Chapter 2
ChApter
Two
As soon as I enter my chambers, I claw at the laces of my bodice.
The silk clings to me as if it were painted onto my skin, heavy and stiff, the fabric pressing against my ribs.
It’s almost as suffocating as the hold King Silas has on my freedom.
I rip at the ties, impatient, my breath shallow from the weight of it all.
The black skirts pool around my feet with a sigh, but there’s no relief—not really.
Just the ghost of the throne room still stabbing at my thoughts, wrapping around my throat like a noose.
“Your Highness,” Indira says sharply as she follows me into the room, “you must remain in your mourning clothes.”
I glance over my shoulder. She’s standing by the doorway, her hands folded neatly in front of her, but her brow is pinched with worry. Whether for me or for her duties, I can’t say.
“Must I?”
“We’ve gone over this. It is the custom,” she says with a shrug. “A woman who has lost her betrothed is to observe a period of mourning. During this time, you are expected to wear black in public and to refrain from being seen alone with a man.”
I exhale sharply. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Perhaps. But it is tradition. And King Silas will expect you to follow it, especially since he is keeping guardianship over you. To the people of Hedera, you are a grieving princess, and anything less than a proper display of mourning will be taken as an insult.”
My fingers curl into fists at my sides. I don’t want to mourn Torbin.
I don’t want to pretend that I’m sad he isn’t here, because what I feel is quite the opposite.
I’m finally free from his torment, no longer repressed by his manipulation.
But Indira is right. I don’t want to give the king any reason to make things harder for me—or for Delasurvia.
And I don’t want the people of Hedera to think I’m a cold, heartless, thankless bitch.
Indira watches me for a moment. “For now, it is important to do what is expected of you.”
“I’ll wear my black trousers.” My voice is hoarse as I step toward the armoire. “Is that good enough?”
“Barely.” Her tone is disapproving but not cruel.
I yank open the doors and tug free the dark trousers and a loose black tunic. The material is plain, less regal than that of the gowns I’m expected to wear but still acceptable. Still in line with the appearance of a grieving princess. Whatever that means.
The king’s words still echo in my skull. The subtle condemnation in them. His gaze when he spoke of Torbin’s fall—not letting me forget that I was the one who pushed him.
Indira watches me as she gathers my discarded dress from the floor. “You’re also expected to stay in your room most of the time, so why does it look like you’re planning on going somewhere?”
I shove one leg into the trousers, then the other. “I need to see my uncle, Indira,” I say, my voice low but unwavering. “Surely, you can understand that.”
There’s a beat of silence, then the soft rustle of fabric as she steps closer.
“There hasn’t been any change,” she says, softer now. “Perhaps if you give it more time—”
“He needs family by his side.” I fasten the front of my tunic, the motion stiff with tension.
“No matter if he’s conscious to realize it.
And I’m the only family he’s got. We’re blood.
” And after what the king said today, I need to see someone who might still remember who I am beneath all the mourning lace and silk.
Indira hesitates. “Then at least allow me to accompany you—”
“No.” I turn to her, gentler this time. “Sir Holden will escort me.”
She doesn’t look pleased, but after a moment, she dips her chin in a slow nod. “Very well. But please don’t linger long. It wouldn’t be good if anyone saw you dressed like this.”
“I won’t linger,” I promise. “And thank you.”
As she slips quietly from the room, I sink down onto the edge of the chaise and run my hands over my face.
Nadya had gone to her own rooms after the king’s announcement.
She’d offered a squeeze of my hand and a faint, tired smile, but I could see how the weight of the day pressed on her too.
A part of me wanted to pull her close, to ask her to stay and provide me the emotional strength I need, but I didn’t.
I couldn’t. She deserves better than to carry my worries alongside her own.
I draw in a deep breath, tying my hair back with a ribbon from my vanity.
I catch my reflection in the mirror. The dark circles beneath my eyes, the faint cut across my lip from where I bit down too hard in the throne room.
The warm almond undertones of my skin seem cold and almost grey in this light.
I don’t look like a princess or the commander of the Delasurvian Royal Regiment, but rather the ghost of one.
I turn away from the mirror and march toward the door. When I open it, Sir Holden stands there, ever the picture of propriety—rigid in posture, jaw set tight. His eyes sweep over my attire, but he says nothing, just offers a brisk nod.
“Your Highness.”
“Let’s go,” I murmur.
We step into the corridor together, the torches along the stone walls flickering with the movement of air. The castle feels too quiet, too aware. As if it’s listening. Judging.
“Where to?” he asks, voice low.
“To see my uncle. And don’t try to talk me out of it.”
A dry huff escapes him. “I gave up trying to talk you out of anything a long time ago.”
I glance sideways at him as we walk. “Smart man.”
He smirks, just faintly, but it vanishes as quickly as it appears. “He’s been through a lot,” he says quietly. “But if he’s as strong a general as the rumors say, he’ll fight his way through this.”
I don’t answer. Because I’m not sure if he can. No one, myself included, understands what kind of twisted power the tsar has. I have no idea how to fix my uncle because I don’t have a clue what the tsar did to him.
Biting the inside of my cheek, I flex my fingers in an attempt to alleviate the buzzing that courses through my arm.
It’s not unpleasant, but it’s distracting.
I should be exhilarated at the thought of my magic—as mysterious as it still is—awakening in my blood.
The problem is that the feeling also serves as a reminder of Torbin and how he stabbed me in the hand to stop me from sending a warning to Delasurvia. To my uncle.
It was excruciatingly painful, but the attack resulted in an inexplicable buzz developing in my body, originating at my stab wound and slowly expanding through my body.
I haven’t told Dante about the power stirring inside me.
Not yet. It’s not that I don’t trust him—I do.
If anything, once I understand what’s happening to me, he will be the first person I want to tell.
But after waiting so long, after nearly giving up hope, I need a moment to claim this for myself.
Fae magic is supposed to manifest by the breaching age of twenty-one, as natural as breathing.
If it doesn’t, there is only one fate: madness.
The mind fractures, unable to hold what should have been.
It happened to my brother, the madness eventually leading to his death.
I had spent years preparing for that possibility, waiting for the first signs of my own unraveling.
But now, my power is waking, slow and unsteady, like embers sparking but not quite catching fire.
And before I reveal it to anyone, before I am faced with the fact that I’ve got something inside me I cannot control, I first need to do everything I can to understand it.
The halls are eerily silent at this hour, the usual hum of castle life reduced to the occasional flicker of a torch against cold stone.
Shadows stretch long and lean across the floor, reaching like skeletal fingers in the dim glow of lantern light.
My steps are soft, but every shift of my weight against the marble sends the faintest echo through the corridor, a sound I once wouldn’t have noticed—because I wouldn’t have been awake to hear it.
A shiver prickles down my spine. How many times had I wandered these halls, unaware, moving like a specter while my mind remained locked in sleep?
My feet had guided me through these very corridors, even through the secret passageways, my body knowing the paths better than my waking self.
I had no recollection of those journeys, no memory of slipping from my bed and moving through the castle like a ghost. But I had always known afterward that I’d done it, because I was never where I was supposed to be when I awoke.
Ezra’s powder helped. Still helps. A few pinches in my evening tea, and the incidents have stopped. At least, I think they have. There’s always the quiet fear that one night, I’ll wake to find myself standing in the woods again, my feet damp with dew, the moon glaring down at me like an accusation.
Along with the wolves.
I didn’t know it at the time, but the wolves had always been there, watching over me. At first, I thought they were hunting me, that their golden eyes in the dark were a warning, but now I know the truth. The wolves serve as guardians to the fae.
But I’m still unsure if they can protect me from what’s to come.
I round the final corner, the heavy, wooden door to my uncle’s chamber coming into view.
A lantern glows dimly outside, casting a soft halo of light against the stone.
My steps quicken, my pulse steadying with purpose.
Whatever he has to tell me—whatever secrets his fevered mind has been holding on to—I need to hear them.
I stand at the door and cast a glance at Sir Holden, who gives me a nod before turning with his back against the wall to stand sentry.