Page 9 of The Throne Seeker

Tristan shrugged. “We can’t be sure. However, Corrin sits close to the Vertmere border, and rumors circulated that there was illegal trade between them. According to the survivors, Corrin’s controller had made enemies with a rebel group just beyond the border. We suspect this band of rebels was responsible for attacking the city…” He paused as a servant refilled his glass, then took a sip, waiting for him to leave before continuing. “We informed the king of Vertmere of the rebel group in his territory. He insisted that he knew nothing of the quarrel.”

“I don’t understand. What’s this got to do with Xavier?” she asked.

“After we discovered the city had been burned, something in Xavier…snapped. We were welcomed into Vertmere’s province a few weeks later. The Vertmerian king presented us with gifts, food, and even gold,” Tristan recounted. “It was evident he had no involvement in the attack nor a desire for war. He understood Vertmere would likely lose in a conflict with Cathan. It made no sense for him to send men to attack us. We believed it was only an isolated group of insurgents—except for Xavier. Just as we were about to leave, Xavier unexpectedly attempted to assassinate the Vertmerian king.”

“What?” She gawked at him. “Why would he do that?”

Tristan’s eyes cooled a few degrees. “Because that is who Xavier is now. He doesn’t think with his head anymore. He lets emotion rule him like a fool. He had no care for what the actions of that day would lead to—war.”

“But he must have had a reason.”

His expression was unforgiving. “None that could justify what he did.”

She struggled to believe it. Xavier must have known the consequences of such a violent action would lead to war. So it raised a critical question: what could have been so vital that he would risk it all?

She had been so engrossed in their conversation that she didn’t realize the others had nearly finished their meals.

Tristan stood. “I need to take care of a few things before we move to the ballroom. Will you save me a dance?”

It was a good thing she was sitting, or his dazzling smile might have made her stumble. It was nearly enough to make her forget their earlier conversation.

She arched an eyebrow. “You’re going to dance with me? Willingly?”

Tristan rolled his eyes, leaning in to whisper, “Only so I can be close to you.”

CHAPTER 4

Following dinner, Rose headed to her room to get ready for the celebration.

Her room was in the east wing, close to her mother’s. Not a thing had changed. The huge canopy bed stood against the left wall, draped with her favorite creamy-white sheets, matching the flowing curtains next to the wide-open balcony doors, revealing a wide view of the gardens and sea. To her right sat a washtub, dresser, and vanity, along with the floor-length brass-framed mirror she was currently facing.

She stared at the stranger looking back at her. She was a bit unnerved to be in such a sophisticated gown, having grown used to wearing the same ten or so dresses over the past year. Being surrounded by those whose sole purpose was to attend to her every need was equally unnerving. They fussed over her hair and makeup like she was someone important. It wasn’t something she was particularly accustomed to and probably never would be. Part of her wished they would leave her alone, yet she was eternally grateful when they finished because she knew she couldn’t have achieved what they did in an hour, not even if she had a week to prepare.

She was swimming in a sea of blue and gold. Her long, ashy-brown hair was partially braided, while the rest cascaded into a waterfall of curls past her shoulder blades, sparkling with a soft dust of gold. It went perfectly with the golden flecks they sprinkled on her collarbone and cheeks. The steel-blue dress fell effortlessly to the floor, smooth as butter against her skin. She was used to the flowy, loose fit, designed to conceal the growing lean muscle she had recently gained.

The modest fit was aimed to portray an illusion of weakness. “Appear weak and delicate, and no one will suspect you’re a threat,” her mother had once said.

In truth, Rose and her mother hadn’t simply been absent from court for an extended grieving period like they had led everyone to believe. After her father’s passing left them vulnerable and without family support, her mother had enlisted the help of Warren, a retired soldier, who’d agreed to teach them self-defense. During this training, Warren also had Rose volunteer to assist the healers when the troops passed through Canteran. Initially, helping the healers had just been part of her training, but she’d soon discovered she liked being useful and she was quite good at it. As those grueling, character-building months went by, she had become accustomed to dirt under her nails and sweat trickling down her brow. Now, to be standing in such a lovely gown…

Her appearance exuded royalty. But inside, she felt like a fraud.

Naturally, her mother was completely in her element—overseeing and directing the final touches to her dress and makeup. It reminded her of how her mother had been raised in one of Catalena’s wealthiest Houses, born into a life of luxury and prestige. The loss of that lifestyle had been distressing for her mother, to say the least. If Rose sparkled like a diamond tonight, she’d have her mother to thank.

Once her mother was satisfied, she thanked the servants and dismissed them.

“Oh, Rose, you look beautiful.” Her mother admired her in all her glory.

She beamed at the praise. “I must get it from my mum.”

Her mother wore a slimming plum dress that brought out her hazel eyes and long, sandy-blonde hair, which was elegantly styled in a neat updo, pinned and tucked into soft, graceful waves.

“Well, of course.” Her mother winked with glittering eyes. “No one will be able to keep their eyes off you. Mark my words. You’ll be the talk of the entire province by the time the night is over. Tristan will have his hands full trying to keep suitors away from you tonight.”

Rose faced the mirror again. Before she could gather her thoughts, an overwhelming grief nearly flattened her, bringing her father’s face to the forefront of her mind.

What would he have done if he were here? Would any part of him regret what he did?

Her grief transformed into molten steel, simmering the anger that bubbled just under her skin. She clung to that rage, holding on to it for dear life because, by the gods, it was all she had left.