The Alien’s Vicious Starflash Manor (Empire of Frost and Flame #2)

Chapter 22

CHAPTER 22

LARA

I recognize the firelord who steps out of the carriage as the older of the two I overheard plotting with Ivrael the night of his party. I’m staring at the firelord so hard that at first I don’t even notice the two women behind him—probably around my age.

But then I hear Izzy breathe out, “Oh, my holy hell.”

I glance sideways at my sister, recognizing that particular gleam in her eyes. Oh.

Oh.

I’ve seen the look before, usually directed at the captain of her high school basketball team or that girl who worked at the coffee shop near our house. But never quite this intense.

I don’t know which twin is which, but I assume these are the twins—and the ones Ivrael was talking about when he asked Vazor, “What do your girls know of the plan?”

“She’s gorgeous.” Izzy sighs, and I can practically see cartoon hearts dancing in her eyes.

I can’t blame her for being smitten. Both the women are beautiful—but I can’t tell yet which one Izzy is looking at.

One of the twins has dark skin and long black hair that falls in a straight sheet down past the middle of her back. Her features are delicate, her lips curving in a perfect bow. And her eyes are huge and dark, though I can’t tell from here if they’re brown or black. She’s more curvy than slender, and muscular in the way gymnasts and cheerleaders often are.

The other daughter is equally beautiful, but fierce-looking. Her hair has been cut short and styled into spiky points atop her head. She gazes around the room with a glare, as if daring anyone in the Ice Court to get in her way.

She looks so tough that it takes me a long moment to realize that she and her sister are not just twins—they’re identical twins. But whereas the one with the long hair is soft and curvy, even with all her muscles, the other twin is all hard determination that might have been carved out of stone.

And where their father’s scale patterning is all gold, his daughters have both gold and red scales, the metallic pattern running up the sides of their necks and onto their faces, glinting, catching the light and reflecting it back out in glittery sparks.

On the first sister, the pattern looks like jewelry.

On the second, it looks like a weapon.

“May I present Lord Vazor,” Khrint announces formally, gesturing at each firelord as he gives us their names, “and his daughters, Lady Rhaela and Miss Harai.”

The twins execute perfect court curtsies, their movements so graceful they make me acutely aware of my own awkwardness.

Rhaela’s short hair catches the light as she rises, and I hear Izzy’s small intake of breath beside me.

“Ladies Evans,” Vazor says, his voice carrying that strange resonance all firelords seem to have, like distant thunder trapped in crystal. “I understand you’re to be presented at court soon.”

I dip into what I hope is an acceptable curtsy, trying to remember everything Madame Evangeny drilled into us this morning. “Yes, my lord.”

Izzy attempts to copy my movement but stumbles slightly. Rhaela’s hand twitches as if to steady her, though she’s too far away to actually help. The gesture makes Izzy flush pink to the roots of her hair.

“We have much work to do,” Vazor observes dryly, looking between us and his perfectly poised daughters. “The peace summit approaches quickly.”

“Too quickly,” Ivrael agrees, and something in his tone makes me look at him sharply. There’s tension in the set of his shoulders, an edge to his voice I’ve never heard before.

“We’ll help,” Rhaela says, her voice surprisingly gentle for someone who looks like she could fight dragons—though given what she is, maybe that’s not so surprising. “Harai and I can assist with the court dance instruction.”

I flush at the mention of dance instruction, my gaze flickering toward Ivrael—only to find him watching me.

Izzy, however, perks up visibly at the dance suggestion, and I have to press my lips together to keep from laughing. My baby sister, crushing on a firelord princess. Under other circumstances, it might be adorable.

But these aren’t other circumstances. We’re caught in Ivrael’s web of plots and schemes, and I can’t forget that Vazor is part of whatever he has planned.

The way they’re all watching us—the duke, the firelord, the twins—makes my skin tingle with awareness of just how much depends on us learning to navigate their world.

“Perhaps we should begin now,” Harai suggests, smoothing her long dark hair back. “Time grows short.”

Ice crackles beneath Ivrael’s feet. “Five days until the summit begins.”

The number hangs in the air between us like a death sentence.

Five days.

I look at Izzy, still watching Rhaela with barely disguised fascination, and my heart clenches.

We need more time. Need a way out of this labyrinth of untenable choices Ivrael has constructed around us.

Ivrael leads us inside, back to the receiving room. And as Vazor begins discussing the training schedule with Ivrael, laying out hours of dance practice and protocol lessons and court history, I realize we’re trapped as surely as I was in the kitchen. The gilded cage of court life may be prettier than servant’s quarters, but it’s still a cage.

Unless...

I study the twins, noting how they move with perfect grace while still maintaining a warrior’s awareness of their surroundings. They might be our best chance at survival—if I can figure out how to use Izzy’s obvious attraction to our advantage.

“We should start with the basic court dances,” Rhaela says, and when she demonstrates the opening position, Izzy’s eyes track every movement. “The steps aren’t difficult once you understand the patterns.”

“Like mathematics,” Harai adds, coming to stand beside her sister. “Each dance follows specific rules and progressions.”

Izzy brightens at this comparison, and I grin.

“I’m good at math,” Izzy says, then immediately looks mortified at blurting it out.

But Rhaela just smiles—a small thing, barely there, but genuine. “Then you’ll learn quickly.”

I watch the interplay between them, wheels turning in my mind. If we can get close to the twins, maybe we can learn more about whatever Ivrael and Vazor are planning. Maybe we can find a way to escape.

Preferably one that doesn’t end with us dead or imprisoned in the dungeons below the Ice Palace.

“Shall we begin?” Harai asks, and Izzy nods so quickly I’m surprised she doesn’t hurt her neck.

Ivrael calls to have the rug rolled up and moved to one side.

As Khrint drags the rug aside, I catch Ivrael watching me with those impossibly blue eyes. Golden sparks dance in their depths, and I wonder if he knows what I’m thinking. If he can sense my desperate search for options, for escape routes, for any way to protect my sister from whatever fate he has planned for us.

Rhaela and Harai move to demonstrate the first dance steps, and Izzy and I take our positions for the lesson.

The marble floor still burns cold against my feet. But now I have something new to focus on besides the chill—the way Rhaela’s hand lingers when she corrects Izzy’s posture, the calculating look in Vazor’s eyes as he watches us.

The growing certainty that five days isn’t nearly enough time to learn everything we need to survive.

We’ll have to find another way.

We’ll have to make our own rules in this game of ice and fire.

“ N o, no,” Vazor says for what feels like the hundredth time later that afternoon. “The greeting must be precise. The angle of your head, the depth of your curtsy, the exact words—they all convey meaning at court.”

I straighten from my latest attempt at a proper court greeting, trying not to show how my thighs burn from all the curtsying. Beside me, Izzy looks equally frustrated, though she perks up when Rhaela steps forward to demonstrate again.

“Watch carefully,” Rhaela says, her voice gentler than her fierce appearance would suggest. “The depth of the curtsy indicates rank. Too shallow is an insult, too deep marks you as inferior.” She demonstrates, her movements liquid grace. “For a duke or duchess, this depth.”

Izzy copies her almost perfectly, and I bite back a smile. Amazing what proper motivation can do for one’s learning curve.

“Better,” Vazor acknowledges. “Now, the proper forms of address. Lady Lara, imagine I am Prince Jonyk. Greet me.”

My stomach clenches at the mere thought of the prince.

I force myself into the starting position Rhaela showed us, keeping my spine straight despite the urge to hunch protectively. “Your Royal Highness,” I begin, lowering myself into what I hope is the correct depth of curtsy. “I am honored by?—”

“Stop.” Vazor’s voice cracks like a whip. “Your eyes dropped too low. That shows fear or submission. You must maintain exactly the correct level of eye contact—enough to show respect without challenging authority.”

From his position near the window, Ivrael makes a sound of frustration. Frost spreads across the glass near his hand. “They’ll never be ready in time.”

“We’re trying,” I snap, my own frustration bubbling over. “Maybe if you’d given us more time to learn your impossible rules?—”

“Impossible?” Golden sparks flash in his eyes. “These are basic court protocols that every noble child learns from birth. Any ten-year-old can execute them perfectly.”

“Well, I’m sorry we didn’t have the advantage of being raised in your perfect Ice Court,” I shoot back. “We were too busy trying to survive our fucking stepfather.”

Harai and Rhaela exchange glances, while Vazor’s scales shimmer with what might be discomfort.

“Perhaps we should move on to table etiquette,” Harai suggests diplomatically. “That might be easier to master quickly.”

It isn’t.

The array of delicate crystal glasses and elaborate silver utensils—specially commissioned without iron content—makes my head spin. Each course apparently requires specific implements and using the wrong one can apparently spark a blood feud.

“No, that’s the moonfish knife,” Rhaela corrects gently when Izzy reaches for the wrong utensil. “This is sunfish, which is served in the first course. You’d use that knife for the fourth course, after the cold soup but before the main dish.”

“Why do you need different knives for different fish?” Izzy asks. “They’re all just... fish.”

I watch Vazor’s eyes narrow at her tone and cringe inwardly. We’re supposed to be accepting everything without question, showing proper deference to our instructors. But Izzy’s analytical mind keeps wanting to understand the logic behind these byzantine rules.

“The distinction is crucial,” Vazor says coldly. “Using a moonfish knife on sunfish would be seen as a deliberate insult to your host’s judgment in menu planning.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Izzy mutters, not quite under her breath.

Ice crystals form in the air as Ivrael strides forward. “Perhaps you’d prefer some other means of compelling your compliance? Since our customs are so beneath your understanding?”

The threat in his voice makes my blood run cold. I step forward, placing myself slightly in front of my sister. “She’s just trying to understand. We both are.”

“Understanding isn’t required,” he snaps. “Obedience is.”

The words hit me hard, reminding me of my year as his servant. Of every time he demanded unquestioning compliance. Of every moment I spent hating him for it.

Of the way he spanked me the first time I tried to run away.

From the way he’s staring at me, his eyes twirling with those golden sparks, he’s remembering it, too.

The twins exchange a glance, and Harai clears her throat delicately.

“The protocols can seem arbitrary at first,” she offers. “But each one developed for specific historical reasons. For instance, the separate fish knives arose after the Great Poisoning during the reign of?—”

“We don’t have time for history lessons,” Ivrael cuts her off. He runs a hand through his golden hair, leaving it charmingly disheveled.

I hate that I notice.

“They need to master the forms, not understand them,” he continues.

“Actually,” Rhaela says carefully, “understanding the reasons might help them remember the rules better.”

But Ivrael is already turning away, frost trailing in his wake. “Continue the lessons. I have other matters to attend to.”

“Yes,” Vazor says quietly. “I believe that would be for the best.”

Ivrael stalks out, closing the door with precise control that somehow seems more threatening than if he’d slammed it.

Beside me, Izzy’s shoulders slump slightly.

“Don’t worry,” Rhaela tells her quietly. “You’re doing better than you think.”

The warmth in her voice makes Izzy straighten again, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. “Really?”

“Indeed.” Vazor’s scales ripple as he stands. “But perhaps a brief rest would be beneficial. Shall we resume in a click or so?”

He follows Ivrael’s path out the door, leaving us alone with the twins. As soon as he’s gone, Harai drops gracefully into one of the delicate chairs.

“Well, that could have gone worse,” she says cheerfully.

Rhaela snorts, a surprisingly inelegant sound from someone so poised. “Could have gone better, too.”

Harai turns to us. “Don’t let them intimidate you too much. The rules seem overwhelming at first, but there are patterns to them.”

“Patterns?” Izzy tilts her head interestedly. Trust my sister to be charmed by the promise of logical systems.

“Absolutely,” Rhaela confirms. “Each protocol follows from certain principles. Once you understand those, the individual rules make more sense.”

I sink into another chair, grateful for the reprieve. “I just wish we had more time to learn it all.”

“Me too,” Harai agrees, twirling a lock of her long hair around one finger. “But you’re picking it up faster than you realize. The curtsies are already smoother.”

“Thanks to Rhaela’s excellent demonstration,” Izzy says, then immediately looks like she wants to swallow her tongue.

But Rhaela’s smile transforms her fierce features. “Happy to help.”

The door opens and Vazor returns, his golden scales catching the light. “Shall we continue? I believe we should move on to discussing the proper way to decline an invitation without giving offense.”

As we begin the next lesson, I catch Izzy sneaking another glance at Rhaela. The firelord princess is demonstrating the correct way to hold a formal court fan, her movements precise and elegant.

I watch them watching each other and wonder again if this attraction could somehow work in our favor. The twins seem kind, or at least kinder than most of the Caix we’ve encountered. And they clearly know the court inside and out.

If we can trust them, they could be our salvation.