The Blood King's Bride

Chapter 1

In truth, there are few words heavier than 'dread'.

People often reach for words like 'death' or 'murder’ but those things are too quick, too finite. They promise an ending and endings at least contain release.

Dread does not. Dread lingers.

It settles into the bones like winter damp and wraps itself around the heart with cold silver chains, fastening weight to wrists and ankles. It is the sick certainty of suffering before the suffering has even begun.

Dread was what Mirielle felt as she made her way toward the king’s study.

It took all her strength to keep her perfect posture as she drifted through the polished marble halls of Ambersaith.

Every footstep felt like wading through deep sand yet they stayed light and measured all the same.

The thought of her cousin catching even the slightest crack in her composure made something cold twist painfully in her stomach.

So she continued on. Her eyes remained downcast as she watched her skirt flutter and dance over the twisting geometric patterns. Her hands were folded neatly in front of her, a posture that exudes subservience.

She was trailed by two guards wearing silver armor that gleamed gold in the morning light that bled through the towering windows that lined the wide halls.

Their gambesons visible beneath cold steel, both stamped with the blue-gray fleurs of House Ambersaith.

Their blue cloaks hung loosely over their shoulders and down their backs, forever spotless and pressed.

Her gleaming companions were ever-present, always within easy hearing distance. Bael was with her today and another guard she had met only briefly.

Mirielle wasn't sure why her cousin had called for her. Some small part of her hoped it was only to discuss the courtship ball planned for tomorrow, a ball planned with the intention of attracting suitors, wealthy princes, lords and even kings from all over Lorien.

But she remembered to squash that hope. Hope was something she had given up on. Hope only ever caused her grief.

The king's study was also where he held her 'sorcery lessons'. At least that was what her cousin called them despite the fact that she had never produced even a fleck of magic in front of him in these past ten years. An embarrassment considering her bloodline.

Mirielle came from one of the oldest and most powerful sorcerous lines in Lorien. Her mother’s blood was whispered about with near-religious reverence across all six kingdoms, powerful enough to shift wars and even crown kings.

Or so her cousin endlessly reminded her.

A weapon capable of blinking out battlefields.

A bloodline worth kingdoms.

A bloodline wasted on her.

Her father's cousin had taken the throne after her father's death.

He had very high hopes for her. Dreams of conquest beyond the reaches of his small, prosperous kingdom.

High, dwindling hopes. He had tried everything over the years to force her magic into existence—scholars, priests, alchemists, punishments. Nothing worked.

She could take at least some pride in that.

The large oak doors of her father's study loomed over her like wooden giants.

She remembered sitting on those floors as a child playing with a litter of kittens she had stolen from the kitchens.

Her father would sit behind his desk and pretend not to notice when the tiny furry creatures messed up his papers.

The memory hurt now because there was nothing joyful left in that room.

Only dread.

Mirielle put her hand on the cold iron handle and for one small, fragile second, her posture broke, her shoulders sagged, her eyes squeezed shut and she acknowledged the fear crawling through the cage inside her chest.

Beside her, she could feel Bael’s pitying gaze. Somehow that only made it worse.

She steeled herself. Then, with a deep breath, she turned the handle, lifted her chin high and strode inside alone. The study swallowed her whole.

Her cousin stood near her father’s old desk, thin fingers sorting through papers scattered across its carved wooden surface. His narrow face was bent toward whatever he was reading so intently he barely seemed to notice her entrance.

But Mirielle didn't look at him. Her eyes were fixed on the giant of a man standing behind him.

Her blood turned to ice.

Gregorat.

Gods no.

She knew this would not be an ordinary meeting.

Gregorat only attended on the worst days.

He was her least favorite guard in all of Ambersaith.

Cruelty seemed to be stamped in the muscles and edges of his face.

He had once helped her cousin lock her in a small lightless box for several days.

She still remembered clawing at the coarse wooden walls with bloodied fingers.

Mirielle felt her body tremble and she clenched her fists, digging her nails into her palms as she tried to shove her fear down.

Gregorat saw. He smiled from across the room, something cruel and promising.

Her cousin spoke first, looking at her with an expression of sheer disappointment. “You carry the blood of queens and war-sorcerers,” he started. “Your mother’s line burned entire battlefields to ash yet you stand here like some useless little ornamental doll.”

Mirielle’s fingers curled tighter into her skirts. Across the room, Gregorat stood silently near the door. His eyes never left her. The sight of him alone was enough to make cold dread spill through her stomach. Her cousin noticed immediately and smiled.

She hated that smile. A cold knowing thing it was. It frightened her more than his shouting ever did.

“You know,” he mused in what seemed like a very rehearsed manner, “fear might do you some good.”

Mirielle’s chest tensed.

“Gifts awaken during moments of emotional distress.” He looked toward Gregorat. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

The large man smiled faintly. Mirielle felt her blood turn cold. Her cousin sighed theatrically and leaned against the desk. “I have spent years being patient with you.” His voice softened into something far worse than anger. “I'm afraid I am simply at my limit.”

His eyes bored into her and Mirielle felt a chill creep down her spine.

"So I was thinking, before your marriage, I'll try one more thing. I was thinking." He tilted his head. "Perhaps I should have simply frightened you properly from the beginning.”

Mirielle unconsciously took a step backward. Gregorat noticed. The smile on his face widened.

“Cousin.” Her voice was smaller than she expected.

The king tilted his head. “There it is,” he murmured almost approvingly. "Fear.”

“Please don't."

“Oh, I think I will.”

Then he returned his gaze to his papers and spoke casually.

“Gregorat, kill her.”

The words shattered through the room.

Mirielle froze and for one horrible heartbeat she stopped breathing entirely.

Then Gregorat moved. His cruelty deepened into a murderous scowl. Time suddenly seemed to be moving very, very slowly.

Mirielle's mind raced as she summoned every scrap of knowledge she could upend. No, he would not kill her. Hurt her? Yes. Exhaust her until she collapsed? Yes. Torment her? He would do all those things.

But not kill, never kill. Even without her gift, she knew her dowry's worth.

Her deficiency was a well-guarded secret, only known by Orbin and his closest advisors.

If she had a son, he would take the throne after her cousin's death.

Her bloodline and her position made her dowry worth more than any princess or lady she had heard of.

And her cousin was greedy. He would never throw that amount away. But he would scare her—oh definitely, he would scare her. If there was anything that Mirielle could count on, it was her cousin's greed. Greed for power. Greed to command it, to wield it.

Then she remembered his words. 'To frighten you properly.' The fear in her chest morphed into something violent, its wicked wrath demanding protection, consuming her fear. It wasn't something Mirielle felt often, only in her most desperate times. Only when her light was threatened.

Rage.

Her breaths came hard as she watched Gregorat stalk toward her. Anger rose like a wave crashing over a ship, rising higher until it drowned everything else. Her eyes pierced Gregorat with scathing fury. She was angry, angry for what he was trying to take from her.

She wouldn't let him touch it.

Power stirred deep within her, bubbling beneath her skin in answer to that fury. It pressed upward, pushing against her ribs, trying to break free.

She shoved it away.

Fumbling in her pocket, she grabbed her dagger.

Calling it a dagger was generous. It was actually a letter opener. It wasn't sharp, but at least it had a point.

She knew she didn't have a chance against Gregorat. He was easily four times her weight and wearing full armor, not to mention she guessed he had decades of combat training but maybe she could leave a mark as payment for his involvement in her cousin-king's cruel games.

His eyebrows shot up in surprise at her pathetic act of defiance. His beastly grin only deepened.

Gregorat crossed the room, his metal greaves striking the marble ground with every step. Mirielle tried to swing her dagger into his neck. He easily intercepted it, knocking it out of her hand with the back of his and sending it clinking across the floor.

Mirielle stumbled backward. Then hands—giant hands—grabbed her. One clamped around her throat while the other seized her arm and shoved her against the door.

Mirielle tried to scream, but only a measly yelp made the perilous trek up her throat, crushed by his grip holding hungrily just under her jaw.

Rage gripped her again and Mirielle shot her free arm to his face. Nails met flesh. She dug into his cheekbone and dragged down. Hot blood pooled under her fingernails and Mirielle watched as his depthless eyes seemed to widen in surprise.

Then violent anger quickly replaced it. He grinned and flashed his teeth. Mirielle was sure, if hatred had a face, it would be his.

Suddenly her vision blurred and pain bloomed up her ribcage as Gregorat slammed her into a bookshelf. Mirielle hung there, trapped like a doll beneath massive hands, completely at his mercy.

She felt her lungs seize in their struggle for air. Thousands of needles pierced her chest from every direction. With it, she felt her power try to rise, hot and desperate beneath her skin. She slammed it down again.

Immobile and refusing to let her power rise, all she could do was force it down as the edges of her vision blurred.

Gregorat's grinning face burrowed into her very soul. It blazed a path through every corner of her mind, leaving behind nothing but ashes and ruin.

She squeezed her eyes shut as she tried to will her reality away.

There was banging and shouting. It seemed to come from miles away.

Then the blackness took her.