet the towering male’s gaze. “I was praying,” she clipped.

He leaned closer and Astrid grinned up at his futile attempt at intimidation.

“I’ve had males beaten for less. I’m looking forward to teaching you manners,” Ambrose said in a hushed whisper.

Her mother gasped but Astrid knew his kind well.

The male before her was no king. He was a frightened youth who’d grown into a weak adult.

She stood and leaned closer as she glided a nail over the lip of her champagne flute in a slow, controlled stroke.

The onlookers quieted, impatient for the inevitable meeting of their lips.

Her breath fanned the corner of his mouth, and she turned her head, so they were cheek to cheek.

“How frightening will you be if I cut off your arms and legs?” she asked.

King Ambrose stiffened, and Astrid laughed softly as she pulled away. She returned to her seat and offered an innocent smile. Maroon tinged his cheeks, but he swallowed it, recovering quickly.

Oh, does no one talk back to the King? Astrid wondered.

He stood before her for another moment then turned, taking his seat.

Astrid’s mother clutched her wrist in a bruising grip, and discreetly whispered, “Asti, you cannot speak to your husband that way. You must make yourself more agreeable.”

She ripped her hand away as a servant stepped in front of her. He placed a gleaming silver pitcher where her plate setting should have been. Clorean ritual dictated she take the pitcher to her future king and fill his cup, signifying her subservience to him and his kingdom.

Astrid contemplated knocking the pitcher from the table before she noticed a small spear of vegetation covered in tiny red flowers.

It was placed beside the pitcher on its tray.

She would have thought it was decorative if she hadn’t seen Sterling collecting them.

The unusual flower was a snow plant and allowed Sterling’s network of spies to identify each other.

She stared at the red blooms and a hint of her tension subsided. She wouldn’t be alone in Ledivion. Her betrothal had been sudden; Sterling wouldn’t have had time to install spies this quickly. Did he have existing spies in place within her new kingdom?

Astrid fixated on the possibilities and her father’s voice called her attention back to the present. “Pour your king his drink.”

Astrid stood and moved to the other table as expected. Ambrose would never be her king, and neither would her father. She lifted the pitcher, trudging to the male she’d been condemned to.

Cruelty glinted in Ambrose’s honey-colored eyes as he stared at her. He took pleasure in her subservience, and she felt certain he would attempt to injure her during their Grand Chase tomorrow. His plans meant nothing—she would never lower herself to their idiotic customs.

He could chase her father if he wished.

Astrid smiled to herself and glanced at the male seated to Ambrose’s right. His features were elegant but far colder than his sovereign’s. The anger simmering beneath her composed surface reflected in him. Bright golden eyes framed with thick black lashes met hers and she swallowed.

He drummed his fingers and Astrid’s gaze lowered to the white gold jewelry adorning his middle finger. The signet ring didn’t represent her future kingdom. Ledivion’s crest displayed three blades intersected, but this male’s ring was engraved with a single sword flanked by wings.

“Does your ring mark your position?” Astrid asked.

A few regions in the far West wore symbols to indicate their positions and ranks within their courts. He remained silent and propped his elbows on the table.

Astrid’s rage licked the surface. “What is your name?”

He ripped a chunk out of his baked roll filled with dark meat, arrogantly eating while every other plate remained empty. The feast was withheld until Astrid poured Ambrose his drink.

The rude male held her stare and seductively licked a bit of filling off his thumb. “Dimitri. Ja ub’ju vas vseh,” he said, flashing his teeth in what could be construed as a smile.

Astrid narrowed her eyes at his foreign words. “I don’t understand you.”

“He said pour my drink,” Ambrose snapped, flicking his glass toward her. The champagne flute rattled as it slid to her but settled without breaking.

Astrid shifted her weight to one hip, focusing the scope of her attention on the arrogant king before her. With his parents assassinated, Ambrose was the last of his royal bloodline and Astrid would make sure the Morana name died with him.

Becoming a eunuch would certainly adjust his attitude.

She poured his wine as was expected, lifting the pitcher high and allowing the thin stream of dark liquid to cascade into the thin flute. Ambrose smiled, easy in his imagined victory.

Astrid sharpened the angle of her pour, and the stream thickened. Wine overflowed, sloshing over the rim with the rough pour. It reddened the table, racing toward her future king.

Ambrose struck his boney, membranous appendage against the oak edge, shielding himself from the brunt of her deluge. He rose and snapped his wing, flicking the dark liquid in an arch, staining the stone floor.

Astrid lifted her chin and splayed her fingers, letting the pitcher fall. It fractured the glass beneath it, tumbling shards and dark liquid across the dinner settings.

“Your cup is far too shallow for my divine gifts.”

Astrid turned on her heel and made a show of her exit.