Page 1 of The Starlit Ring (The Chronicles of Liridin #1)

T he sun was bright over the crashing sea. Glittering waves burned my eyes and left dark patches in my vision. I leaned over the stone wall, and kept my gaze tilted downward so that I focused on the plants sprouting out the cliffside instead.

Spring was upon us, but snow still dotted the ground. Tiny green sprigs had only just emerged, peering cautiously out into the world as if afraid they might have misjudged the weather.

I drew my cloak tight against the wind, and wished I’d thought to bind my hair. Whipping mercilessly across my face, it worked in tandem with the sun to further obscure my vision.

Beside me, my sister Valeria shivered. “It’s too cold. Let’s go back inside.”

“It’s too noisy,” I protested. But my voice was lost to the wind. Valeria smirked at me, point made.

I’d make the mistake of donning my new slippers, thinking that I wouldn’t step outside at all, and that if I did, the snow would have already melted in the bright morning sun. I was wrong on both counts.

I followed Ria, reluctant to leave the view behind: an expanse of blue, snowcapped mountains whose peaks disappeared into gauzy clouds.

Pale flowers dressed in jewel-green leaves appeared along the cliff walls seemingly overnight.

I hadn’t had time to fully appreciate them.

Not when yesterday was overcast and frozen, and the sea beat itself into a frothy rage against the rocks.

Nor the day before, when snowflakes whirled through the air, big as coins.

Castle Ackervail gleamed in the brilliant sunlight, its drab exterior glistening with melted snow. Moss worked its way into the crevices between stones, jagged and vivid, like a streak of green lightning.

Tall, arched windows revealed a glimpse of the chaos inside. Servants carried tables across marbled floors, while the florists placed bouquets of dainty roses and fragrant lilies, white as the snow crunching beneath my slipper.

The terrace was already decorated. Tables and benches everywhere, barrels of ale and wine ready to tap, potted plants strategically placed. In this wind, they’d be ripped to shreds. The servants must have realized this, because they’d already started hauling the pots back inside.

Tomorrow, banners of grey and gold would decorate the grounds. The royal crest, a stag wearing chainmail, would be displayed in every room. The castle would be even busier than it was today.

Even among the chaos, I’d still have to attend my morning lessons.

My forearm began to itch. I rubbed it absently, struggling to keep pace with Ria as she leapt deftly between the remaining piles of snow. Not that she needed to exercise such caution. Unlike me, she’d been smart enough to wear boots.

Guards stepped from our path. A few cast us irritated glances. “Sorry!” I cried, nearly colliding with one. Galar, I thought his name was, though I wasn’t quite sure. He was new and rarely strayed from the gate. Given that I was almost never permitted to leave the grounds, I’d only met him once.

He grimaced at me, but I heard his frustrated hiss as I turned my back.

The terrace doors were oak, heavy and polished, carved with a banquet scene—tables laden with food, dancers and merrymakers, overflowing goblets.

Tomorrow, the scene inside would be much the same.

Most of our guests would arrive tonight (if they hadn’t already), and the nearby inns were full to bursting.

The spring banquet was one of our most anticipated annual events.

Now, with Princess Valeria’s engagement broken, every noble bachelor in the surrounding lands would come to ogle her.

Though she would not yet accept any proposals, our father most certainly meant to take this opportunity to evaluate potential suitors.

Which meant that our home was crawling with stuffy barons and stiff knights, extravagantly dressed nobles, and foreign dignitaries who looked as though they felt anything but dignified in the drafty stone hallways.

Already, three vases were broken in a fight between viscounts, all brothers.

It ended with bloody noses and shredded doublets, and I was relieved not to have run across them today.

Ria and I squeezed through the door, struggling beneath its weight and the fierce wind. The smell of baking bread and simmering berries greeted us. I inhaled deeply, relieved to be free of the biting wind.

“Thought you weren’t supposed to be alone, princesses!

” called a voice, high and merry. I turned to see Belinda standing behind us.

Strands of hair snaked free from her famously tight bun, and her cheeks were ruddy with exertion.

In one hand she carried a tray, in the other, a nearly empty sack of flour.

Though stained, her apron was meticulously arranged around her wide hips, covering skirts that she would surely claim were her worst. Belinda would never sully her good clothes with labor as intensive as today’s.

Ria rolled her eyes and gestured widely. “We aren’t!”

“Yes, you are,” scoffed Belinda, without malice. “Today, of all days, and you don’t have a chaperone. What happened to Timin?”

We’d ditched her outside our rooms, craving snacks and freedom. Timin was recently hired. Too recently to know about the side door in Valeria’s changing room, and certainly too recently to know where to look for us.

Ria shrugged.

Lowering her voice, as if we weren’t surrounded by servants who could hear every word, Belinda said, “The viscounts. Remember the viscounts. Trust me, princesses, you don’t want to end up alone with men like them.

They think they can force a match.” She paused to stare at each of us.

Satisfied by our grimaces and apologetic winces, she directed us to an empty table along the wall.

A massive portrait of our father, King Amonrew, loomed above, its gilded frame reminiscent of twisting vines.

“Wait here. Don’t wander the halls alone. I’m sure Timin will be along shortly.”

Ria stomped over to the table in a huff. I traipsed along after her, shaking water from my slipper. Someone glared at me, and I winced in apology.

Right. Today was not a good day to make a mess. I made a mental note to try to avoid burdening the servants. I was more clumsy than messy, and most of the servants knew it, but the weight of that glare sagged my shoulders.

It didn’t much matter that Father never allowed us to rely on the servants to clean our rooms. Much of my childhood was spent knelt beside a bucket of sudsy water, scrubbing floors and tubs like a proper maid.

We mucked our horses’ stalls and groomed them ourselves.

Made our beds and dusted our own furniture.

“Discipline matters,” Father always claimed.

“If you rely on the maids, you won’t know how to do anything yourself, especially when it most matters. ”

When it most matters. A worst-case scenario where the castle had been sacked, and the help had fled or perished in battle. Under such circumstances, there were worse things than a messy castle, but I never dared argue.

I dropped onto the bench beside Ria, sipping from a cup of water that Belinda brought over. It wasn’t banquet material, just a servant’s pewter cup, but it was clean, and I appreciated it all the same. Ria drank hers without complaint, looking as if she’d rather be anywhere else.

“I didn’t think there’d be so many people here,” I said. A lie. I’d been warned. For the first time in several years, a princess was eligible for marriage. Of course, the castle was in chaos.

I wasn’t betrothed. Nor was I as desirable as Ria.

From the moment of my birth, whispers haunted the castle, doubting my parentage, my legitimacy. King Amonrew was dark-haired. My mother was fair, with hair the color of spun gold. My own hair was copper-colored and wavy, my eyes hazel. In turn, my siblings had straight, dark hair and blue eyes.

I must be the child of another man, people claimed. The daughter of a redheaded lover from another realm. My mother always disregarded these rumors and argued that my hair would darken as I aged, but it never did.

She died when I was very small, her cough worsening for months until she finally expired. Though Father tried his best to shield me from the murmurs of courtiers, I knew that there were calls for my death, too.

“The bastard princess. A future usurper,” they’d say, and gesture to me, as though I couldn’t hear them.

Others insisted, “If she lives, the throne will cede to our enemies.” As though they knew my parentage.

As though they had any right to make such accusations.

Even now, my hands clenched into fists whenever I thought about it .

“For fuck’s sake!” Father had screamed at them one day. “She just takes after her mother! Leave the girl be! She’s been through enough!”

The gossip was quelled. Father fined and eventually exiled anyone who spread lies about my parentage. Over time, the worst of the accusations died away, although I was never really accepted by the public.

No one was dying to marry me. My prospects were grim; all stuffy old suitors who leered and talked down to me.

Gripped by dread and revulsion, I begged Father to reconsider my matches.

He reluctantly agreed to delay his efforts, but any relief (and subsequent gratitude) was short-lived.

Just last week, I was informed that I must make peace with the idea of marriage, because my solitude wasn’t to last much longer.

“They’re all here to stare at me,” said Ria, crossing her arms. Today, her dress was a pale pink, long sleeved, ruched at the waist. A necklace of crystal rested between her collarbones.

Matching earrings shimmered in her lobes.

Later, when the King realized she’d eschewed everything of value, everything that could mark her status, he’d be furious.

Even her cloak was a tattered old thing, its fur lining in need of mending.