Chapter Fifteen
ChApter
Fifteen
Anote lies on my pillow when I get back to my room.
The parchment is folded once, tucked neatly against the hem of my turned-down blanket. No seal. No crest. Just the faintest scent of cloves and spice. My pulse stutters.
I scan the corners of my chamber, but the shadows reveal nothing. No creaking door, no fading footsteps. No Indira lurking around. Only silence.
I unfold the note.
After midnight. Use the secret passage. I made sure it’s safe. Please come.
—D.
I read it three times, as if my eyes can’t quite trust what they’re seeing. A thousand thoughts crowd into the space behind my ribs, but one rises above the rest.
We haven’t been alone together. Not really. Not since before Torbin’s fall.
Even on the mission to Robinburg, we were surrounded by Sir Holden and my squad, forced to keep our distance by duty, watchful eyes, and too many ghosts. There’s always been someone watching. Someone listening.
Tonight… could be different.
Except for Indira.
Assigned to watch over me by order of King Silas himself, she’s taken her post as my nighttime chaperone with maddening devotion.
Every evening, she settles into the armchair by the hearth, her boots kicked off, a book in her lap and a steaming cup of tea in her hand. She doesn’t sleep. Not until I do.
Until tonight, if I can carry out my plan.
I glance toward my vanity, where the drawer holds a small container.
Usually, before I go to bed, I take a pinch of Ezra’s sleeping powder, mixed in my water or tea.
It hasn’t failed to keep me from wandering in my sleep like I used to when the nightmares rip me away.
It normally works quickly to relax my muscles, lulling me into a deep sleep and making it almost impossible to get out of bed.
It also worked on Torbin, that evening in the tower. It weakened him enough so that I could overpower him and force him off the balustrade.
So a little pinch in Indira’s tea should be sufficient to incapacitate her long enough for me to sneak out for a few hours.
I sit at the vanity and slide open the drawer, fingers trembling slightly as I open the container and spill a small amount into a silk handkerchief. The powder is pale and fine, almost weightless. I quickly fold the handkerchief to close it securely around the powder.
When the door to my room opens, I slip the pouch of silk into the pocket of my robe and smooth my expression, grabbing a brush and glancing at Indira in the mirror.
She enters, yawning dramatically. “You know, if the king intends on making this a permanent thing, I’m going to ask for a cot instead of this chair.” She carries her usual mug in one hand, a book tucked beneath the other arm.
I smile faintly, taking my place at the vanity. “You should be happy. We leave for the legitimization tour tomorrow. Maybe you’ll get your own room.”
She snorts and plops into the armchair. “I suppose you wouldn’t imagine it, being a princess, but servants usually have to share rooms when we travel. There will probably be six of us stuffed into a room the size of your armoire.”
I feign a laugh, brushing my hair slowly, watching her in the mirror. “Have you ever been to any of the other realms?”
“Podrosa, once. But I was young. It rained the whole time, and my boots fell apart. That’s all I remember.” She sets her book in her lap, fingers curling around the mug.
My palm tightens around the pinch of powder. “That’s about as far as I’ve traveled as well. From what I remember, anyway. Even when my parents attended the symposiums the realms used to hold, Bennett and I would stay in Delasurvia with my uncle.”
I step away from the vanity and walk toward her, the powder clutched between my fingers.
“I’m not looking forward to Bastos,” she says. “The temperature there doesn’t agree with me.”
“It’s a shame we’re not going to Alphemra. I would love to see where my mother’s side of the family lives. I don’t even know if they would know who I am.”
She lifts her brows, clearly about to respond, but I tip my hand toward her book instead.
“You always read the same story?” I ask.
She huffs. “Not always. But I’m a creature of habit and always drift back to my favorites.”
With a flick of magic, subtle and controlled, I nudge the book off her lap.
It falls with a soft thump and skids beneath the chair.
Indira groans. “For the love of figs—” She sets the mug on the side table, then leans forward, stretching, fingers swiping at the leather spine.
I use my magic to nudge it just out of her reach, and as she bends lower, I tip the powder into her tea.
It dissolves in a whisper.
By the time she straightens, book in hand, I’m smiling faintly and heading back toward my bed. I let my silk robe slip from my shoulders, draping it over the footboard. Beneath, my nightgown clings softly to my frame, featherlight and cool against my skin.
Indira blows on her tea and takes a sip. “Try to sleep, Your Highness. We leave early.”
“Goodnight, Indira,” I say, sliding beneath the covers. “I hope you get some rest as well.”
She nods, already settling deeper into the chair. I keep my eyes on the ceiling, but my senses are taut—listening for every breath, every shift of weight. My fingers curl around the dagger strapped to my thigh beneath the sheets.
Dante said the passage was safe. Still, I’m not foolish enough to go unarmed.
Minutes pass. The fire pops. And my thoughts wander.
I hope my uncle is okay.
Will my squad be all right without me?
Are the Delasurvian people still being fed?
I hope the refugee camps are thriving.
How does Dante feel about being betrothed to me?
The fire pops again, and Indira’s breathing has noticeably slowed.
And then a snore resounds. Soft. Steady. Genuine.
I exhale slowly, heart hammering, and sit up to glance over. Her mug rests empty on the side table. The open book slips from her hands into her lap.
Though I can’t help the twinge of guilt that flickers beneath my ribs, it worked.
I’m sorry, Indira.
I throw back the covers and rise, grabbing my robe, and move in silence toward the wall behind the wardrobe where the secret passage’s door is hidden.
The panel opens with a whisper, and the cool hush of the passage greets me like a sigh.
It’s been weeks since I’ve crept these halls, weeks since the air felt so still and secret around me.
I slip inside, pressing the panel closed behind me, the soft click of the latch sounding far louder in the quiet than it should.
The torchlight from my room vanishes, swallowed by the dark.
I wait a moment to adjust. I’m barefoot, and though the chill of stone seeps into my skin, the thought of Dante waiting for me keeps my body warmed.
My silk robe glides against my legs as I move, trailing softly along the narrow corridor, and I keep one hand on the wall, fingers brushing across uneven stone.
My other hand rests lightly against the hilt of the dagger strapped to my thigh.
I worry my lip. My heart is loud in my chest—not from fear, not tonight.
Anticipation rises, hot and quiet, curling low in my stomach.
It’s been too long. I’ve suffered behind too many stolen glances, agonized from longing for too many nights of merely gazing at each other over the distance of our balconies.
I round the bend where the corridor forks and follow the narrow path that leads to the hidden entrance near Dante’s chamber. My fingers find the familiar notch in the wall, the pressure point where the panel gives way. I press it open just a sliver—
Voices make me freeze.
Low and firm. One of them unmistakably the king’s.
“Just remember that they are expecting a prince,” King Silas says, his tone a murmur of steel and strategy.
“Each realm has already concocted their own idea of what you are, and it’s your job to shatter their presumptions.
You are to present yourself as confident—but not arrogant.
Cordial. Respectful. But still every bit of man your father is. ”
There’s a pause, and then the familiar rustle of fabric. The king pacing, perhaps.
“I want them to see what I see,” he continues. “A man worthy of the Copperhammer name. One who commands attention without demanding it. You are my son, and that will mean something—if you carry that honor properly.”
Silence follows, and I hold a hand to my chest, wondering if they are done speaking.
After a moment, the king’s voice comes again, this time softer. “Because that’s what you will be when this is all over, son. A Copperhammer, by all rights.”
My breath catches.
I can’t see Dante, but I can feel the stillness in the room shift. The silence stretches a moment too long.
When he finally speaks, his voice is quiet, almost a whisper. “Understood.”
It’s just one word. But I can hear the weight in it. The conflict.
All his life, he’s lived in the shadow of a crown not meant for him. All his life, he believed he didn’t belong. Now, with a few words, the king has offered him what he’s always been denied: acknowledgment. Belonging. A name.
Even if it comes at a cost.
“Get some rest,” the king says. “Your entire world is about to change.”