Page 24 of The First Spark (Dynasty of Fire #1)

Leaning against the gilded railing that shielded her from the waterfall, Kalie turned to the dance floor at the other end of the ballroom, beneath the stained glass windows.

A jauntier tune started up in a rapid flurry of violins and brass.

Noblewomen in gem-studded ensembles, gleaming satin gowns, and swirling silk dresses flocked to the clusters of noblemen.

It was easy to guess where the men were from based on the clothes they wore.

Those wearing decorated Skyforce uniforms had been raised with the Northern Iestean values of service before inheritance.

The ones wearing stuffy tunics with intricate embroidery were the old traditionalists from Shobe and Pharea.

The men in suits were from South Iestea and Usias.

In the sea of men, she only had eyes for Julian, standing alone by the punch table.

“He didn’t mention her.”

“He’s taking it hard,” Haeden admitted. “He won’t say it, but… I mean, none of us could’ve expected it, you know?”

Kalie flinched. Aunt Calida and Lexie—no one could’ve expected that. But Ariah, who’d been created and trained for the sole purpose of taking a blast meant for her…

She couldn’t think about that. She couldn’t.

Instead, she tortured herself by looking at Julian, who’d struck up a conversation with one of the older nobles.

“How is he, really?”

Haeden grimaced. “I’m surprised he was able to smile at you. You hurt him, Kal.”

“I know.”

“Do you? It’s kinda your thing. Things get hard, you run, someone’s left behind.”

Kalie’s face flushed, and she scanned the room for any listening ears. “I do not ?—”

“Oh, really?” Haeden counted off his fingers. “Boarding school. That baron’s son you ghosted. The ambassadorship to your father’s empire. Julian. Your aunt’s plan to make you the Contessa of Arcdon—I’m still dying to hear how you managed to turn that down.”

Kalie folded her arms. “So you’re on his side.”

“There shouldn’t be sides. If you wanted to end it, you should’ve ended it like an adult. Not left him on one knee and ran from Dali without a word.”

She looked away. Bronze statues of Azura’s high court shone under the light of crystal chandeliers. The court—the children of the goddess and her mortal husband, Avtal—stood tall and proud.

“I wasn’t ready. I didn’t want to be married.”

“Then you should’ve explained that you needed more time.”

“No, I mean, I don’t think I ever want that. And I told him that, from the beginning, and he still, in front of the court?—”

Kalie huffed and glanced at Mother, who was talking to a group of older nobles.

As always, she wore Etovian burgundy and a matching Etovian name, Ashé, instead of the Dalian blue she’d once worn as Princessa Caira.

As much as she loathed Mother’s icy insults and petty jabs, she grudgingly had to admit Father had made her that way.

Their marriage had become a battlefield: screaming and broken vases and the harsh, flat sound of a slap…

Kalie breathed out deeply.

“Now that you’re the Duchissa…”

She silenced Haeden with a glare.

She knew what was now expected of her, and it was one more thing on a long list of worries that sickened her.

As he raised his hands, Kalie shifted her gaze back to Mother.

The windows behind her showed Azura’s wedding to Avtal and their granddaughter Calla’s coronation.

With the throng of courtiers around her, Mother’s honeyed smiles, and the crown of rubies glinting atop her pale hair, Mother looked like a queen holding court. A rival court.

“While I was missing, my mother was poisoning the court against me, wasn’t she?”

“Not against you, per se, but…” Haeden scratched the back of his ne ck. “She’d won over half the court for Selene by the end of the first day.”

“Great,” Kalie muttered. “Just great.”

It was fitting that Mother stood between those two windows. The designers had left out the betrayal between the two scenes, when Azura’s son Zagan murdered her mortal form. The goddess had banished him to the depths of hell, where the devil still reigned.

Betrayal had always run in the family blood.

“Look on the bright side. If things go to hell and Selene steals your crown, you could still challenge her to Fallé di Azura.”

Kalie glared at him. “That’s not funny.”

Haeden laughed and flapped a hand. “It’ll never come to that, but from a historical standpoint, it’d be fascinating. There hasn’t been a challenge in seven centuries, you know.”

“For good reason! For Azura’s sake, it’s a duel to the death!” A dark sense of foreboding crawled up Kalie’s spine. “Where would I even find someone to be my champion?”

“I can duel.” Haeden’s lazy grin eased her tense posture.

What he was suggesting was terrifying, but utterly ridiculous. He was just trying to lighten the mood, so she set her worries aside and snorted. “I seem to remember Julian trouncing you on a daily basis.”

“Ah, well, I don’t think you have to worry about him fighting for her. He’ll love you until the day he…” Haeden trailed off as he stared at something over her shoulder. “Or maybe I was wrong.”

She followed his gaze, and her blood raged.

Selene batted her eyelashes at Julian, trailing her hand up and down his muscular arm. As she twirled a lock of her hair between her fingers, light snagged on her gaudy rings. Julian was grinning.

Kalie’s teeth clenched. “I can’t believe he’d stoop that low.”

“Oh, I know what he’s doing. Don’t worry, he’s not flirting with her.”

Julian brushed his thumb over Selene’s hand, and Kalie shot Haeden a disbelieving look.

“I’m watching him do it.”

“Well, he is, but he isn’t.” Whistling a tune, Haeden strolled away .

Kalie slumped against the railing. The rushing waterfalls and splashing fountains soothed the fire raging in her chest.

As one, the orchestra lifted a tune to a high note, let it fall, then raised it to a maddening crescendo.

All across the floor, young couples twirled and older ones swayed.

She could see it as a painting—a flurry of vibrant colors dancing across the backdrop of vibrant glass and foamy falls, a picture of love, and she, the lone observer, desperately trying to hide from it all.

For a while, Kalie drifted. Twenty cycles in this court had left her with the ability to run on autopilot, so despite the never-ending stream of nobles demanding her attention, she was hardly conscious of saying anything at all.

A stammering churchman was the latest courtier.

He referred to her as Your Highness and Heredem ; in accordance with tradition, the Church wouldn’t recognize her as the Duchissa until after her coronation.

As he rambled, she squinted at two men in a dark corner. The pale-haired man in the shadows, Count Perseus Hewlett, was the only man on Dali whose power rivaled Uncle Jerran’s.

“—so the Church humbly asks for an increase in revenues, Your Highness?—”

“Excuse me for a moment,” Kalie said, sidestepping the priest.

It was hard not to pick up on body language after countless cycles of dinners, ceremonies, and receptions—and the way Hewlett carried himself was predatory.

Uncle Jerran had repeatedly warned Aunt Calida that Hewlett was growing too powerful. She’d never listened.

Kalie ducked into a circle of tittering court ladies and wove through the crowd, trying to get lost in the swarm of bodies.

The courtiers waiting for her attention had vanished.

She slid into the shadows behind a pillar, a few steps from Hewlett.

His young companion’ s face was red and taut, and his eyes flashed with the rage of a thousand fires.

“I warned you what will happen if you insist on playing this tedious game.” Hewlett dusted a piece of lint off the shoulder of the young man’s impeccable Dalian Skyforce uniform. The pilot flinched away. “You should go home, Grant.”

Kalie’s brows shot to her hairline. Mylis Grant . She’d only seen this man whose name was so infamous once, when he was a scrawny teenager on the fringes of Uncle Jerran’s annual ball. He’d found the guts to ask her—Ariah, actually, but no one knew that—to dance.

Grant was still scrawny, with the same mop of brown hair. His navy blue uniform wasn’t as decorated as Julian’s, though Grant was a cycle older. The insignia marked him as a lower-ranking officer, which was impressive, considering the stigma of his family name.

“Count Hewlett,” Kalie said, gliding between them. “I hope your family is faring well?”

Grant bowed. His hands shook.

Hewlett’s face betrayed momentary surprise, then he bowed deeply, ever the perfect courtier. “Your Majesty, it gladdens me to see you safe. My wife wished me to extend her warmest regards. Morning sickness kept her behind, otherwise she would’ve joined me to welcome you home.”

Grant scowled. “She’s pregnant again?”

“Indeed, she is.” Hewlett smiled at his disinherited godson, who looked like he wanted to strangle the count who held the title he was once supposed to inherit.

“She wanted me to inform Your Majesty that if it pleases you, we’d be delighted to send our daughter to be raised at your court.

Rhea’s young, but she’ll be the Contessa of Oakwood someday.

We’d be honored to have her learn from your tutelage. ”

“So you can’t even be bothered to raise your own children?”

Kalie shot Grant a warning look.

“I simply wish to safeguard her future. There are many who wish to see us fall, after all. Surely you understand.”

As Grant’s fists clenched, she gave Hewlett a bland smile. She understood him, alright. His wife was her distant cousin, next in line to the throne after Selene. He was angling for their daughter to be raised as her heir.

She despised Selene, but she didn’t want to hand any more power to the Hewletts and their extended family.

“I’ll consider your gracious offer,” she lied. “Did you see Count Leighton? He was looking for you.”