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Lady Mionet Verr’s debut into society was perfect.

At sixteen, she had still been Mionet Boscillard, the daughter of a rustic nobleman who had never seen a city before, much less something as splendid as Segoile. But Grandmother Boscillard was a canny woman who had successfully launched three daughters into society, and so they arrived in the capital two months before the social season began, to give Mionet time to get the bumpkin out of her system.

By the end of the first month, she was navigating the Wold like a native. From every street and bridge she could see Starfall, distant and beautiful as a dream, its white walls and crystal towers rising from the high island in the center of the River Emme.

No one was ever really prepared for Starfall.

They said Ospret Far-Eyes had raised his city from the bottom of the river, the place where his sacred celestial feet had first touched the earth of this world, the place where he had summoned and married Ambrosie Star-daughter. There his descendants had lived for over eight hundred years, along with the vast apparatus necessary for governing the Empire: servants, guards, and retainers whose loyalty had endured for generations.

There was the home of Emperor Bastin Agnephus and his Empress Esmene, who had sent an invitation to Mionet on silver-leaf paper, to welcome the next generation of aristocrats for the season.

The night of Mionet’s debut glittered even in memory. The beautiful white coach drawn by four perfectly matched chestnut horses. Her new silk gown, the first gown she had ever worn that bared her shoulders, a vivid turquoise and copper that perfectly complimented her auburn hair and unblemished skin. Even at sixteen, Mionet had never been afraid to make herself noticed.

Under a sky of dusky violet, they drove across the long north bridge and through the triple gates, their crushing spiked jaws glittering silver and fancifully formed. Even the sharp teeth of Starfall’s gates were beautiful .

Beyond the gates were gardens and plazas, green lawns and temples, manmade pools overhung with ornamental trees and white star lilies perfuming the air. Through the carriage windows, she glimpsed only the feet of the famous statue of Ospret Far-Eyes, sandaled and larger than the carriage. Crystal bells chimed with every breath of the breeze, adorning every door in the city.

House Boscillard was a powerful barony. For all Baron Boscillard’s rustic sensibilities—and his questionable wife—there were few that could look down on them as they stood in the long line of girls awaiting presentation at the court. For this event, admittance was restricted only to the girl and her parents, so Mionet silently repeated her grandmother’s instructions to herself. When they call you, pick up your train first. Lift your chin. As you walk to the Empress, imagine you are walking to your groom on your wedding day in the most beautiful gown you will ever wear, and that one girl you hate has to watch.

Mionet’s mother always objected to that last part, but it never failed to make Mionet lift her chin.

“Don’t be nervous, lovely,” her mother whispered now, though the common-born Lady Boscillard was far more nervous than anyone else.

“I’m not, mother,” Mionet whispered back, gripping her lacy fan in both hands. She was not nervous. She wasn’t the least bit afraid. She was impatient.

The presentation of debutantes took place in the Greater Court, the larger of the throne rooms where the Divinity sat on his high dais, watching the proceedings as if from a distant star. Mionet did feel a thrill of fear when she stepped through the tall doors. There was the Divinity, Beloved of the Stars, whose very presence sanctified the lands of the Empire. As the line of young women moved forward, he sipped wine and occasionally turned his head to murmur to his advisors, but he did take care to look as each maiden was called forth, to formally recognize their entrée into society.

“House Boscillard, presenting the Lady Mionet,” called the herald, and Mionet picked up her train, lifted her chin, and fixed her eyes on the Empress, imagining that that bitch Onette was watching as she floated down the long violet Imperial aisle.

“Your Imperial Highness,” she said when reached the end of the wide carpet, bending into a curtsy so perfect, it might have been used for a diagram in a book of noble etiquette .

“Lady Mionet Boscillard,” the Empress replied, in a low and musical voice. “You may rise.”

Mionet obeyed. The Empress was forty-four at the time, and maturity became her. Dressed in a silver gown spangled with diamonds and crystals and her long silver hair cascading down her back, she looked like a statue, or a being summoned from the stars. For a moment, Mionet forgot what she was supposed to say.

“I am honored to meet the Empress of Argence,” she said, with a little internal jolt that she hoped did not show outside. She lifted her chin. “I am the newest Rose of Boscillard.”

“I recall another Rose of that name, when I made my debut,” the Empress replied, which meant she was pleased. “Have you an aunt?”

“Three, Your Majesty.” Mionet met her eyes boldly. Roses of Segoile were not shy. They announced themselves. “My father’s sisters are Clemenne, Seferie, and Tamenie.”

For nearly three whole minutes they exchanged pleasantries, as much a test of Mionet’s poise and wit as to give the Empress’s secretary time to write her name down into the famous silver book. The secretary was a man of middle age wearing a pince-nez on his nose and white gloves, as if the silver book were too precious to be touched by human hands.

Mionet was also conscious of the gaze of the Emperor, not twenty paces away, a shadow on the periphery of her vision. But her grandmother had warned her about that, too, and more than once.

Do not dare to look at the Emperor, unless he speaks to you directly, she said, deadly serious. House Boscillard will never be powerful enough or foolish enough to step between the House of Agnephus and House Melun.

It didn’t seem like such a dangerous thing, but Grandmother Boscillard had sounded so terrible when she said it, terrible enough to impress even the brash Mionet. Mionet restricted her eyes to the ten square feet occupied by the Empress and her attendants, and the only time she even looked in the Emperor’s direction was when she and her parents paused to make their obeisance before his throne. She had the impression of thick gray hair, but she did not dare to meet the famous starry blue eyes. Instead she looked at his cloak, silver satin trimmed in ermine, cascading in shining splendor down the steps of the dais .

Even if she was only one girl among fifty presented that year, the ball that night was a triumph. Mionet danced every dance. She had made contacts among a dozen other noble girls and more importantly their mamas, and took her first heady sips of both champagne and the flattery of young men. Before the night was out, she had not one or two but three new beaux, though she would ultimately reject all of them and wed Lord Athurin Verr before the next season.

It was a night of splendor and stardust, of music ringing to the high and glorious vaults of the Greater Court, touched by the otherworldly beauty of the House of the Emperor. The sort of night that comes once in a lifetime.

So Mionet could not for the life of her understand why a mere summons to court made the Duke and Duchess of Andelin behave as if the sky were falling in.

“…all right,” the duke was murmuring, just loud enough for her sharp ears to catch it. He was clutching his small wife against him as if he thought someone might tear her away. “I promise. I’ll write to Duchess Ereguil and see if she might like a season in the city next year. Perhaps we can stay at their estate, there’s not much time to set up our own household, so it would save us the trouble…”

His voice murmured on, very different from his usual stiff, cold tones, and Mionet wondered whether she ought to silently excuse herself and the maids; this was not a moment intended for public consumption. But it was also likely she would hear some very interesting things if she stayed, and before she could decide, she heard the duchess speak, slightly muffled in His Grace’s shirtfront.

“…time to plan a debut?” she asked anxiously. “Do we have to stay the whole season? Or could we just go and see what he wants and leave? I don’t know if I can learn that fast.”

“We’ll prepare for both, but don’t worry. The duchess was a Rose of Segoile herself, you know. Utterly terrifying, according to the old man. And I have been wanting you two to meet anyway, it won’t be…”

As he spoke, he was nudging her toward the house, and for a moment, Mionet wondered if she might have been mistaken. The duke didn’t seem bothered at all now; maybe it was only the shock of the summons, and worry for the duchess. But at the threshold of the house, His Grace glanced over his shoulder and shot her a look with such clear and piercing command, it effectively nailed her feet to the front steps.

There was time to think, while he was inside. She knew the history between the duke and the Emperor; every child in the Empire had heard it. Remin, the son of a House convicted and executed for grave insult to the sacred House of Agnephus. Innocent of any crime himself, he had still been tarred with the stigma of traitors, and Mionet could have listed half a dozen attempts on his life that were common knowledge. The Emperor expressed outrage every time, of course.

No doubt it would be dangerous for His Grace to go to Segoile. But it was hardly the first time; he had visited several times before and lived to tell the tale. And while fashionable society would be a nightmare for the timid duchess, it was not the end of the world. As His Grace noted, she would not go alone.

Mionet’s lips curved. It was early, no doubt; maybe a little too early for her own scandal to have faded away completely. But perhaps it would work out as she hoped after all. She had begun to think the duke and duchess would hardly be moved from the valley by anything short of an imperial command.

It was some time before His Grace appeared again, his boots thudding down the stairs to the first floor. Mionet put on a carefully sober expression.

“Your Gra—” she began, but he cut her off.

“I don’t know why Duchess Ereguil sent you,” he said, looking down at her with eyes like black ice. “I am inclined to trust her judgment, for all that you are not the companion I would have chosen for my wife. I was going to wait, and give all of you a chance to get used to life in the valley before I required your oaths. But we do not have that luxury. You will swear your life and your soul to my House now, or you will go out of this place tonight. I will provide you passage to wherever you like. Choose.”

Mionet hesitated. There was a very good reason Duchess Ereguil had sent her, but it did not align at all with Mionet’s own plans. And this was not an oath to be made lightly; she had never sworn such an oath even to Lady Carolen, it was one thing to serve House Andelin but something else entirely to be bound to them. But life was a gamble and sometimes there was no choice but to roll the —

“I will swear it,” she said as his black brows lowered ominously. Quickly, she gathered herself and knelt before him. “Your Grace. I, Mionet Verr, swear my fealty and homage to the House of Andelin, to His Grace Duke Remin and Her Grace the Duchess Ophele. I swear to guard your honor and your secrets in this life and the next, and to offer my skills and abilities unstinting in your service. If I should ever violate this oath, or fail in your trust, then may my life and soul be forfeit.”

Stars above, may she not live to regret this.

“I accept your oath,” the duke replied. “I swear to reward service with honor, duty with protection, and I will kill you myself if you betray us.”

He paused, and seemed to find this insufficient. Mionet had a disorienting sense of darkness descending as he bent his head, those opaque black eyes looming above her, the broad face, the scarred cheek, and flashing teeth.

“That is not a threat,” he explained. “That is an oath. If you betray us, I swear before the eternal stars that I will kill you with my own hands. It will be my sacred duty, the shackle placed on my soul, that I will find you wherever you go and slay you. I will not be foresworn. If I even suspect that you will betray us, then I may decide to kill you before you can. Do not give me reason to doubt you. Do you understand?”

“…yes.” The word was faint, forced through suddenly numb lips. This was not Segoile, with its social posturing and theatrics. This was the Andelin Valley. And if Remin Grimjaw made an oath to kill her, it was because he would do it.

“Good. I will be out late tonight. Right now, I want you to go upstairs and sit with her, and no more foolish talk about how it will take a year to plan her debut or how difficult it will be to navigate society because she has four months to learn it and she knows nothing. She was taught nothing. Her father wants me dead and until now has never shown the least interest in whether she was alive. Understood?”

This was a lot to take in at once. Mionet blinked, but she had always been good at providing the right response, even under pressure.

“I understand. Your Grace,” she added, grasping at the courtesy like a lifeline. A month in the valley and a few tender scenes with his wife and she had forgotten that this was Remin Grimjaw, the butcher of Ellingen. Men, women, or children, he could, would, and had killed anyone who stood against him .

And she had just sworn an oath to bind herself to his House.

“Good. Then go and keep your oath,” he said, and departed with the boiling air of a gathering storm, calling for Adelan as he went.

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