Chapter 2 #3
Princess Cion walked down the length of the royal wing, her head held high. Several highborn ladies stopped as she passed, bowing and whispering condolences. She ignored them all, keeping her expression fixed and stern under the veil.
They walked with her all the way to the Great Hall, where King Johannas and Queen Lona waited on the heavy, gold-rimmed thrones lined with spears said to have once belonged to Kronos himself. A shiver raced up Soren’s spine as she eyed them.
She thought it would have been terrifying to live at a time when the gods still walked the mortal realm freely, when the dragons came into being, forged by Vulcan, the god of fire, their seed of life from Sol himself.
What was even more terrifying was that King Johannas came from a line that had lived in a time akin to that.
His father, the princess’ grandfather, had lived when magic from the gods still existed.
The previous king had seen mortals hold the power of magic, had once held a piece of that power himself.
The king’s crown was even crafted into jagged streaks, reminding them all of what his bloodline could do.
Lightning had been his father’s magical affinity many years ago. Soren supposed the crown was a reminder of the power his family once held, a reminder to all of who they dared tally with if they disobeyed the king.
The king and queen wore the same traditional black mourning clothes as the princess. Soren had once heard the thin veils over women’s faces were not just to keep away ill spirits but also meant to conceal their tears.
The queen’s eyes were red-rimmed, but her midnight hair was swept back from her face and under the veil, her makeup flawless as ever.
The king’s face was set in grim determination as the princess approached.
Various lords and ladies lingered in the alcoves and balconies around the room, watching and waiting.
Even little Princess Chelsa, the youngest royal at only nine, stood just below the dais, trying not to fidget.
Princess Cion bowed low in front of her parents.
Soren, Mona, Thelia, and Jasmen lowered to their knees, lingering just behind her, watching and waiting, always.
They were Princess Cion’s ladies to the grave, and through forced loyalty and conditioned fierceness, they protected her.
Soren would not admit, even in the quiet of her own mind, that her devotion to the princess extended beyond any conditions of enslavement or servitude.
The king raised a hand, indicating for them to rise.
As Soren stood, she caught a glimpse of the above, where Nyx and Thanatos gazed down upon them from the painted ceiling, surrounded by star-speckled heavens and half-moons in which godlings hung and frolicked.
But as soon as her gaze caught on Thanatos’ brow, she quickly looked away.
If she was caught lingering too long—if anyone was now—there would be grave consequences.
She was sure the king took the mark as a personal message, and anyone who dared to question the occurrence would find themselves without a head.
Ahead, the king gazed across his throne room, a flat expression on his face.
He never showed any awe over the grandeur spread before him—never seemed to behold the gleaming marble floors or the enormous pillars coated in creeping ivy or even stop a moment to enjoy the masterpiece painted above them.
Instead, he merely sat smugly atop the throne.
Still, Soren had noticed the way he tended to grip the handrests.
It was as if he was afraid someone was going to rip the power from him at any moment.
When his eyes finally landed on the princess, he said in a booming voice, “Speak, daughter.”
Princess Cion took a short breath, too audible in the still, quiet air of the hall. She needed to keep her nerves at bay. Each soul here was watching, waiting for her to rise or fall in the wake of her brother’s death.
“My king,” she began. “I come with a request.”
The princess knew King Johannas was well aware of what she wanted. Everyone in this room, including Soren herself, knew that. But she was purposely feeding him power to appease him, at least at first. Even amongst members of the royal family itself, there were games to be played.
“Continue,” the king said, quieter now, though nothing about his tone was gentle.
Princess Cion lifted her chin slightly, just enough to display her own bit of power.
“When I was a child, one of the revered Sisters of Arcane prophesied I was destined to be a warrior, to ride astride the greatest beasts to ever grace the sky. All I ask now is that I am allowed to fulfill this destiny.”
King Johannas sat back in the throne, his brow narrowing. “You are not ill-witted, daughter. I know this to be true. So, I ask: why even make the request?”
Princess Cion’s nostrils flared slightly, and Soren tensed.
Hold your temper, princess, she thought. Do not play into his mockery.
“I request this,” the princess began evenly, “because even royals such as us cannot change the winds of fate. They will direct us to where we are meant to be, no matter how we might try and resist.”
“So you think me a fool?”
The princess bowed her head again. “No, my king.”
King Johannas paused, and the room held its breath. Perhaps this was it, the moment the warrior princess of Aren simply became the ‘heir.’
“I will allow you to undergo the Choosing ceremony and live out your ‘fate’ as a warrior,” the king finally said. “But after you serve your allotted three years in your station, you will return to begin formal training as my heir.”
Soren watched disappointment flood Princess Cion’s features then promptly disappear. It was carefully practiced, the immediate concealment of her emotions. The princess knew she would be a fool not to take her father’s offer, as no others would likely come from his lips.
She lowered her eyes to the floor. “Thank you, Father.”
The king stood abruptly, and so did anyone else seated in the hall. He gave Princess Cion a hard look before sweeping off the dais into the council room behind the Great Hall.
His command was clear: Follow.
Princess Cion’s throat clicked audibly next to Soren. This was far from over. Still, she kept her head held high as she strode towards the heavy door. Queen Lona stepped off the dais, immediately surrounded by her own ladies. She caught Soren’s eye for a brief moment.
Soren knew what it meant without any further indication or words. The queen was in need of her services. Her throat tightened at the prospect, but she set the fear aside for later. She would go to the queen in her chamber tonight, perhaps while Princess Cion was dining.
Little Princess Chelsa eyed her sister’s handmaidens curiously, as she always did, her gaze lingering on Soren the longest, as it always had.
Soren had no idea why the small princess was so interested in them.
She was proper in a way all mothers of high society longed for their daughters to be.
With long, dark tresses perfectly waved with hot irons each morning and fine silk dresses she slipped into without ever fussing, she was the definition of prim.
Soren often heard other servants, even Misean slaves, talking sweetly about the princess.
And truthfully, Soren could not fault a child for the bloody war that raged hundreds of miles away.
She would be a monster and a fool to do so.
Then again, plenty of men in power let their hot-headed anger rule their decisions.
It had always seemed odd to Soren that politics were the one place women were sparse in, that they were the ones said to be too emotional.
The sweet-faced princess swept past her, led away by a nanny and paraded out of the hall. With her, Soren let all wild thoughts of politics and battle and passion drift away too. She needed to focus.
Soren and the other handmaidens reached the door, and Princess Cion turned.
Out of the group of her most trusted ladies, only one of them would be allowed in as her cupbearer.
Who the princess chose always signified trust and who held the most of it currently.
Soren had never been chosen in the past, though in fairness, there had not been many occasions.
But now, the princess looked straight at her, green eyes filled with intent.
“Soren,” she murmured. “Come inside.”
Soren bowed her head immediately in thanks, as was the custom, before stepping ahead and pushing the heavy door open for the princess. Once they were both inside, Soren paused. She had never stepped into the small council chamber before, but it was as opulent as she had imagined.
Chairs made of soft, woven wood lined a long table, both made from rare Golden Nectar trees, said to have originally come from Arcadia. The surface of the table was covered in a long runner of turquoise-stained silk and laden with silver goblets and pitchers of sweet berry wine.
The large, arched window looked out across the cliffs beyond, creating a dizzying effect.
It felt oddly as if she were standing on the edge of the world as she glanced outside.
And perhaps, in a way, she was. This was the room where decisions that had caused the deaths of thousands of her people occurred.
Now, it would be the room where the princess’ life was surely to change forever, though Soren had little idea of how.
“Sit, Cion,” the king said, taking a spot in his own chair at the head of the table.