Page 7

7

T he massive wooden doors groaned shut behind them, sealing the chamber with a resounding thud. The force of the impact sent a faint tremor through the floor, the sound lingering in the vaulted ceiling like the final toll of a funeral bell.

Vivienne’s stomach twisted as she turned toward Lewis. Her blue eyes flickered with silent questions, uncertainty pooling beneath their surface.

Lewis adjusted his spectacles, his brow furrowing as he met her gaze. A small shrug lifted his shoulders, an unspoken ‘I don’t know either.’

The King barely acknowledged them. Slouched in his throne, he idly scraped the dirt from beneath his nails, examining his fingertips as though the conversation had already begun to bore him.

"Miss Banner," he drawled, still not looking up, "I imagine you learned about The Great Conflict and The Siege of Vantner during your studies at the Royal Academy."

Vivienne straightened her spine, resisting the urge to wipe her clammy palms on her skirts again. "Yes, Your Majesty," she answered, careful to keep her voice composed.

Memories of history lessons rose unbidden, neatly arranged like the pages of a well-worn book. The Great Conflict had ignited over a century ago, a battle between Fendwyr, the largest seaport on the northern continent, and Osimiri, the collection of island kingdoms that commanded the major maritime trade routes.

Fendwyr wanted greater access to Osimiri’s wealth, its medicinal plants, its glittering gems, its rare and coveted resources. Rumors alluded to items Osimiri neglected to share: miraculous cures for every disease, water that slowed aging, silk so delicate it could bind wounds yet strong enough to be woven into armor.

When King Philomon, ruler of Fendwyr at the time, demanded open trade, Osimiri refused. Not only did they deny the request, they barred Fendwyr from their lands entirely. Trade blockades turned to stolen merchant ships. Refusals hardened into threats. And threats, as they always do, became war. The conflict ravaged both kingdoms for six years. Cities burned, fleets sank, and bodies littered the shores. By the time the dust settled, both nations were fractured shadows of their former glory. King Philomon perished on the battlefield. His daughter, Metis, barely fourteen years old, took the throne in his place. Against all odds, she brokered a fragile peace, securing it with a treaty bound not only by ink, but by blood with her betrothal to Aliferous, an Osimirian prince.

The King flicked a speck of dirt from his thumbnail. "My mother, Queen Metis, and my sister, Sophronia, gods rest their souls, ruled this kingdom in peace for over seventy-five years. That peace was shattered when Osimiri violated the treaty and attacked us without provocation."

The energy in the room shifted. Vivienne didn’t need to turn around to feel it. Lewis had gone rigid, the air around him charged, brittle as glass about to break. He hated discussing the siege. She knew why. It had stolen everything from him—his father, his mother, the future he would never know. He had been far too young to understand his loss, yet old enough to be made to carry its weight.

The King’s fingers finally stilled. His voice, when it came, was a low, simmering growl. "I lost my entire family that night." His grief was a wound left to fester, infected with rage. "I wouldn't be on this throne if they hadn’t murdered my sister in cold blood."

A chill coiled at the base of Vivienne’s neck.

Whispers had trailed Berius for years. Rumors he orchestrated a coup. Suspicions he had used the chaos of war to gather loyalists, to poison the minds of his people against Queen Sophronia. He painted her as weak, too soft, too indecisive to rule in times of war. When the dust of the siege settled, Sophronia was dead and Berius wore the crown.

Convenient. Too convenient.

The King’s sharp eyes cut to her. "We’ve excluded things from your little... library books."

The mockery in his voice tightened her jaw.

"When the monsters who invaded our shores decided mere carnage wasn’t enough, their leader, Velorien, claimed he had cursed my house and my kingdom to end our bloodlines."

The words snapped her focus. Vivienne’s mind stumbled, the name slamming into her thoughts like a battering ram. Velorien? As in the god of justice and balance? Or… someone else bearing his name?

"At first, I dismissed it as a cheap warning shot," the King continued, his tone dripping with disdain, "the vicious bite of a cornered animal, nothing more."

His gray-blue eyes bore into Vivienne’s. "Tell me," he murmured, "have you noticed that despite three decades of trying and multiple marriages, I have no heir to the throne?"

The thought of him ‘trying’ was enough to curdle her stomach. "I suppose so, Your Majesty."

"Over the years, it became clear this was no idle threat. Fendwyr has been cursed. Our children are few, and I am without a successor. Meanwhile, our enemies wait, watching as our numbers wither to nothing, waiting for the day they can claim Fendwyr for themselves and enslave whatever is left of our people."

Vivienne’s mind reeled. A curse? An honest-to-gods curse? And not just from some rogue sorcerer, but Velorien himself, the ruler of the pantheon? She had always dismissed such claims as the ramblings of frightened peasants or overzealous preachers. Now, she found herself standing in the presence of a king unraveling before her eyes. She’d heard of magistrates losing their minds, but she never thought she’d witness it happening in real time.

The King leaned forward, fingers drumming against the arm of his throne. "How much do you know of curses from your studies?"

Vivienne huffed. Curses don’t exist—so, nothing. Instead of voicing the biting remark, she chose her words with care. "Very little, Your Majesty."

The King barely acknowledged her response before barking, "Montaghue, explain."

"Yes, at once, Your Majesty," Montaghue bowed, his wiry frame dipping low.

"The laws of magic dictate that when a curse is cast, the caster must also provide a means for it to be undone, a counterbalance, if you will. To break the bloodline curse, Velorien demanded that tributes from every isle under their dominion be gathered and presented at their palace altar. It is meant to demonstrate our willingness to understand their way of life and our respect for their lands."

Montaghue’s words hung in the air, heavy with implication.

The King’s jaw tensed. "The trouble is," he spat, "the bastard gave no details as to what those tributes are or where to find them."

Vivienne’s brow furrowed, lips parting as she struggled to grasp the enormity of what she was hearing. "Your Majesty," she began, her words tentative, "to ensure I understand this correctly…"

She inhaled, piecing the madness together aloud. "Velorien, the god of justice and balance, and the leader of a nation we barely comprehend, has placed a bloodline curse on Fendwyr, which is the reason for the low birth rate and lack of an heir. In order to break it, we must retrieve undefined tributes from unknown islands and transport them to the altar of another unknown island."

Chancellor Montaghue nodded, entirely unaffected by the sheer absurdity of it all. "Yes, yes, an accurate summary."

Vivienne let out a sharp, incredulous laugh, shaking her head as she crossed her arms. "This is both absurd and impossible." Her voice wavered between disbelief and defiance. She squared her shoulders. "With all due respect, Your Majesty, this cannot be real."

Montaghue recoiled as if she had slapped him. His bony hand shot up, a single gnarled finger jabbing in accusation. "You dare question the honor of His Majesty?" he shrieked.

Vivienne’s stomach clenched. A lump lodged itself in her throat. "No, I didn’t mean to?—"

The King silenced the Chancellor with a lazy flick of his wrist. "Stand down, Montaghue."

The Chancellor snapped his mouth shut, but his glare burned holes through her.

The King turned his full attention to Vivienne. His sneer was slow, deliberate, like a predator savoring a wounded animal. "I’m disappointed," he murmured, his voice thick with mock pity. "Despite being raised by accomplished scholars, the poor girl still hasn’t put the pieces together."

Vivienne’s fingers twitched against the hem of her bodice. What does he mean? Her thoughts raced, a tangled, panicked mess. The weight of their stares pressed down on her, suffocating. She shifted, shrinking inward, as if making herself smaller might somehow dull the unbearable scrutiny. Put the pieces together… The words echoed in her mind, each repetition magnifying her discomfort.

A warm hand pressed against the small of her back, the touch gentle yet firm. Lewis had moved beside her. She glanced up, finding reassurance in his steady presence. Though his posture remained composed, his golden-brown eyes flickered with unease. Still, he held the King’s gaze without faltering.

"Your Majesty," Lewis offered a fluid bow. "I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced. My name is Lewis Blume, and I serve as an Assistant Royal Botanist in your court."

The King shifted in his throne, struggling against the weight of his opulent robes. "I thought you looked familiar," he muttered, studying Lewis with mild disinterest. His lips curled. "You’re the plant boy."

"I prefer plant man," Lewis muttered under his breath, only loud enough for Vivienne to hear.

Her lips twitched despite the tension strangling the air.

"If you’ll allow me, Your Majesty," Lewis said, inclining his head, "I do love a good puzzle."

The King gave a predatory grin as he glanced between them, savoring Vivienne’s lingering discomfort. After a deliberate pause, he gave a single, measured nod, a wordless invitation to continue.

Lewis released Vivienne’s back, letting his hands settle at his sides.

"Although Velorien, the god and ruler of the kingdoms of Osimiri, provided a way to break the bloodline curse, he withheld the necessary details for you to do so. You've been sending explorers and researchers to the islands, gathering whatever fragments of knowledge you can, searching for the artifacts, and hoping to break the curse."

Vivienne’s breath snagged in her throat. My parents have taken dozens of voyages. Were all of them in pursuit of breaking this so-called curse? A cold sensation curled in her chest, replacing the humiliation she had felt moments earlier. How much of my life has been shrouded in secrecy and misdirection?

The King inhaled sharply, a hissing sound slipping through his teeth. "Well, well, well." He leaned back into the plush blue velvet of his throne, his expression triumphant. "You solved it, plant boy." His gaze flicked to Vivienne, smugness dripping from every syllable. "Miss Banner will be lucky to have you on board."

Vivienne and Lewis exchanged confounded glances.

"On board, sir?" Lewis repeated, his voice catching.

The King’s smirk deepened. "Miss Banner agreed to continue her parents’ work," he said as though the conversation had already concluded. "And so she shall." He placed a hand to his chest, feigning offense. "I was even generous enough to provide her with a ship."

Vivienne’s stomach dropped. Her voice wavered, but she forced herself to speak. "Your Majesty, I—" she swallowed and tried again. "My agreement was made before I understood the true nature of their work. You can’t possibly expect us to?—"

"YOU AGREED!" The roar cracked through the throne room, shaking the stone walls. The King lunged forward, his fingers digging into the carved owls on the throne’s arms. A thick vein pulsed violently against his temple, throbbing in time with every furious heartbeat.

Vivienne blenched. Lewis stiffened beside her. The Chancellor shrunk backward. She hadn’t realized she had clutched Lewis’ arm until his hand covered hers. A reassuring squeeze sending the silent message of ‘I’m here.’

King Berius exhaled heavily, regaining his composure—what little he had left. "You will honor your agreement and serve your King,” he said, his tone eerily calm.

Vivienne forced herself to stand tall. "And if we refuse?" she asked, pushing the limits of her dwindling luck.

The King’s expression turned to stone. "Then I will find you immediately guilty of treason," he declared as if their deaths were a mundane administrative matter. "And your only remaining choice will be between hanging or firing squad."

Vivienne’s blood ran ice cold. The way he said it, the absolute certainty in his voice, left no room for doubt. Her stomach contorted violently.

A throat cleared behind them.

Vivienne had forgotten Captain Enyo was still in the room.

The shadowy advisor peeled himself from where he had been lounging against the stone wall. His gravelly voice scraped the air, rough as weathered rope.

"Your Majesty, I live to serve at the pleasure of the Crown," he said, placing a theatrical hand over his heart. He offered a pained smile, his silver tooth flashing in the light. "But it appears the library brat and I have been given the same assignment."

Vivienne bristled at the nickname but bit her tongue. She had far bigger problems to deal with than an unclever moniker.

The King tapped his fingers against the throne’s armrest, idly stroking the carved owl’s head. A slow, predatory grin spread across his face. "A competition, perhaps."

He turned his gaze back to Vivienne and Lewis, eyes gleaming. "The crew that succeeds in retrieving the artifacts and breaking the curse will be rewarded beyond their wildest dreams." His voice lowered, thick with temptation. "Noble titles. Land grants. High-ranking positions in my court. More riches than you could spend in multiple lifetimes."

Chancellor Montaghue leaned in, murmuring something into the King’s ear. The King’s lips twitched.

"Ah, yes. Thank you for the reminder," he said in a smooth voice. "Captain Enyo and his crew, of course, would also receive full pardons for their crimes—and avoid life imprisonment or execution."

Vivienne’s breathing paused. Crimes? She felt the question reverberate between her and Lewis without needing to ask it aloud.

"Miss Banner, if you win," he said, his voice mockingly sweet, "you will keep your home. You and the plant boy will be elevated in your Crown roles. And you…" He let the pause drag, savoring the moment. "… will be named the primary steward of the Library of Metis."

A competition? One I’m forced to participate in or face execution. Vivienne stood frozen, eyes wide and unblinking as the King’s words burrowed into her skull. This competition could kill me or give me everything I’ve ever wanted. I might end up dead if I go and he’ll kill me if I stay.

"You set sail this Sunday," King Berius announced, his tone casual as if discussing the weather. “You’re dismissed.”

Vivienne’s insides flipped. The day after tomorrow? The weight of reality slammed into her.

Lewis’ voice was tight with disbelief. "Your Majesty, we need more than two days to prepare for such a journey?—"

"I SAID DISMISSED!" The King’s roar shattered the air, spit flying from his lips with each syllable.

The world around Vivienne blurred as she was ushered from the throne room. By the time they stepped into the courtyard, she could barely breathe. She placed a hand to her chest, her heart beat thundered at record speed as she felt a vise grip her lungs.

"Get me out of here," she gasped, her voice cracking with panic.

Lewis gripped her hand, squeezing tight. "I’ve got you, Viv."