Chapter 1 #2
The princess took Soren’s hand with her uninjured one and said, “Soren, you can say ‘taken.’ You don’t have to spew some benevolent nonsense that your life here is better or that you’re glad you’re a servant.”
Slave, Soren almost corrected, but she held her tongue. Instead, she merely murmured, “Yes, my princess.”
Princess Cion shook her head. “Never mind my questions. I know it must be painful for you. Come. I want you to attend me while I train today.”
Soren was silent as she helped the princess dress in training garb: thick leather pants and a scaled, armored vest over her tunic. Dragon scales, Soren had been told, just like the dragon that someday soon would be bonded to the princess.
She was destined to be a rider.
Only the best in Aren were conscripted to be chosen as riders. They all came from noble families, training for years before the Choosing, a ceremony during which a dragon personally selected them. If not chosen, the rumor was, they died by dragonfire.
But Princess Cion would be, undoubtedly.
It had been predicted by a Sister of the Arcane when she was a child.
The Sisters’ prophetic abilities were of the last remnants of the magic that had disappeared from the continent nearly a hundred years ago.
No one knew why or how. According to the histories, one day, it had just…
disappeared. Aside from the Sisters, the bond between a rider and a dragon was the closest thing to magic these days.
Princess Cion strode towards the door, and Soren fell into step behind her, ducking her head in a familiar act of submission.
She had seen enough servants struck because they were ‘looking around’ too much, despite the order that they were supposed to also be constantly vigilant for threats to those they served.
The royal wing was still empty and nearly silent, but as they passed Prince Nell’s chambers, Soren could hear the violent retching from within.
Princess Cion glanced at the door, and for just a moment, concern flickered across her features.
It was quickly replaced by her usual, even calm.
Soren didn’t dare comment on the prince’s illness.
They descended the main stone stairwell that connected the wing to the rest of the palace.
Sunlight shone in from tall, arched windows, illuminating the rich material of woven tapestries and colorful rugs.
The afternoon light shone off the spotless white marble floors, and the air smelled like jasmine.
The palace was a bright, beautiful place.
Even Soren could admit that.
She often wondered if Kelshie was somewhere beautiful, even if she knew it was unlikely.
Her elder sister had been sent off to be trained and shoved out onto the battlefield, fighting for the king who had slaughtered their family and friends.
And here Soren was, living under the same roof of that very king, serving his house and even becoming friendly with his daughter.
She quickly pushed the thoughts away before they could swallow her whole and stepped into the entrance hall with the princess.
The vast, high ceiling was covered in a mural, a depiction of the goddess Nyx and her consort, Thanatos. For a flash, she looked up and let her gaze catch on the silvery-hued eyes of the gods as they stared down at her, at all of them.
Night and Death personified.
She had always wondered why King Johannas’ ancestors had commissioned the two gods in particular to be their watchers.
Out of the eight principal gods who reigned in Arcadia, she would have thought Kronos, their king, or Sol, the god of light, would be more popular choices.
Still, she always had an appreciation for the mural, despite its general lack of color and brightness.
Before the princess could see, she tore her eyes from the mural and followed her down one of the many winding hallways that branched off from the grand entrance hall.
The simple stone corridor they turned down led out to the training yard where Sir Gellings, the princess’ personal trainer, was waiting.
The palace guards did not use this yard; instead, it was almost always empty for the princess. Dust from the packed dirt beneath their feet made its way between Soren’s toes as she headed to her usual spot.
She perched on a rough wooden stool as the princess picked up a slim sword from the rack of weapons, testing the balance in her hand before she approached Sir Gellings.
The knight, a tall, weathered man with a bald head and scarred face, bowed to the princess, his own heavy sword in hand. As usual, she sighed in irritation at his formalities, and he ignored her mockery.
Quickly, though, the humor left their faces.
Soren watched closely as they began to spar without a word. They moved so fast. It reminded her of a deadly dance. She often found herself wishing she could move in such a manner.
Princess Cian won the third round, grinning and breathing heavy as they lowered their weapons.
Sir Gellings voice was a rough bark as he told the princess, “Good. Three laps around the yard.”
The princess groaned but did as he said, jogging around the expansive circle.
Sir Gellings caught Soren’s eye, and his mouth tightened in disapproval, his hazel eyes narrowing.
Quickly, she dropped her gaze, looking down at her hands, slightly calloused from work.
When she looked up again, the knight stood in front of her, still holding his sword.
“Are you or the princess in need of something, sire?” Soren asked quietly, meekly even. She sounded as she should.
The knight ‘smiled,’ though it was much more of a cruel grimace. “You were watching us.”
Soren’s chest tightened. “Yes, sire. I am always watching Her Highness. It is my duty to attend to her needs and, if need be, protect her.”
“And have you ever been trained?”
He was laughing at her.
Heat crawled up her neck onto her cheeks. “No, sire,” she said, tamping down a sudden urge to lash out. “Not with a blade or a bow.”
“But you know other things, don’t you?”
Soren froze. This was not something the knight should know—what the queen used her and a few of Princess Cion’s handmaids for.
Soren had been trained in several arts of the night, but the queen usually called upon her when poison was preferred.
She could detect it, identify it, though the queen had never made her use it against someone.
Still, Soren knew she was in no way blameless, sure the queen had used Soren’s knowledge for hurting others, perhaps even killing them.
She had never been caught, but another girl, Amelea, had been, three seasons ago, and put to the execution block.
She was fully aware Queen Lona used her and the other handmaidens as buffers for her own evil-doings.
If they were caught, it could be blamed on a rogue slave or servant, not the crown itself.
“I am not stupid, girl,” Sir Gellings said in a low voice. “I know many of the handmaidens of this palace are not just that.”
Soren looked away, resisting the urge to raise her chin or give any other show of defiance. Silence was likely the best option at the moment.
“Gellings!” Princess Cion called.
The knight turned. “Yes, my princess?”
“Stop harassing Soren and come and train me like you’re being paid to do!”
Sir Gellings let out a gruff breath but nodded, his gaze lingering on Soren for a moment longer before he turned.
A few hours later, while Soren and her other handmaidens helped the princess bathe in water scented with fragrant petals and milk, she asked, “What did Sir Gellings want with you, Soren?”
Soren swallowed as she gently poured water over the princess’ long, silky black hair. She had to be very careful what she said in reply.
“I think he saw me watching you train,” she told the princess, massaging a floral-scented oil into her roots. “He asked if I had any interest in it.”
Princess Cion twisted, facing Soren. “And do you?”
A surprised laugh bubbled up, but Soren tamped it down. “Of course not, Your Highness. My duty is to serve you alone.”
Mona, Thelia, and Jasmen all eyed Soren warily. They must have lacked discreteness, because Princess Cion noticed and said to all of them, “You’re not in trouble, Soren. I was just curious.”
“Of course, Your Highness,” Soren murmured, rinsing the rest of the soap and oil from her hair.
Once the princess was done bathing and the water was drained, Soren and Mona went to retrieve Princess Cion’s dinner while Thelia helped her dress.
As soon as they were alone, Mona hissed, “What was that about?”
Soren pressed her lips together. “The knight who trains the princess, Sir Gellings—he knows. About what Her Majesty has us do. He inquired about it today.”
Mona’s eyes widened. “You need to tell Her Majesty. Immediately.”
“The knight is important to the princess,” Soren murmured. “You know what will happen to him if I say anything.”
“Do you want to be caught?” Mona whispered harshly. “Do you want to be blamed for—”
“No!” Soren whispered harshly. “Of course not.”
“You care too much for them.” Mona’s voice was barely a whisper. The words were dangerous, and they both knew it. “Remember who they are. Remember what they have done.”
Soren glanced at the closed door to the prince’s chambers down the hall as Mona’s words washed over her.
Sudden, cold fury overwhelmed her; of course she remembered.
They were trapped in the kingdom of a tyrant king who had overreached.
And when Prince Nell eventually rose to power, she knew it would only get worse.
It would almost be better if he died now and Princess Cion or her sister took the throne.
She would stop it if she could, but she was powerless. They all were.
“We should get her dinner,” Soren said, voice flat.
She suddenly felt so numb, so devoid of emotion. Defeat did that to a person, she supposed.
“Yes, we should, and—”
But Mona cut herself off as Hector practically stumbled from the prince’s chambers, his eyes bloodshot and wide, his lips pale. Both Soren and Mona stilled when they saw his dazed expression.
“Hector,” Soren said, taking a step forward, holding out a tentative hand. He was trembling so hard, each breath was audible. “What is it?”
“He’s gone,” Hector breathed, not looking at them but at the night sky beyond. “The gods took him.”
Soren froze, her hand midair, and Mona muttered, “Holy gods.”
Hector shut his eyes, taking a shuddering breath before insisting, “Forget I said that. You cannot know. No one can, not yet.”
“I thought it was merely an ailment of the stomach,” Mona whispered.
Soren cleared her throat then tugged on Mona’s hand and said in a voice steadier than she felt, “We need to retrieve the princess’ dinner. She will wonder what is taking so long.”
Hector cleared his throat. “Yes, you should go. And not a word to the others, either of you. I’m going to notify His Majesty, but I’m sure he’ll want discreteness for as long as possible.”
The two of them hurried away from the hall, where Hector was opening the supply closet and retrieving a clean sheet.
She and Mona took their usual route, cutting through a servant’s passage and crossing the laundry chamber before entering the kitchens. Wordlessly, they retrieved the princess’ tray, neither of them looking at each other nor anyone else.
By the time they had returned to the royal wing, Hector was gone, the door shut again. But now, there was commotion inside the prince’s room as they passed. Soren could hear the voices and the sounds of people shuffling about. Hector must have informed the king and queen.
When they entered Princess Cion’s chamber, her eyes were shining and wide, her brow pinched with concern as she wrung her hands in her lap.
“What is happening?” she asked as Soren set her dinner on the small table by the balcony doors. “I heard people running in the hall to Nells’ room.”
Soren did not say anything, but Mona’s hands shook as she poured the princess a silver goblet of red wine. Outside in the hall, the sound of someone wailing pierced the air, and Princess Cion rose to her feet immediately.
On some protective instinct, Soren moved in front of the door, blocking the princess’ way.
“Let me through, Soren,” Princess Cion said in a hard voice.
Thelia glanced at Mona in confusion as Soren said, “I think you may want to wait, Your Highness.”
“Soren. Move. Now,” the princess ordered, her eyes shining with unshed tears.
Soren had no choice but to step aside.
The princess stepped out into the hallway, her steps slow and tentative. It reminded Soren of when she was on the defense during training. She sensed danger and was preparing to handle it, except that this was not the kind of danger one could run from or fight.
“Should we follow?” Mona said softly.
Soren met the other handmaiden’s blue eyes—Misean eyes—and nodded once.
Thalia and Jasmen lingered in the bedchamber, nervously twisting their hands in the fabric of their dresses.
Soren and Mona stepped into the hallway just as Princess Cion pushed the half-open door to the prince’s bedchambers wide.
“Out!” Soren heard the queen shriek from inside. “Out! Get her out now!”
Soren rushed forward without thinking, running to the princess’ side just as she stumbled back into the hallway, averting her eyes from what surely lay inside. But just before the guards closed the door, a tug in her chest had her looking up.
The prince was indeed dead.
His skin was paper-white, stretched over his face too tightly, his mouth twisted in a gruesome expression that looked like a silent scream.
Wide open, his lifeless eyes were bloodshot and strained, nearly popping out of his head.
And on his brow, there was a strange mark.
It looked like it had been inked on with midnight ash, contrasting sharply against his pale skin.
The door shut, and Princess Cion fell to her knees in the hallway. Soren caught her as she collapsed, shaking with silent sobs. As she stroked the princess’ dark hair back from her forehead in soothing, calming motions, she realized why she had recognized the mark.
She had seen it just today, in the entrance hall, on the ceiling. It was the same mark that sat upon Thanatos’ head. A moon, broken apart by a blade.
Nyx’s mark.
Prince Nell of Aren had been claimed for death by the goddess of night herself.