Chapter Eight
ChApter
Eight
The fitting isn’t as horrendous as I thought it would be, but I’m glad it’s finished.
The corridor leading back to my room from the fitting chamber is colder than I remember.
The stone beneath my boots chills the air, and the hush that haunts Ivystone feels heavier than usual.
Since Nadya rushed off as soon as the seamstress was done with her, I head down the hall alone.
I want to get back before sunset to see if Dante is on his balcony.
Our evening rendezvous don’t always work out.
Sometimes Dante is holed up in the council chambers with his father and Farvis.
And sometimes Indira lurks about longer than necessary, making it impossible to step out onto the balcony at all.
But I hurry toward my room with hope in my heart. Even if it’s just for a glance at him.
A murmur of voices drifts from the half-closed door to the king’s lounge, and though I know I shouldn’t stop, I do. I press a hand to my heart as dread fills me.
The voices sharpen—King Silas’s low, cutting tone and Queen Eleanor’s softer one, frayed at the edges.
I creep closer, pressing into the shadowed alcove beside the door.
I probably shouldn’t loiter, but I’ve learned that what people say behind closed doors is far more honest than what they say in public.
And when it comes to the king, this may be the only way to hear any truth he has to share.
“You are too hasty, Silas,” the queen says, her voice taut but measured. “This plan to legitimize Dante, it feels rushed.”
“It’s not your concern.” The king cuts her off, the words like a blade unsheathed. “You lost the right to speak of heirs long ago.”
A pause. Then, quieter, “I gave you a son.”
“Only one. And he is now gone,” he sneers. “Do not expect me to wait for your approval to secure the future of this kingdom.”
Her breath hitches, a small, broken sound that scrapes at my chest. “I tried to give you more.”
“And you failed me at every turn,” the king says, as cold as winter steel. “I am not to blame for it. I gave you plenty of seed with which to bear another heir, and yet here we are. Emptyhanded.”
The silence that follows is thick and jagged, the kind that makes my throat ache to swallow. I should go. This is none of my business.
When the queen speaks again, her voice trembles.
Not with fear, but with rage barely held in check.
“Do you think I planned to miscarry? That I wanted to feel life inside me, only to have it ripped away?” Her voice cracks on the last word, raw and unguarded.
“Perhaps if you hadn’t been so rough—” She breaks off, swallowing a sob.
“Perhaps Torbin would have three siblings standing in line for your precious throne.”
“Don’t you fucking dare—” A roar rips from the king, sharp and vicious. There’s a clatter, a glass shattering against the stone floor, and then the sound of movement. Fast. Threatening. A thump.
Oh, fuck!
I curl my fingers around the hilt of the dagger hidden beneath my skirts. My heart pounds, each beat screaming at me to act. To stop him.
I step forward.
A voice cuts through the air from down the hall, and I freeze.
Farvis rounds the corner at the far end of the hall, his heavy boots echoing with easy authority.
There’s enough rage within me not to care if he sees me, but when two guards appear behind him, I step back into the shadows.
My heart hammers against my ribs, acknowledging that I’d be outnumbered if I tried to burst into the king’s private lounge, even if it’s to reach the queen before—
The door to the lounge flies open.
Shit.
The king storms out, his jaw clenched, his face a thundercloud. His hand curls into a fist at his side, knuckles pale against the dark-green silk of his attire. For one breathless moment, I wonder if he’s seen me, if I’ll pay for standing here, listening.
But he doesn’t even glance my way.
Farvis bows low as the king approaches, falling into step beside him without a word. The guards pivot and follow. Farvis speaks quietly with the king, and their voices fade as they disappear down the corridor, leaving only the distant echo of footsteps behind.
I exhale slowly, my grip on the dagger loosening.
The rational part of me knows I’m no match for the king, not with his entire army at his command.
But the part of me that has spent months seething beneath the weight of his decisions still aches to follow him.
To make him bleed for every cruel word he hurled at the queen.
Instead, I need to make sure Queen Eleanor is all right.
For all I know, he’s left her unconscious on the floor.
I step forward, pressing my palm against the door to the lounge.
Through the thick wood, I hear nothing but the queen’s soft, broken sobs.
I don’t know what he did, but at the very least, she’s alive.
I should go to her. I should offer comfort, something, anything to lessen the hurt of knowing she’s lost three children before they ever had the chance to live. To tell her it’s not her fault, and that she has every right to blame Silas.
Would my presence help? Or would it be one more reminder of all the things she’s lost?
I check the hall again, making sure no one is around.
When I finally work up the nerve to open the door, I find the sobbing has stopped, and the queen is gone.
I turn a full circle, wondering if my eyes somehow passed over her, but she’s nowhere to be seen.
Then I remember the secret passageways and realize she must have slipped through one.
Gritting my teeth, I leave the lounge and head back to my room. But in my head, I make a mental note. One day, the king will pay.