Chapter One
Ibite my nails until my fingers bleed the taste of salt and metal into my mouth, the pain of the broken skin dull in comparison to the angry pulsing ache in my stomach.
After dismissing the chambermaid, Morven, for a few minutes alone, I pace my bedchambers over and over again, the full lengths of my skirts twisting behind me like the knots in my abdomen.
I am not ready for this day.
I could spend all my immortal life, learning, training and pleading positive affirmations into my bathroom mirror and still feel as ill-prepared as I do now.
I will never be ready for the grinding weight of expectation, for the seeking looks of those that come to me for wisdom and aid, or for the deep hum of the ancient power I will hold in my unsteady hands.
My skin is sleek with a glistening layer of sweat as I clutch my ribs, grimacing as my corset digs its stubborn bones into mine, hindering my ability to breathe – or in this case, hyperventilate.
I can almost feel the disappointment in multitudes already, whirling in my ears is the gasps of the future, when they all finally set their eyes on me; the unseen heir of Reyhen.
Still lingering there on my tongue, I can taste the blood of an imposter. An imposter, because I am in no way the sunlit delicate beauty they envisioned as their future queen, and I certainly do not know how to protect them from their biggest fears.
The power I will manifest today is no shield from the darkness they live in fear of.
The endless night that lingers beyond the Divide.
The patched-up section of my window screams out at me, a reminder of the threat imposed upon us by the Umbrians.
I was awakened this morning, not by the gentle caress of the yawning winter’s sun, but by a large black bird crashing through the windowpanes, right through the heart of the rose depicted there in the stained glass.
It dropped a letter at the foot of my bed, and as soon as I set my eyes on the dripping blood of the wax seal, I knew exactly who had sent that letter.
And the threat of a crazed and clawed bird is nothing compared to him.
I throw myself backwards onto the bed, and almost wind myself on impact. The ceiling is painted pink, mottled with dreamy clouds of silver and white that glimmer with nostalgia above me.
I hear the echoes of Ori and I, giggling childishly under sheets, balling light in our palms in order to see who can make the silliest of faces, before we’d have to throw the sheets over our heads in order to escape the sweltering heat of our power.
There we would lay on our backs, and see if we could decipher any shapes within the stationary clouds of my bedroom sky.
He was enchanted by them every time, as though he was viewing them with fresh eyes after each blink.
My neck tingles alongside the ghostlike whispers of his voice in my ear.
Those clouds look like they were painted by the gods themselves, Eira.'
No god would ever waste their time painting my ceiling. I doubt there’s any god above that pays any real attention to anything that goes on down here, not since the Divide. But I still say my prayers, just in case.
The door to my bedchamber creaks open with a hesitance that could only be my mother’s.
I don’t sit up until I hear her approach the bed, her heels clinking on the stone floor as she nears.
The bed sinks with her weight, and the aroma of lavender swirls my senses.
The overpowering smell that fills your senses whenever she is near and clings desperately to the air long after she has left.
Her flaxen locks are braided and piled high upon her head in a twisted style, loose coils cascade down her bronzed neck and a few more caress her freckled cheeks.
She offers me a gentle smile that does not part her lips, the soft glow in her eyes enough to tell me she does not wish to startle, without knowing fully how to provide comfort.
My breath sticks in my chest at the flickering of the smile as it dissipates from her face as quick as it appears.
Well, she managed to nip that display of motherly emotion in the bud incredibly fast, yet somewhat slower than usual.
Maybe her nerves are getting the better of her this morning too.
‘My dear.’ She takes both of my sweaty hands in hers. ‘Let me get a better look at you.’
She gets to her feet and hoists me up with her and I stumble with the unexpected strength of her, which earns me a disappointed frown.
Not very regal of me, I suppose. She takes a step back to examine me fully, holding me at a distance, our arms stretching out slightly between us like the innate temptation of a hug tugs at both of our limbs.
A part of me wishes she’d give in to it.
That she’d take me in her arms and kiss the top of my head, as mothers do their daughters.
She must feel it too, as she soon lets my fingers slip from hers.
‘Well?’ I ask. Her gaze scans every golden inch of my lavishly adorned body, which causes me to shuffle my weight self-consciously, suddenly embarrassed to be so heavily embellished for the first time in my life.
I have only ever worn simple puff-sleeved gowns of red or green that lace up over my chemise, the most decorative adornment being the silver plackard that lines the deep V-shape to the front of each dress.
The plush cream velvet of today’s gown is embroidered with golden vines that snake around the low waistline and waterfall into the folds of my skirt in regular intervals.
The sleeves are long and rimmed with the same gold, the neckline square-cut and shimmering with golden flowers in full bloom, complimented by the necklace that hangs large gems of red above my décolletage.
I have never felt more of a sham in my entire life.
My mother seems to think otherwise as she claps her hands together in delight. ‘You are quite the image to behold. Like a painting every artist on this Isle wishes he’d commissioned.’
‘Thank you,’ I huff out the beginning of a breathy laugh, my eyes now averting hers out of pure awkwardness as I anxiously pick at the thread on the edge of my sleeve.
‘I don’t believe I have ever felt more of a prized antique as I do in this moment.’
My mother doesn’t laugh. And even the sweet blankness of her expression doesn’t deter me from muttering on.
‘I look like an old porcelain doll created in my likeness. Stiff and uncanny.’ She blinks, stepping forward to twist a loose strand of my dark hair with her fingers before letting it drop, the curl tickling my face as it springs back up in reaction to her touch.
‘You look like a noblewoman, my dear. In time you will become accustomed to feeling so…’ She cringes for half a second before smoothly neutralising her features into a look that means – well, nothing. ‘Ornamented.’
I let my gaze fall to the ground, clipping my toes together under my skirts. Surely a future monarch is more than just an ornate trinket to be placed on display, like some sort of trophy of the kingdom’s wealth.
There is an unthinkable number of creatures prowling the boundaries of Reyhen, unknown forces that pose a threat to our very livelihoods, and we know very little about what it actually is that we need to protect ourselves from; that I will need to protect them from.
I have been kept in the dark about the affairs of our kingdom for far too long, and as future queen of Reyhen I need to know more about the history of the Isle of Valtayre and the threat of the mainland.
What good is a monarch who just sits in wait, gorging on pastries and swishing about the halls in stupidly tight and ridiculously lavish dresses? Surely, they do not turn to me for something nice to look at – we have an expansive gallery for just that.
By just being a glorified ornament, I most definitely cannot defend our kingdom from what prowls beyond the great divide.
I will win no battles, present no bids for peace, and there will be no pleas for unity if I know nothing of who – or what – I am fighting and negotiating with.
I barely hold any knowledge of my own court, having been sent away from the castle for the last century or so, for my own safety, as my father put it.
Because no-one knows what the Umbrians are capable of.
Those were the words my father had whispered to me before placing a kiss on my temple and bidding me goodbye, after I’d asked why only I have to leave my home, my family.
My parents seemingly weren’t taking any chances of the Reyheni princess and second heir to the throne being strangled by a stray shadow or whatever it is the Umbrians wield.
Well, Mother may have been a captivatingly beautiful queen and an incredibly decorative mother, but she has never done a single thing for our people, save from sending a doe-eyed blink their way from the royal balcony.
The nerves of earlier begin to evaporate into a determination that clenches the muscles in my jaw and raises my head up to meet my mother’s.
‘I should hope I never get used to such blatant flaunting of the generational wealth that our people never feel the benefits of,’ I say through gritted teeth, my raised chin wavering slightly as I wait for my mother to react.
I know the likelihood of her so much as twitching a brow is very low – six feet under low – but I can’t help but want to coax something out of her, to make her finally show she is capable of genuine emotion. Be it a flare of the nostrils, a slow blink, or even a tightened lip. Anything.
Most of our interactions consist of me trying to trick her into a relatively motherly act with sharps words and an attitude that even grates on me too.
But there’s no point. She has mastered the art of outward indifference, and I doubt anything I ever do will tempt that maternal part of her from its rusting cage.
My shoulders sink before she even has a chance to exhale.