Page 22 of The Throne Seeker (Vallorian #1)

Z areb hadn’t been exaggerating.

In the days that followed, Rose could hardly move, despite consistently using the minerals Zareb had provided to ease the soreness.

Each morning, he woke her at dawn. Sometimes, they practiced sparring, focused on footwork, or simply ran for miles.

She was run so ragged, she nearly regretted asking for his help at all.

However, after their sessions, she felt free in a way.

Stronger. In just a few days, she found herself looking forward to them.

After the initial wake up, that is.

Each day, she desperately wanted to go and find Tristan, but then she remembered the king’s request to keep her distance until the successionbegan.Sherefusedto give anyone a reason to dismiss their nominations.So even though it crippled her, she stayed away.

At last, the morning of the rally arrived—the day she would formally announce her decision to accept the succession nomination.

Over the past week, she had attempted to compose her speech dozens of times, but all she’d done was gaze at an empty piece of parchment.

Nothing profound came to mind, resulting in her throwing down her quill in frustration.

Public speaking had never been her forte, and it never would be.

A pit of unease formed in her stomach, realizing that if she did become queen, that would have to change.

When it came time to head to the grand hall for breakfast, she and Zareb managed to shuffle through the packed room, claiming the seats her mother had saved.

Glancing across the tables, she spotted Tristan, who looked as anxious as she felt. His tousled, loose curls framed his face as he focused on his plate. Somehow, it was reassuring to see that even Tristan, who was a natural at public speaking, seemed nervous.

Her mother eyed her blue dress with disappointment. “I wish you’d worn the pink dress for once. It looks so elegant on you. Oh, and I got you fruit.” She slid the plate toward Rose. “I kept it light in case you begin to feel woozy like you do when you get anxious.”

“If anything is going to give me anxiety, it’s you,” Rose snapped, pouring herself a glass of juice. She immediately felt guilty for her tone, blaming her nerves for being on edge.

Her mother ignored her snide remark, looking out over the crowd. “You better be careful, Rose; I saw Grant eyeing you on your way in.”

“I’ll try to keep my wits about me,” she drawled, sipping her drink as she eyed Zareb’s plate of eggs and bacon with jealousy.

She scanned faces of the court members around her, until something made her eyes stop in their tracks.

Beth and Roman sat side by side, engaged in conversation. About what, it didn’t matter. What mattered was the smile that grew on his face as Beth leaned over and whispered something into his ear. A smile.

An invisible hand clenched at her gut.

She forced her gaze away to the head table—where something even more pressing caught her attention.

Two unfamiliar women had joined the front table.

The first was an older, pale woman with short brown hair, hollow cheeks, and thin, pursed lips.

Her sharp eyes surveyed the crowd, reflecting a look of disgust. Unlike the typical attire of Cathan, she wore a green and brown dress woven with small leaves.

Beside the stern-looking woman sat a younger girl in a similar outfit, likely just a few years younger than Rose.

She was a tad plain-looking, with long, light-brown hair and matching brown eyes.

A splash of pink rested on her high, rosy cheekbones.

Her green dress almost swallowed her, draping elegantly around her petite figure.

It was obvious they were from Vertmere by their forest-green attire, but what were they doing here? Moreover, why were they at the head table? There must have been a dozen guards in green uniforms standing behind them.

As the older woman turned, a small, gold crown made of vines gleamed from atop her head. They both wore one.

A sinking sensation twisted in her stomach. “Who are they?”

Her mother followed her eyeline, her face shifting into an expression Rose couldn’t decipher. “That is Queen Isleen and Princess Satin of Vertmere,” she informed dryly.

Rose’s face contorted as her mother confirmed her suspicions. “Why are they here?” she whispered.

“They are here to finalize post-war negotiations—or so I’ve heard. They’ll be here for the remainder of the succession.”

Rose frowned, popping a sour grape into her mouth.

Why did they need to come in person? And why were only the queen and princess present?

The rest of the court seemed to share the same questions, all eyes fixated on the foreigners.

But then it dawned on her that if they sought to ensure this peace treaty would last, the next ruler would need to align with the terms—no use making a peace treaty only for it to be unraveled in the next generation.

Without forewarning, a servant presented a large bouquet before her, drawing her gaze back to the table.

To her surprise, they were the lunar flowers she had shown Grant during their garden tour, elegantly arranged in a milky-white vase, untouched in their expansive pods.

Her mother’s eyes lit up at the bouquet, scooting toward it. “Oh, those are stunning. Who are they from?”

Her mother made a grab for the note, but Rose swiped it from the bouquet first, throwing her mother a reprimanding look as she opened the card discreetly. But it didn’t stop her mother from poking her nose over her shoulder.

For the woman who opened up in darkness the same way these did.

Good luck at the rally tonight.

- Grant

PS I hope you think about touching my bare skin when these bloom.

She couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped her. He was persistent. She’d give him that.

She looked up to find Grant just a few tables down from hers. His bright green eyes were already hooked on her, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips, looking satisfied by her reaction.

Her mother nudged her in the ribs. “Careful, Rose, you might look like you’re enjoying Grant’s advances.”

She wiped the smile from her face and nudged her mother back.

“Ah! It’s Penelope Lownton. I must say hello,” her mother said, standing in haste. “Remember to meet back in your room at five. Don’t be late.”

She nodded, letting her mother scurry off to her old friend—no doubt to gather gossip on everyone that had arrived. Rose was certain that before nightfall, her mother would learn everything she needed to know for the rally tonight.

She went back to her plate, surprised to find that eggs and bacon had replaced her fruit.

Her eyebrows grew together, looking up at Zareb.

“You need to eat protein if we continue to train,” he said, gesturing to the food.

She gave him a thankful smile.

After just a few bites, she heard footsteps nearing their table.

She half expected it to be Grant, but it was Roman—wearing his familiar scowl as his eyes darted to the flowers on the table.

She was tempted to turn the other way, if only to avoid more scrutiny.

The moment he sat down in her mother’s empty seat beside her, her muscles stiffened.

“What do you want, Roman?” she asked, knowing full well this wasn’t a friendly visit.

Unfortunately, her tone didn’t deter him. “I’m not here for you. I came so Tristan wouldn’t.” His voice was just as irritated as hers.

She raised her gaze to meet his. He was much closer than she’d expected. Leaning back slightly, she asked, “What do you mean?”

His golden eyes cut to the flowers. “If you’re going to play with your toys, could you at least not bait them in front of my brother?”

She cursed under her breath—the flowers. Tristan must have witnessed everything. She couldn’t bring herself to check if he was watching. “I’m not trying to hurt him,” she said lamely.

“And how is that? Keeping your options open to all of the succession contestants? Tell me, should I get Sansburry next? So you can tell Tristan it’s all in the name of love.”

She set her fork down. “What would you have me do? Your brother has kept all other suitors from me.”

His fortified expression faltered. After a brief pause, his eyes sharpened once more. “I don’t believe you.”

“Have you asked him?”

“Have you ?”

“Grant told me so.”

“And you trust that weasel?”

“I think so.” She shrugged, nonchalantly clutching her glass. “You’ve known Grant longer than I. He may have a spotty track record, but I doubt he’s lying about this one.” She sipped her orange juice, the tang bursting in her mouth.

Roman paused again, clearly contemplating the accusation.

Thinking he was done, she set down her glass, about to leave, when Roman spoke again. “What happened that night? With Xavier. What happened on the beach?”

She didn’t know why he needed an answer. He had been at the tribunal.

She stalled by slowly shifting her body to face him again. “You know what happened.”

“I want to hear you say it.” He squared his shoulders, like he needed that to look more intimidating. “My father and Tristan assure me you’re quite blameless in the situation.”

“But you don’t agree,” she said, already having anticipated his response.

“Let’s just say I’m not as easily persuaded when it comes to you. Unlike my father and Tristan, I don’t hold a strong attachment.” He offered a tight smile that disappeared quickly. “I don’t believe Xavier would give up his crown just to hurt someone, especially you.”

If he wanted to get under her skin, it was working. His golden eyes scorched hers, reminding her that interrogation had been a part of his job for the past year. He was just like everyone else—the council, the court, all of them.

“You think I wanted this?” she asked, exasperated.