Chapter 3
There were no rules for how a widow-princess might dress if her husband died a traitor, but Aristea had chosen to wear a black veil.
In Neolyra, widows wore a sheer black veil for a year and a day to mourn the passing of their husbands.
It was an ancient tradition that was thought to have originated with the first Empress Consort, whose devotion to her husband had been unparalleled.
After her husband had died, she’d slept inside his tomb in the catacombs for a full year.
Thankfully, the tradition of lying next to the corpse of one’s husband had ended half a century ago.
The thought of lying beside her husband’s mangled corpse for a year made Aristea’s skin crawl.
It’d been hard enough sleeping next to him when he was alive.
Heinrich’s plot to overthrow the empire through cultivating an army of stardust-enhanced soldiers had failed, and he’d paid the price. But apart from a few minor officials, his co-conspirators remained at large, though officially, the case was considered closed.
Aristea felt as if she were poised on a dagger’s edge.
She hadn’t put on the veil out of love for Heinrich, but rather wore it like armor.
Her ill-fated marriage had been the ribbon that’d tied up the loose ends of a civil war that had begun before she was born, but whose threads were woven into the tapestry of the current court’s political climate.
Heinrich had been fourth in line to the throne before he died, and the figurehead of a rebellion that had attempted to steal the throne from Aristea’s mother.
Because of that, Aristea had been destined to marry Heinrich before she’d taken her first breath.
A faction of dukes didn’t want an empress at all, and then her mother had made the audacious choice to name her eldest daughter heir even after a healthy son had grown to maturity.
If Aristea and Heinrich had produced a son, their two factions would’ve been united.
But after years of marriage, Aristea hadn’t borne a son, nor any children.
Her womb had never quickened. Each month, her courses came, and hope withered in her chest. Now, at nearly thirty and a widow, her position as future empress seemed shakier than ever.
By Aristea’s age, Mother had had two children and had squashed a rebellion.
What did Aristea have? A veil to hide behind and a desperate scheme to keep her husband’s followers loyal to her by pretending to be a grieving widow.
On melancholy days like this, she wandered the cold rooms of her and Heinrich’s apartment and was reminded of the times when he’d been sweet.
When he’d kiss her gently on the brow or lay his head against her stomach and wish for a son.
She’d tried loving him, she really had. But then he’d turn cruel and bitter.
He’d stumble in, stinking of alcohol and another woman’s perfume.
Aristea would get angry and shout, and he’d find some way to twist her anger into being about her mistakes.
If only she’d given him a son, if only she’d been better, sweeter, more pliable.
His study was dark, but she didn’t bother lighting a candle or opening the curtains.
She hadn’t gone in there since he’d died.
She stood in the center of the room, her arms wrapped around her waist in a protective stance.
Her gaze flicked over to the drawer with the false bottom.
The same one where he’d kept the letters she’d written to him when they’d been engaged, when she’d been a teenager desperate to make their marriage work, and his responses had been sweet and flattering.
She’d been hopeful, if not in love, and convinced their marriage could heal the empire.
Could protect her mother’s legacy and her right to the throne.
It had been romantic to the girl she’d been that he’d been the prince in exile, waiting for their wedding day to return to court, ready to make amends for his father’s sins.
Then once they had been married, he’d used those same words against her.
She walked over to the drawer, pried open the false bottom, and grasped hold of the letters.
“But now you’re dead and I’ll be empress,” she said to the empty room.
She turned her back on the study and returned to the sitting room, where she’d asked her lady’s maids to build up the fire. It burned bright and hot, warming her cheeks and flushing her face. She tossed those letters into the flames and watched them curl and burn.
She hated herself for having trusted him, having listened to the lies, the excuses. He’d been plotting to kill her and usurp her mother, and she’d suspected but said nothing. But she wasn’t going to stand idly by anymore.
She’d win over Heinrich’s allies, unify the dukes’ council, and spearhead an attack on the elves before they could strike at the empire again, ending the threat and solidifying her rule. No one would question her ability again.
The letters turned to ash, but Aristea wasn’t satisfied.
Her lady’s maid Yvette entered the room with a black gown draped over her arm.
As was her usual routine, Aristea dressed and prepared for her morning walk around the gardens.
After which, she would have to meet with Duke Mattison from Sundland, a notable, wealthy bachelor whom Mother was angling to pair with Aristea.
It was another reason Aristea had taken the veil. While she was in mourning, she wouldn’t have to entertain suitors. But Mother had found a loophole. As he was an important royal dignitary, it was natural that they’d have lunch together.
Liane’s fake engagement had given Mother the idea of bringing Sundland and their army into the empire’s fold, and she wouldn’t let it go, especially after learning, from Duke Mattison, that the real Crown Prince of Sundland was missing, and the king was dying.
It was presumed that Duke Mattison, the king’s brother, would take over the throne.
When their husbands died, most widows retired to the countryside, where they might enjoy newfound freedom and autonomy.
That had never been an option for Aristea.
It wasn’t a matter of if she’d remarry but how long she could delay it.
For now, Mother was indulging Aristea’s mourning period.
It wouldn’t last forever. If she must marry, she’d rather it be to a man of her choosing, perhaps from Heinrich’s former faction, preferably close in age to herself.
As crown princess, Aristea should have a choice.
But the fraught political climate meant every move she made was scrutinized, leaving her paralyzed at times, terrified of making the wrong move.
Unlike her sister, Liane, who had freedom.
Liane chased vengeance and took lovers without repercussions.
Mother always let her do as she pleased because she wasn’t the heir.
Now, as the goddess’ avatar, she’d escaped their gilded cage and was flying free, unburdened by political intrigues.
It wasn’t fair.
Aristea stuffed those thoughts down. She would claim her power, in her own way.
She wasn’t like Liane. Nor was she like her younger brother, Mathias, who was a jokester and peacekeeper.
His charm had won him many fans at court, but he’d distanced himself from court politics by joining the army, and now he was risking his life to uncover the elven plot.
They each had their roles to play, and hers was to become empress. But you’re nothing without a man by your side. No one would bow to you alone. Heinrich’s vicious jabs haunted Aristea from beyond the grave, like old scars that wouldn’t heal. He was dead and he’d been wrong, she reminded herself.
Outside, courtiers meandered through the rows of hedges and flowering bushes.
They swiveled their heads to watch her as she passed, whispering behind their hands when they thought she was out of earshot.
She took note but pretended not to notice.
Some were bold enough to greet her, and she smiled but didn’t linger, her gaze fixed on the old oak tree where she and her siblings used to play.
Its large boughs drooped, wilting from the summer heat.
Her lady’s maids followed behind her, their shoes pattering on the cobbled paths.
Aristea was never alone. Guards, maids, courtiers—all their eyes watching, judging, circling like birds of prey. Normally the fresh air calmed her, but today even the sound of her lady’s maids breathing was agitating. She needed to be alone, to clear her head before the lunch with the duke.
“Leave me,” she said.
“Your majesty...” Yvette started to protest.
“I want to be alone,” she reiterated. Yvette bowed, and they all backed away, giving her the space she’d requested.
Aristea breathed in the fresh air, perfumed by lavender bushes. If her siblings had been with her, they would have run off into the nearby hedge maze. But Aristea wasn’t like Liane, who followed her own rules, or Mathias, who floated wherever the wind blew. Aristea was a rule follower.
But there were no rules against wandering closer to the fountain. Her ladies and guards were well within sight, and she was perfectly safe inside the garden. She inched closer to the fountain in question, resisting the urge to look over her shoulder to see if they’d noticed.
She was so preoccupied with seeming nonchalant that she didn’t notice the branch dipping into the walk until it caught her veil and it pulled taut.
Aristea tumbled forward and would have fallen onto her face, making a spectacle of herself, but someone grabbed her arm.
But her forward momentum was too great, and they both toppled over.