Chapter 3 #2
My thoughts stop as a hush falls over the crowd.
That’s when I notice, at the far end of the room, an elegant throne on a raised platform of black stone.
The throne itself is carved from a single massive piece of red marble, polished until it gleams in the firelight.
The arms are shaped like coiled serpents, their scales so detailed I can make out individual plates, their mouths open as if ready to strike.
The high back rises at least seven feet, inlaid with copper that’s been hammered and worked into an intricate pattern of flames climbing upward, licking toward the peaked top.
The seat is fitted with deep crimson cushions, the fabric so rich it almost looks wet.
Above the throne hangs the banner of House Mars – crossed swords buried in flames, the sigil embroidered in gold thread that catches every flicker of light.
Waiting at the top of the platform, standing rather than sitting, is a man with fire in his eyes.
Lord Zevran.
Mother had rarely spoken of him during her years working at the palace.
When she did mention Mars’s lord, it was always in passing, brief comments about his temperament and demands.
Never about what he looked like, never about who he was beyond being her patient.
I’d pieced together fragments – young for a ruler, battle-hardened.
But standing here now, I realize I’d built an image in my mind that bears no resemblance to reality.
He’s younger than I expected, maybe early thirties.
Tall. Broad. Radiating command like a second skin.
He clenches a strong jaw that looks like it was carved rather than born, with a straight nose that has a slight crook at the bridge, suggesting it’s been broken at least once.
His dark blond hair falls in messy waves that somehow look intentional, pushed back from his forehead but rebellious enough to soften the severity of his features.
But it’s his eyes that hold me captive – a striking shade of grey.
The guards who escorted me here appear on either side of me once again, and they motion for me to follow.
The crowd parts as we walk up to the platform, and the whole room bows as we approach.
I attempt a shy head nod, not really sure what else to do.
Heat creeps up my neck as every gaze drags over me, taking in my knotted blonde hair, my too-thin nose, the sun spots on my skin, my tattered boots.
I am the opposite of everyone I see in the crowd.
The withdrawal chooses this moment to spike through my nerves, making my hands tremble. Addiction to magic is rare and despised, and there has only ever been one other infamous case of it happening. The Sun King.
No one can know.
“So this is Liora’s daughter,” Lord Zevran says coolly, his lips barely parting but his voice carrying. Those grey eyes pin me in place, and I notice a small scar cutting through his left eyebrow – white against olive skin, old enough to have faded but deep enough to have left its mark.
My throat constricts. Every instinct screams at me to bow deeper, apologize, fade into the background until he forgets I exist. The crowd’s disapproving murmurs feel like punches to the gut.
Mother’s missing face flashes in my mind, and I take a shaking breath.
“M-My mother is missing,” My voice comes out smaller than I intend, but nonetheless determined. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”
His expression flickers, almost imperceptibly. Something crosses those storm-grey eyes … surprise? Grief? It’s gone before I can name it, his face settling back into cold authority. The crowd’s murmurs die down to uncomfortable silence.
“I require a healer. You will replace your mother effective immediately. The guards will see you to your chambers.”
I open my mouth to protest, but he turns away before I can speak, those broad shoulders dismissing me as effectively as words.
My mind races: My chambers? Mother was only needed once per day at the palace, usually returning home just before nightfall. But they want me to stay night and day … why does it feel like I’m being held captive?
All around me, the crowd begins to disperse. The whispers begin again, but now there is an edge to their mutterings. As I turn to leave, not a single person meets my eyes. It’s as if they all know not to ask questions about the missing healer.
The guards escort me back to the hallway.
This time, they lead me through a maze of corridors and staircases.
We pass rooms with doors standing open – libraries with floor-to-ceiling shelves, a dining hall with a table long enough to seat fifty, a conservatory with plants growing lush behind glass.
The walls are lined with more tapestries, portraits of stern-faced Mars lords in armour, weapons mounted on plaques.
Servants in red and grey uniforms scatter as we approach, pressing themselves against the walls with lowered eyes.
We climb a narrow spiral staircase, the steps worn smooth in the centre from centuries of use, until finally we end up in front of a small wooden door near the top of a tower.
I’m still trying to process everything as I turn to them. “I didn’t pack any clothes, or any—”
“You will find everything you need in there.” The guard interrupts, opening the door with a creak. “His Grace requests your presence for supper at sunset.” His tone is clipped, formal.
I enter the room gingerly. It’s small, barely larger than the main room of our cottage, with a single narrow window that overlooks the courtyard far below.
The walls are bare red stone, cold and unadorned except for a single oil lamp mounted beside the door.
As I look around, I spot a small wardrobe in the corner, simple dark wood with one door swung open.
It’s full of dark coloured clothes and robes – greys and deep reds, the kind of clothes that lower members of the court wear here.
The bed is small but neatly made, pushed against the far wall with a thin grey blanket tucked tight across the mattress.
A wooden chest sits at its foot. There’s a separate washroom in the corner, barely more than a closet – through the half-open door I can see a basin, a small mirror hung on the wall, and some basic toiletries on the edge of the sink. A bar of soap. A comb.
The guards shut the door of the room roughly behind me without another word.
I collapse on the edge of the bed, exhausted in every way imaginable. But the sheets are stiff, the stone walls bleed a draft, and nothing carries the warmth of our firelit cottage. No herbs drying from the rafters. No scent of Mother’s tea. Just cold stone and silence.
I wish my mother were here. What I wouldn’t give to be able to ask her everything I need to know, to give her a hug…
Her satchel is sitting on the nightstand, brought up by the footmen when we first arrived. I reach for it, hugging it to my chest, breathing in her smell of lavender and herbs off the worn leather … until a faint rustle catches my attention.
I dig around and find a folded piece of parchment in the topmost pocket. I spot my name on the front, scribbled in script.
Mother’s handwriting is rushed, desperate:
“If you’re reading this, trust no one at court.”
Suddenly, I can’t breathe.