Chapter 72 Olivia
Chapter seventy-two
Olivia
King Hamon XI.
Olivia rolled her eyes at the sheer pretentiousness of it all as she stalked down the palace corridor, weaving in between traitorous courtiers and fighting hard to keep the limp from her step.
Pain thrummed down her left leg, all the way from her hip to her knee—a deep, grinding ache that pulsed in time with her heartbeat.
The urge to reach for her flask clawed at her. Her mind tried to trick her, to remind her of how easy it would be to take a sip. A familiar itch in her throat. A phantom burn on her tongue.
She ignored it.
She needed her wits now more than ever. To stay sharp. To convince this den of traitors that she was one of them until she could find a way to burn the entire farce to the ground.
But for now, aimlessness guided her steps. She had no purpose in this court. No role. Her fingers itched for something to do, so she clasped her hands behind her back and turned the next corner, long legs carrying her toward the library once more.
A flash of crimson cut across her path, blocking the way forward.
Samira.
Olivia skid to a halt, her bad leg protesting the sudden stop with a spear of hot pain up her thigh. She swallowed the wince and forced her face not to flinch.
The witch didn’t just stand there; she occupied the space, sucking the very air out of the corridor. Samira probably thought she looked rather imposing and regal in her blood-red robes, golden chains flashing at her throat in the sunlight.
Really, she just looked like she was trying too hard.
Olivia tried to step around her, fighting to keep her face blank, but the other woman mirrored the movement, silk whispering against stone.
“Mistress Olivia,” Samira purred, a bright smile curving her lips. “Might we speak a moment?”
Olivia ground her teeth, forcing a tight smile of her own. “I’m afraid I’m in a bit of a rush, Lady Chancellor. Busy social schedule and all that. Surely the king needs you for…” She spared the woman a head to toe glance, deliberately slow. “Whatever it is you do.”
For a single moment, Samira’s smile faltered. A crack in the facade. But then it returned in full force—less bright this time, more sharp. “Walk with me, Olivia.”
Not a request. A command.
Olivia hesitated. Every instinct she had screamed at her to run. But one should never run from a predator like Samira.
Predators enjoyed the chase.
Pressing her lips into a thin line, she fell into step beside the witch. The cool marble underfoot echoed their steps—hers a steady tap, Samira’s satin slippers soundless.
Smiling, triumphant, Samira turned and continued on down the hall. “I find it all rather curious,” the witch mused as they walked. “That His Majesty allows you to walk about the palace so freely. Unattended. Unwatched.”
Olivia shrugged, the motion sharp, controlled. “What can I say,” she deadpanned, “I am a trustworthy soul.”
Samira glanced sidelong at her. Those eyes—golden, unnatural—bored straight through her skull. “I just find it strange. Given the rumors. Whispers that you were…close with the false queen.”
Olivia clenched her jaw, refusing to answer or comment. Her tongue pressed hard to the back of her teeth to keep a sharp retort from slipping out. What did this woman want with her? If she had a problem, she could take it up with the king.
With her father.
Father. Every time she thought about it, a bitter laugh tried to crawl up her throat. Every time, she strangled it down, letting the bitterness sit cold and heavy in her chest instead.
She had known for years. Her mother had left her enough clues to figure it out. When she was younger, she had been foolish enough to think perhaps if she was…good enough, she might gain his notice. That if she only behaved, only converted to his faith, only made something of herself, he might…care.
How pathetic she had been as a girl.
Squaring her shoulders, she pushed such thoughts away. That was then. This was now. She no longer cared about what “King Hamon” thought about her.
Now, she just wanted to survive.
Now, she just wanted to help Seraphina.
Samira seemed unbothered as the silence stretched on between them—heavy and awkward. The witch kept walking, leading them deeper into the palace. The further they went, the quieter it grew. Fewer nobles. Fewer servants. Only the distant hum of the city beyond the palace walls.
What was left of it.
After a time, Olivia realized where they were going. The guest suites. Where Seraphina and her father before her used to house visiting dignitaries.
Now, the hallway lay silent. Dust motes danced in the shafts of light cutting through the windows, drifting in lazy spirals that made the air look stale.
Samira stopped in front of the third door on the left. She produced a heavy iron key from her sash, the metal clinking against her golden chains, loud in the hush.
With a sigh, the witch mused, “I had always hoped you and I could be friends, you know. Given that you have something I need.” She slid the key into the lock. “And I have something you want.”
The witch twisted the key. The mechanism clicked, echoing in the empty corridor.
Olivia barked out a laugh before she could stop it. “Unless you have some dream petal in your pocket, I don’t—”
Samira flung the door open.
The rest of her words shriveled in her throat as she caught sight of the man tied to a chair in the center of the room.
Tristan Dacre.
His hands were bound behind him. A gag of rough cloth cut across his mouth, digging into the corners. But his eyes—those bright, sea-green eyes—locked onto hers instantly. Even now, they lightened at the sight of her, making her stomach roil.
The man was a mess. His armor was gone. His doublet was torn. Blood smeared down the side of his pretty face from a gash at his temple. It was red and wet. A droplet slid along his jaw and fell, spattering on the rug.
Fresh.
Pain, hot and blinding, flared in her chest, worse than anything her leg had ever given her. Her grip tightened on nothing, fingers curling against the air. What was this witch doing with her knight? He had escaped. He had gotten out.
Samira leaned against the doorframe, watching her with an entirely too smug smile on her face, as if she were admiring her own handiwork.
Olivia forced her jaw to unclench, though her hands still shook, betraying her. She hid the tremor by crossing her arms over her chest, fingers digging into her own sleeves until her nails bit skin.
“So?” she asked, keeping her voice flat. “You caught a stray soldier. Congratulations. What would I care?”
Samira’s golden eyes narrowed. She pushed off the doorframe, moving toward Tristan with a leisurely, terrifying grace. The skirts of her robes whispered over the floor. “Oh, really? Then I suppose you won’t mind if I just…”
In a blur of motion, a blade appeared in her hand—a witchblade. Olivia’s breath caught. Sickly light pulsed faintly in the jewel at the pommel. Without a moment’s hesitation, the witch dared to press the tip of it against Tristan’s chest, right over his heart, dimpling the fabric there.
“He will make such a pretty Witchsworn,” Samira taunted.
Tristan didn’t flinch at the witch’s words. He just kept looking at her—not with fear or accusation. But as if he were trying to commit her to memory.
As if he were memorizing her in case this was the last time he ever saw her.
Olivia’s resolve shattered.
“Stop!” she snarled, taking a step into the room, her bad leg jolting in protest. Her arms fell back to her sides. Her hands curled into fists.
Samira froze. She didn’t look surprised. She looked delighted. “Ah,” she sighed, not moving the blade an inch. “There we are. That was not so hard, was it?”
Olivia trembled. She hated her. Lady, she hated this woman so much she could taste it—bitter and metallic at the back of her tongue. She wanted to tear her throat out with her teeth. Wanted to see those golden eyes go dark.
But she stood frozen, held captive by the threat of the blade hovering over Tristan’s heart.
“What is it you want?” Olivia asked, biting out each syllable.
Samira smiled. It was the smile of a wolf standing over a wounded lamb.
“Seraphina de la Croix, of course,” the witch whispered, pressing the blade that much tighter against Tristan’s chest. “Dead.”