Chapter 9 Bravery Undone #2
“You aren’t welcome here,” Cordelia shrieked, taking a step toward me.
Her golden hair had come loose from its elaborate wedding style, hanging in tangled strands around her face.
“Not when your monster of a husband is slaughtering our people. Not while his seed still cools in your treacherous womb.”
I recoiled at Cordelia’s words, each syllable a knife between my ribs. Bile rose in my throat, but I forced it down. I had no time for their accusations.
“Where is Lysa?” I demanded again, my voice steadier now despite the trembling in my limbs. “I found blood in her nursery. Her nurse is dead.”
“And whose fault is that?” Queen Ira’s voice was ice, her eyes narrowed to slits. “My daughter may likely be dead because of you. Because you opened your legs to that monster and invited him into our home.”
My fingernails bit into my palms. “I did what you demanded of me. What Father demanded. This marriage was to bring peace—“
“Peace?” Cordelia’s laugh was brittle, bordering on hysteria. “Where is this peace, bastard. We should have known that the Blood King of Nocthar wanted nothing more from you but access to our kingdom.”
My chest rose and fell with her words, and I felt any hope I had harbored for a somewhat cordial marriage dissolve. For she was right, we should have known. I should have known a king would never want me for anything more than a means to an end.
Cordelia’s smile grew, her eyes turning truly wicked as she noted my reaction. “Oh, poor little bastard. You actually thought he might want you,” she whispered, getting closer to my face. I felt her spittle hit my chin as she spat her next words. “You will never be wanted by anyone.”
Darius stepped between us before I could strike her, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. “Princesses, this bickering serves no purpose. The palace is overrun. We must focus on escape.”
I wanted to scream, to rage. Instead, I let out a bitter laugh with my next breath. “Escape where?” I asked, scanning the room again for any sign of my father or brothers. “Where is the king? Where are the princes?”
Grief flickered across Ira’s face then—a spasm of pain so raw it transformed her cold beauty into something almost human. “The king was in the council chamber when they came. The boys were in their rooms. We don’t know if they escaped.”
“And Lysa?” I pressed, dread climbing up my throat.
“We don’t know,” Darius answered when neither Ira nor Cordelia would. “The attack came so suddenly. We barely had time to get the queen and princess to safety.”
I stared at them in disbelief. “You left her? You left a three-year-old child alone?”
“We did what we could,” Darius said, but the shame in his eyes told me he knew it wasn’t enough.
“What you could?” I echoed, my voice rising.
“Don’t you dare judge us,” Cordelia hissed. “Where were you when they came? Oh, that’s right, in your bridal bed with the butcher who’s killing our family!”
The accusation landed like a physical blow.
I felt a warmth in my chest, an uncomfortable heat that I recognized as guilt mingled with rage.
Yes, I had been with Valen. Yes, I had surrendered to him, had even begun to think that perhaps our marriage might be more than a political arrangement. What a fool I’d been.
“Stay here, then,” I said, turning back toward the door. “I’m going to find her.”
“You can’t leave,” one of the guards said, moving to block my path. “We have orders to protect the royal family.”
“I am not of the royal family,” I snarled. “I am King Aeldrin’s bastard daughter, King Valen’s wife. So move.”
The guard looked uncertainly at Darius, who still stood with his hand on his sword hilt, conflict clearly written across his face.
“Mireille,” he said softly, pleadingly. “Stay. Please. It’s not safe out there.”
“It’s not safe anywhere,” I replied. “And Lysa needs me.”
“She’s probably already dead,” Ira said, her voice flat and emotionless. “Like my sons. Like my husband.”
I whirled to face her. “And you’ll hide here like a rat while your daughter’s body grows cold? What kind of mother are you?”
Ira drew herself up, her regal bearing intact even in this underground hole. “The kind who survives. The kind who will see these heathens pay for what they’ve done.”
I looked from her to Cordelia, who stood with her chin raised despite the fear I could see trembling in her shoulders. They probably would survive. Roaches, the two of them.
But Lysa, small and trusting Lysa, needed someone who would do more than survive. She needed someone who would fight.
“Protect the queen and princess,” I said to Darius, the words dripping with bitter irony. “I have to find my sister.”
“Mireille, don’t,” Darius caught my arm, his grip gentle but insistent. “Please.”
For a moment, I thought I would scream, not due to the tenderness in his eyes or our shared history. But how he could expect me to leave Lysa to die. This man, with whom I had shared countless stolen moments, finally proving he truly did not know me at all.
“I have to find her,” I said, my voice broken, but unyielding. “She’s only three, Darius. She’s alone and terrified, if she’s even still—“ I broke off. I couldn’t finish the thought. “I have to go.”
I pulled away from him and pushed past the guard, who made no real attempt to stop me. As I stepped back into the stairwell, Darius called after me once more.
“Mireille!”
I paused, not looking back.
“Be careful,” he said. “And... if you find her... bring her here. I’ll make sure she’s protected.”
I nodded once, sharply, but knew I would not bring her to Darius or her mother. I would ensure she got out of this palace, even if it killed me in the process.
I raced back toward the nursery, a desperate idea taking root where only despair had grown before.
In the moment of shock and panic, I couldn’t think.
Now, my mind was sharper. All palaces had their secrets, hidden spaces, forgotten passages, and no one knew Lysa’s rooms better than I did.
If she had escaped the initial attack, if she had remembered our games of hide and seek, I knew where she would be hiding.
Hope was a dangerous luxury on this night of bloodshed, but I clung to it anyway.
The palace had grown quieter, a silence more terrifying than screams. It meant the killing was nearly done, the survivors few.
I pressed myself against walls, ducked behind tapestries, and held my breath as armored boots marched past intersecting corridors.
Once, I froze as two Nocthari soldiers dragged a struggling servant toward the great hall.
I could have called out, distracted them, perhaps saved her.
Instead, I remained hidden, my mission too vital to risk.
Her eyes met mine for just a moment as they hauled her past my hiding place.
I would carry that accusatory gaze to my grave.
When I reached the nursery again, the nurse’s body remained where I’d left it, though now her skin had taken on the waxy pallor that follows death.
I stepped around her, careful not to disturb her final dignity.
The bloodstained bed still dominated the room, its crimson message no less horrifying for a second viewing.
“Lysa,” I whispered, low enough that only someone listening for it might hear. “Lysa, it’s Mireille.”
No reply. I hadn’t truly expected one. If she were here, she’d be too frightened to respond to just a voice.
I moved systematically through the space, my eyes scanning the walls, looking for the subtle irregularity that even I sometimes missed.
There, near the corner farthest from the door, a section of wainscoting that didn’t quite match the rest. It was our secret, Lysa’s and mine.
A hidden space I’d discovered months ago—a forgotten servant’s passage, perhaps, or a builder’s oversight.
I’d shown it to Lysa during one of our afternoon visits, making it our special hideaway, lining it with pillows and stocking it with treats and small treasures.
I’d shown her how to access it, making her practice until her tiny fingers could find the hidden catch without hesitation.
“A princess needs her secrets,” I’d told her, never imagining those words might someday save her life.
I knelt beside the wall panel and pressed my fingers against the decorative molding, feeling for the small depression that would release the latch. My hands trembled so badly that I missed it twice before the mechanism finally clicked and the panel swung inward with a whisper of wood against wood.
Darkness greeted me. I leaned forward, peering into the black void of the small cubby. “Lysa?” I whispered, my heart hammering so loudly I feared it would drown out any response.
“Lysa?” I called again, louder now. “It’s Miri. Are you in there?”
A faint rustling sound from the darkness. Then, so quiet I almost missed it, “Miri?”
My heart nearly burst. “Yes, it’s me. It’s safe to come out now.”
More rustling, and then a tiny hand appeared at the crack, followed by a small face smudged with dust and tears. Lysa blinked up at me, her honey-gold curls flattened on one side, her nightgown torn at the hem. She looked impossibly small and fragile, but alive. Gloriously, miraculously alive.
“Miri,” she said again, her voice steadier now. “Bad men came.”
I gathered her into my arms, pressing her close against my chest where my heart beat wildly with relief and lingering fear. “I know, sweet one. I know.”
She pulled back just enough to look up at me, her small face solemn in the moonlight as she placed both hands on either side of my face. “I hid,” she said. “Like in our game. I was trying to be brave like you.”
A sob caught in my throat. “You were so very brave,” I managed, smoothing back her tangled curls. “The bravest in all of Vareth.”