Chapter 1 Silver Eyes
CHAPTER ONE
SILVER EYES
Ihad learned to measure my worth in the castle by the sound my footsteps made against the stone. The lighter I walked, the less likely I was to draw attention.
Today, I abandoned such caution. My heels struck the polished marble with deliberate force as I strode through the dim, echoing corridors of Vareth palace, my fingers trailing over cold stone walls that had witnessed generations of royal blood and betrayal.
I could admit, I was in a particular mood.
The palace held its breath around me, ancient stones exhaling stale air that carried the musty scent of forgotten histories and buried secrets.
Sunlight struggled through narrow windows, casting elongated shadows that seemed to reach for me with spectral fingers.
The chill that perpetually haunted these halls seeped through my gown, a familiar discomfort I had long since accepted as part of my inheritance.
I caught a whisper as I passed a cluster of courtiers. Three women with elaborately coiffed hair and painted faces who fell silent at my approach, then resumed their murmuring the moment I passed.
“—the King’s shame—“
“—those unnatural eyes—“
“—her mother must have been—“
I didn’t turn. I’d heard worse. The rumors about my mother had circulated since before I could understand their meaning.
Sorceress. Witch. Enchantress. The court had never forgiven her for capturing the King’s heart, nor him for succumbing.
And they had certainly never forgiven me for existing as constant proof of that indiscretion.
The portraits of my ancestors, or rather, my father’s ancestors, stared down at me from ornate frames, their painted eyes seeming to follow my progress with silent judgment.
I knew each face by now. Stern King Edric, my grandfather, whose furrowed brow I had inherited; Queen Maeve, whose legacy of diplomatic brilliance was still taught in the schoolrooms; and dozens of others stretching back through Vareth’s bloodied history.
None resembled me quite enough, which, to the court, was the problem.
I paused beneath the portrait of my father as a younger man.
King Aeldrin had been painted soon after his coronation, before I was born, before the weight of his crown had stooped his shoulders and etched permanent lines around his mouth.
His eyes were dark and clear, lacking the silver specks that marked mine as different, as other. As my mother’s daughter.
“Lady Mireille.”
I turned, composing my features into the careful mask I wore within these walls. A young page stood with his gaze respectfully lowered, though I caught the quick, curious flick of his eyes to mine before he looked away again.
“The Queen requests your presence in the east drawing room,” he said, his voice cracking slightly. New, then. The Queen’s experienced servants had mastered speaking to me without ever meeting my gaze.
“Does she?” I replied, allowing a trace of amusement to color my voice. “How unprecedented.”
The boy shifted uncomfortably. “She said to tell you it’s a matter of some importance.”
“I’m certain she did.” I smiled without warmth. “You may tell Her Majesty I shall attend her shortly.”
He bowed, clearly relieved to be dismissed, and hurried away with the distinctive gait of someone trying not to appear to be running.
Queen Ira “requesting” my presence was tantamount to a royal command, and while I might delay to assert what little independence I possessed, I wouldn’t refuse entirely. The fragile peace between us depended on such small surrenders.
A flicker of movement caught my eye—my own reflection in a large, gilt-framed mirror at the turning of the corridor. I stopped, drawn by morbid curiosity to study what others found so disturbing.
A young woman with sun-kissed skin looked back at me, her features a discomfiting blend of royal heritage and something indefinably foreign.
My father’s high cheekbones and straight nose, yes, but set in a face too finely drawn, too sharply angled to belong comfortably among the robust beauty favored in Vareth.
My hair fell in waves of midnight, lacking the golden or auburn tints that ran through the royal bloodline.
And then, of course, the eyes.
I leaned closer, watching as my pupils contracted in the shifting light. Around them, irises the color of winter storms, gray-blue like twilight on snow, scattered through with flecks of silver that caught the light like miniature stars. Eyes that marked me as surely as a brand.
When I was younger, I believed they were beautiful. I remembered spinning in my chambers, watching my reflection blur and the silver specks seemingly swirl into constellations. “Star eyes,” my nurse had called them, before she was replaced with someone who didn’t indulge such whimsy.
Now, I knew better. My eyes were a curse, a constant reminder to everyone who saw me that something in my blood was different.
Wrong. The court physician had examined them when I was a child, pronouncing them a simple quirk of nature.
Yet, the whispers persisted. Unnatural. Bewitched.
Evidence of my mother’s mysterious origins and questionable humanity.
“Admiring yourself, sister? How utterly… common.”
The voice sliced through my thoughts, sharp as a blade wrapped in silk. I didn’t need to turn to know who stood behind me, but I did anyway, keeping my expression carefully neutral.
“Cordelia,” I said, inclining my head. Just enough to acknowledge her status as crown princess, though not enough to suggest I considered myself truly beneath her.
My half-sister’s lip curled slightly, her amber eyes, so like our father’s, sweeping over me with practiced disdain. “Mother is waiting. Though I suppose punctuality isn’t valued among whatever gutter folk spawned your maternal line.”
I smiled, slow and deliberate, knowing it would irritate her more than any retort. “How fortunate, then, that our shared paternal line valued education enough that I understand the strategic value of a fashionable delay.”
A flush of anger stained her cheeks, but she maintained her composure, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her immaculate gown. “Do hurry along. The sooner your obligatory appearance is concluded, the sooner the rest of us can enjoy ourselves.”
She swept past me, her perfume lingering in the air. Roses and musk, custom-blended by the royal perfumer to complement the natural scent of her skin. Another small luxury denied to me, another reminder of the careful distinction maintained between legitimate and illegitimate daughters.
I watched her retreating back, noting the rigid set of her shoulders beneath layers of silk and lace. For all her confidence, Cordelia feared me. Or rather, she feared what I represented. The king’s indiscretion made flesh, a living reminder that her mother had not always held his heart.
With a final, steadying breath, I turned toward the east wing, toward the drawing room where Queen Ira awaited with whatever fresh torment she had devised for me today. My heels struck the floor with renewed purpose, echoing through the corridor like a declaration of war.
The east drawing room reeked of false propriety—cloying perfumes and lavender polish barely masking the stench of ambition and resentment.
I paused at the threshold, cataloging my enemies.
Queen Ira at the center like a spider in her web, surrounded by her sycophantic ladies-in-waiting, each one more eager to curry favor.
Tall windows admitted afternoon light that seemed reluctant to touch the dark, heavy fabrics draping every surface, creating instead pools of illumination that transformed the room into a landscape of harsh contrasts.
Fitting, for a gathering where every smile concealed sharpened teeth.
Conversation stuttered and died as I entered, replaced by the rustling of silks and the soft clinking of porcelain as teacups were lowered to saucers.
Twenty pairs of eyes turned toward me with expressions ranging from open hostility to feigned disinterest. I straightened my spine and stepped forward, the wooden floor creaking beneath my weight as if the very palace conspired to announce my unwelcome presence.
I moved further into the room, aware of every eye that tracked my progress while pretending not to look.
Lady Lorraine whispered behind her fan to Countess Elspeth, their gazes flicking toward me then away.
Lord Hathely’s wife shifted in her seat as though my mere proximity might contaminate her.
I recognized the daughters of several noble houses clustered around Cordelia, who sat at her mother’s right hand, a perfect echo of Ira’s regal posture.
Ira herself remained seated, forcing me to approach and make obeisance.
Another of her small power plays. I crossed the room with measured steps, keeping my back straight and my expression neutral.
Thick rugs muffled my footfalls, creating an illusion that I glided rather than walked, adding to the whispers that followed me everywhere within these walls.
When I reached her, I sank into a curtsy that was exactly the depth required by protocol and not a hair’s breadth deeper. “Your Majesty,” I murmured, my voice pitched to carry no further than necessary. “Thank you for your kind invitation.”
Ira’s lips curved in what might have appeared to others as a smile.
To me, who had studied her expressions for years, it was merely a baring of teeth.
“Mireille,” she said loudly, my name in her mouth sounding like something distasteful.
“How fortunate that you could join us today. I had begun to fear you preferred the company of shadows to that of the court.”