Chapter 3 #2
Each step echoes like a countdown. My mind races, replaying a lifetime of lectures.
I can almost see the familiar lines of disappointment etched into his face.
My father spent my entire life complaining about me—wishing, out loud, that he’d had more than just one miserable child.
That way, he could take away my birthright and give it to another, more responsible heir.
I remember standing before him countless times as a child, my chin high, tears threatening but never falling. I’d tell him I wish the same, because I don’t want the throne. I never did.
After those fights, I’d always find Grandmother waiting for me, arms wide. I’d cry on her shoulder until the storm passed. She’d dry my eyes and give me that mischievous smile I loved so much.
“Come, Sienna,” she’d say. “Let’s have an adventure.” And just like that, the world would right itself again.
We’d sneak through secret passages, our giggles muffled by cupped hands as we pilfered sweets from the kitchens.
Under the cover of darkness, we’d dash across the moonlit grounds, our nightclothes billowing behind us like ghostly wings.
Sometimes, in the dead of night, we’d slip into the throne room, its cavernous space feeling magical in the dim light.
Perched on the ancient throne, we’d dream up what sort of future we wished for Llwyn.
One without war, she’d always say. And in the deepest, most secret part of my heart, I’d wish for a kingdom without my father.
A world where the crown didn’t loom over me like an executioner’s axe.
A future where I could just be Sienna. Not the heir, not the disappointment, just ... me.
In front of me, Hunter pokes his head through a hidden doorway designed to keep the servants out of sight.
“There’s no one in the hall,” he says, turning back to me. “Are you ready for this?”
I groan. “Never. But let’s get it over with.” I straighten, lifting my chin. I may not be the heir my father wanted, but I’m the only one he has. And this time, I’m not running away. Not while I still need answers about Grandmother.
Hunter steps out first, and I follow him into a corridor bathed in ethereal light.
Tall, arched windows line one side, sunlight streaming through their leaded panes.
The air here is different, still and heavy with the weight of history.
It smells of aged wood, cool stone, and scented hair powders left in the wake of passing nobles.
Enormous family portraits hang in gilded frames along the opposite wall.
They depict generations of great Fox rulers who’ve fought the Dead Queen for the past five centuries.
They stare out from their canvas prisons with cold eyes.
They’re men and women with high collars and higher expectations.
The famous auburn hair of our family blazes like dying embers in the slanting sunlight.
Predictably, my father’s is the largest portrait of all. The most imposing. As in life.
Even here, captured in oils, his presence is suffocating.
I pause in front of a portrait of my mother, who died in childbirth.
She looks down at us with an expression I can only describe as worried.
The artist did nothing to hide the crease between her eyebrows or the slight downturn at the corner of her mouth.
Her dark eyes are distant, as if she’s thinking troubling thoughts.
“You look like her,” Hunter says.
“Except for my auburn hair.”
He nods.
As if on instinct, my eyes scan the hall for Grandmother’s portrait, even though I know it isn’t here anymore.
“That’s because áine isn’t a royal,” my father said when I pestered him about it. “She was little more than a commoner.”
But I know that’s not true. She had more power than Father likes to let on.
Especially with the people who weren’t nobles.
After she died, everyone told me how sorry they were to lose her, from the bakers to the chambermaids.
And they meant it. People loved her. The entire city was in mourning.
All except for Father, who barely tolerated her.
My hand hovers over the silver moth blade hidden beneath my skirts.
Keep it safe.
I will. And, I’ll find out what really happened to Grandmother.
Hunter steps up beside me and his natural calm eases my tension.
He knows the roiling emotions in my heart.
After all, it’s how we met. Two motherless children, thrown together to comfort each other while the adults moved on.
Grandmother took us under her wing, understanding full well that we needed each other as much as we needed her.
“Come,” he says. “It’s best not to keep the Fox King waiting.”
Reluctantly, I tear my eyes away from my mother to face the guards stationed outside the king’s grand doorway. I take a deep, steadying breath.
Without a word, the guards open the doors to let us in.
Inside the room, a fire roars in the enormous hearth, its flames crackling. The stone mantle is a masterpiece of craftsmanship. Foxes, our family’s emblem, are carved into it with exquisite detail. In the firelight, they seem to come alive as they run, leap, and hunt across the stone.
My father stands in front of the fire.
For one long moment, we stare at each other.
He looks just as unsettled by my changes after three years as I feel about his.
His famous auburn hair has gone gray and his once-muscular frame has thinned.
He seems diminished. Shadows emphasize new lines and hollows in his cheeks.
They map his face like rivers on parchment.
Could the past three years have been as hard for him as they were for me? I doubt it.
One might think that after three years without a word to each other, a father and daughter would have a lot to say, but we don’t. We just stare, the fire crackling behind us. The gulf between us was impassible even before I left. The years have done nothing to create a new bridge.
My father speaks first.
“Sienna,” he says, the name echoing in the cavernous room, “it’s been a long time.”
It’s not the opening I was expecting. I’m more used to tirades and bulldozing into long lists of disappointments, but I’m glad the tension is broken.
The large door opens behind us. Commander Malen walks in, the heels of his boots clicking on the stone floor. He hasn’t aged a day since I last saw him. He’s handsome, in a sharp, angled way. Stoic and cold. Nothing like his son.
My eyes drift to Hunter, where he waits silently by the door. Even from a distance, I can sense his unease in the presence of his father.
“My apologies, Your Highness,” Commander Malen says. “I came as soon as I could.”
Irritation rises in my chest. He’s still the intruding overeager supplicant I remember him to be.