Chapter Nine
ChApter
Nine
I’m not looking forward to today. It’s not just the suffocation of the funeral gown, but the weight of what’s expected of me.
The grand prayer gallery looms ahead, its towering stone archways draped in heavy black banners embroidered with gold ivy.
Gleaming candelabras line the path toward the altar, their flickering flames casting wavering shadows over the polished marble floor.
A faint scent of myrrh and smoke lingers in the air, mingling with the hush of whispered prayers and the occasional muffled sob.
To either side of the altar, running almost the entire length of the prayer gallery, large, floor-to-ceiling windows let in the pale morning light.
Courtiers, nobles, and prominent citizens of Hedera fill the hall, clad in black silks and somber wool, their faces veiled with sorrow—or something dangerously close to resentment.
Their grief is palpable, and for the families who lost loved ones, my heart breaks for them.
But some of them cry for the fallen prince, and for them, I can only feel pity that they believed he was worthy of their tears.
Nadya walks beside me, her hand looped through my arm in silent solidarity. I don’t need to look at her to know she’s gauging the crowd, watching the way people shift, the way their eyes follow me. I notice it, too.
The weight of their stares presses against my back as I move through the hall, their judgment like static in the charged air.
Some glance away when I meet their eyes, unwilling to make their disdain fully known.
Others do not. For once, I’m grateful for my veil.
This one is longer than the mourning veil that’s attached to my black coronet.
This one covers my face, though I’m sure everyone can still see me.
They hold my gaze, their expressions tight with barely concealed bitterness, as if they know I am the reason their prince is gone.
I refuse to falter. I straighten my spine, lift my chin, and step forward with measured grace, my dark veil cascading over my shoulders like armor. Let them glare. Let them whisper. I know the truth—they mourn a man I could not save, but they do not know the monster he became.
And I don’t believe that he is dead.
Nadya leans in, her voice barely a breath. “They’re looking for someone to blame.”
I exhale slowly, steadying myself as we near the front of the hall. “I know.”
And they’d be right to blame me. I did mean to kill Torbin that day if it meant saving Dante.
So if they’re looking for a villain, here I am.
The problem is I’m going to be their queen one day, and it will be difficult to carry out the duties of protecting the people and standing up for their rights if none of them trust me.
Nadya and I make our way to the front of the gallery, where rows of darkly dressed nobles and courtiers sit in solemn silence.
The seats reserved for the king and queen remain empty, their absence stretching like a void across the room.
No one speaks louder than a whisper, and the quiet is thick with grief, reverence, and an uncertainty perhaps only I can sense.
At the center of the altar, where a casket should rest, there is only an ornate pedestal draped in black silk.
A golden circlet—the prince’s coronet—sits atop it, a symbol of what has been lost. A pattern of gold ivy leaves embellishes the crown, each leaf sparkling with emeralds.
Since Torbin’s body was never recovered, this is what serves as the focal point of the service in place of a casket.
Leaning against the pedestal, shining under the candlelight, is a longsword with a decorative hilt.
It may have been one of Torbin’s swords at some point, but it is not the sabre he had sheathed at his side since I came to Ivystone.
The sabre was still attached to him when he fell, and it’s most likely at his side today.
I swallow hard, forcing my expression into something unreadable.
No one else questions Torbin’s fate. No one else wonders if the carnoraxis merely carried him away rather than tore him apart.
But I saw the way they descended on him, the way they shrieked and keened as they dragged him into the darkness.
Almost as if they cried for him. It should have been his end, but something inside me burns with doubt.
Torbin is too determined, too ruthless, to be claimed by death so easily.
And the potion he took time and time again made him strong, stronger than any normal human.
Strong enough to match a fae. And those beasts served him—or at least were ordered to serve him by the Shadow Tsar.
My gut is telling me the carnoraxis carried him off to save him.
A hand on my wrist pulls me from my thoughts. Nadya gives me a small, pointed look before guiding me into my seat. I don’t argue. I settle into place, folding my hands in my lap as the room waits for the arrival of the king and queen.
Footsteps echo, and I force myself not to look over my shoulder.
When I catch sight of a tall form emerging at the head of the aisle, I only slightly turn my head to find Dante standing there.
He pauses between the rows of chairs, as if he’s gazing upon the pedestal before him.
But his eyes are on me. Subtly. Unnoticeable to everyone except me and Nadya.
His funeral suit is fitted perfectly, the high collar framing his strong neck, and gold brocade on his lapels and cuffs giving the black velvet jacket a distinguished look befitting a prince.
My heart flutters at the sight of him, especially since he never made it to his balcony last night.
Even though I knew he had been summoned to Silas’s private quarters after dinner, I still continued to check for his appearance every few minutes, well into the night.
Indira incessantly asked me to stop pacing, but she thought I was merely unsettled because of the funeral, not because I longed to catch even a short glimpse of Dante.
He doesn’t nod or move his mouth, and neither do I. We have learned to keep our silent communication undetectable. He just blinks, and I blink in return, before he turns and takes his seat across the aisle.
The great doors at the back of the prayer hall swing open, and the murmured conversations dissolve into hushed reverence.
This time, I do glance over my shoulder.
King Silas enters first, his broad shoulders squared, his chin lifted with the self-importance of a man who believes even his grief must be seen as grand.
His funeral attire is regal, an embroidered black coat lined with gold threading.
His long cloak, edged in dark fur, sweeps the marble floor as he walks, the heavy footfalls of his polished boots echoing in the vast chamber.
Queen Eleanor follows a few steps behind, draped in a flowing gown of deepest obsidian.
Black lace veils the bodice, trailing down her arms in sheer, delicate patterns, and a thick band of jet beads circles her throat like a chain.
A veil, also black, cascades from an intricate golden comb in her hair, framing a face as pale as moonlight.
But beneath all the elegance, she is a woman hollowed by loss.
Her movements are slow, deliberate, like someone navigating through an endless fog.
Her hands, covered in elegant, black silk, tremble where they clutch at her skirts, and though her gaze is lowered, the sorrow is prominently etched into every strained line of her expression.
Perhaps it is more than that. I can’t help but replay her argument with the king in my mind.
This woman is not only grieving the loss of one son, but the many children she never got the chance to hold.
And perhaps she is grieving the life she is trapped in, married to a powerful, merciless man who has no respect for her.
Several high-ranking nobles and trusted courtiers flank the king and queen—lords, council members, and the king’s advisors, including Farvis, who keeps his face carefully blank as he escorts them to their seats facing the altar.
They take their places with a solemn grace, across from the pedestal where Torbin’s coronet gleams beneath the dim candlelight.
Neither the king nor queen glance my way as they pass. There are no cold, condemning stares, no sharp glares filled with quiet accusations. But their indifference is just as unsettling.
The silence stretches, thick and expectant, until the sound of approaching footsteps shifts the air in the room.
Soft singing from a small choir of girls at the back of the room causes everyone to turn their heads.
The high priestess enters, her long ceremonial robes whispering against the stone floor, and all eyes remain on her as she travels up the aisle.
She ascends the altar, placing herself behind the podium, and turns to the crowd, her eyes sweeping over us while her face remains stoic.
The flowing silver and white of her robes are almost identical to her pulled-back hair.
When she lifts her hands in a gesture of quiet reverence, I straighten in my seat, as does the rest of the crowd.
The singing stops, and the stillness in the room is almost too loud.
“The gods thank you for your witness today. It is not only in life that we serve them, but in death as well.” The high priestess’s voice, smooth and unwavering, carries through the great hall.
“Beneath the watchful eyes of the gods, we bow our heads to honor the life of His Royal Highness, Prince Torbin Copperhammer. Though his body was lost to the darkness of battle, his spirit lingers in the halls of memory, etched into the hearts of those who knew and cared for him. A prince of strength and ambition, a celebrated hunter, a warrior who fought for his kingdom, and his name shall not be forgotten.”