Chapter 3
The Baron’s Study
By the time I am called to serve my sister, the house has already resumed its usual order.
Yvara reclines on the cushioned bench near the windows, sunlight catching in her loose hair.
Silk pools around her like she was poured into it.
She does not look at me as I set down her plate. She never does when I serve her.
“You’re late,” she says anyway.
“I was told noon,” I reply softly.
She smiles without warmth. “Then you misunderstood.”
Mysin lounges nearby, boots propped on a chair meant for guests, a goblet already half empty in his hand. He is older than both of us and twice as cruel for it. Where Yvara cuts with polish, he bludgeons.
“She always misunderstands,” he says. “That’s what happens when you’re born wrong.”
Yvara laughs, light and musical. “King Sevrin adores me,” she says, as if continuing a private thought. “He lingered when he left this morning. Did you know that?”
I keep my eyes on the tray. “I didn’t.”
“You wouldn’t,” she says. “He doesn’t look at veiled things.”
Her fingers trail lazily along the stem of her wineglass. “There’s a ball coming. Did Father tell you? Of course not. He’s planning something grand. Rathmor will be there. Nobles. Princes.”
Mysin grins. “Imagine the King choosing me as his brother-in-law.”
Yvara hums. “Imagine him choosing me as his Queen.”
I turn to leave.
“Wait,” she says. “You forgot something.”
I pause.
She nods toward the servant standing near the door. “You.”
The man hesitates. I recognize him. He works the outer halls. He looks uncomfortable.
“Teach her manners,” Yvara says lightly. “She was rude.”
“I wasn’t,” I say before I can stop myself.
Mysin laughs. “Oh. It speaks.”
The servant moves quickly. The blow comes harder than I expect. I hit the floor, breath knocked from my lungs, the taste of copper filling my mouth. Another strike lands across my shoulder. I curl instinctively, making myself small.
“That’s enough,” Yvara says, bored.
The room is quiet again. Moments later, a servant appears at the doorway, breathless, announcing that Baron Dyvarin requires us all in his study at once.
“Clean that up,” Yvara adds, gesturing at me. “You’re bleeding on the rugs.”
I push myself upright, shaking, and leave without looking back.
My quarters sit beneath the kitchens, where heat and noise bleed through the walls. I change my dress, scrub the blood from my skin, and braid my hair tighter so it will not slip loose. There is no mirror in the room, though I do not need one. Veiled women are invisible.
When I reach my father’s study, my clothes are clean and my face is carefully blank.
“You’re late,” Baron Dyvarin snaps.
“I was changing,” I say. “I was injured.”
I don’t know why I bother telling him. He never cares.
“You should have been faster.”
Yvara stamps her foot, already agitated. “Father, why is she here?”
“Because she is leaving,” he says flatly.
My heart stutters.
Yvara blinks. “Leaving where?”
“For Rathmor Palace,” he replies. “She is to be married.”
Silence crashes through the room.
“To whom?” Yvara demands.
“To Prince Colsar.”
The color drains from her face. “You cannot be serious.”
“I am,” the Baron says. “The arrangement has been made.”
Yvara laughs sharply. “You offer her to a Prince? While I—”
“The King did not offer you to his brother,” my father interrupts calmly. “That should tell you something.”
Yvara stills.
Mysin’s grin fades. “Meaning?”
“Meaning,” the Baron says carefully, “that His Majesty may be considering you for a higher position.”
Yvara’s breath catches. Hope flares quickly, greedily.
“And the ball?” she asks. “Father, there is a rumor that that dreadful Princess of Yorali will attend and that she has golden eyes. What if she draws the King’s attention?”
“You will have a new gown and diamonds,” my father says. “Anything you wish.”
He leans back in his chair. “As for the Princess, she has golden eyes but not the Mark of Forizan.” He coughs. “Golden eyes simply signal a pure bloodline, not fertility. His Majesty’s concern is the latter.”
He stares at her pointedly. “And you must not disappoint.”
Translation: You must fuck the King and get pregnant with his bastard.
Her eyes move to me. “And her?”
I hesitate as the words slip out before I can stop them. “May I attend the ball?”
I have never been to one. Never worn silk meant for me. Never danced beneath chandeliers or been seen as anything other than something to be hidden.
My father’s answer is immediate.
“No.”
“You are to be wed quietly,” he continues. “You will not draw attention. Your presence is obligation, not celebration.”
Mysin laughs. “She should be grateful the Prince agreed at all.”
My father turns his attention fully to me then, his eyes cold and assessing.
“The Prince is displeased,” he says. “Understandably so. This match was not his desire.”
My stomach tightens.
“You will make yourself useful,” he continues. “You will obey him. You will not embarrass this house. Before or after the wedding.”
Mysin smirks. “We could send her to the whorehouse for instruction.”
My blood turns cold.
My father considers it for half a second before shaking his head. “Too risky. Someone might recognize her. Or she could catch something and infect the Prince. What then?”
“And do not use such words in front of Yvara,” my father snaps at Mysin.
Mysin nods his head solemnly, then smirks at me.
My father looks at me again, expression indifferent. “We can only hope you hold a man’s interest longer than your mother did.”
Anger tightens in my chest as I grip the pendant at my throat, the only thing I have left of her. Tears burn my eyes, but I won’t let them fall. Let them gloat. Let them think they are sending a whore’s daughter to Rathmor Palace.
They have no idea what they’ve just handed the Prince.