Her rigid posture mirrored the hard lines of her dark, malicious stare. Her gaze roamed the table before settling on me, my demeanor deliberatelynonchalant. She posed no threat to me—a pawn of Adastrus—one I would banish when given the opportunity.
“The people have faith in the gods, not only in the princess,” Aliea retorted, her chin lifted in defiance as she spoke. “We should be ready for the coronation that will follow the next Rite.”
Despite my victories in two Rites and the widespread acknowledgement of my status as the Gods’ Chosen, everyone played along with Adastrus’ game. The staff, the servants, even the high court, all deferred to the Rite of Favor, as if my brother stood a chance.
“Weshould.” Reuthland’s lips twisted into a slow, unsettling smile, hinting at knowledge beyond my grasp. “Preparations are underway.”
“We should send invitations to our allies and neighboring kingdoms—a symbol of goodwill.”
“Dignitaries are already arriving,” Hinyte supplied. “The lull in the Howl means the stones should be arriving soon.”
Aliea nodded along. “The entire world will witness the gods’ favor bestowed upon their chosen.”
I shut my eyes, clenching my teeth as the council continued their deliberations. The divine were absent throughout my entire existence. When my brother sought my demise as a child, did they intervene? No. I lived in the slums, unwanted and unloved. Did they care? No. Sainte forced me back into this world of politics and intrigue unprepared. Did the gods dare rouse themselves when my loved ones, those whoactuallybelieved in them, were hurt and abused?
No.
I didn’t believe in the gods any more than I believed I would sprout wings and fly. My success in the previous Rites stemmed from a mix of sheer luck and an unstable mind. The upcoming Rite of Favor boiled down to a mere coin toss—a fifty-fifty chance they’d glow when I formed my question. Failure would pave the way for Adastrus to wield Grimm against me.
When I stood, I nudged the chair back with my knees, drawing the attention of those who paused their conversations, expressions perplexed by my interruption.
“My apologies, but I wish to retire to my chambers,” I stated, lips pressed into a thin line. I had no energy left to indulge in their political maneuvers.
“You must be weary from your travels to Gladier,” Anderz provided.
Or, I was weary of pretending everything was fine while my friends suffered halfway across the castle, and my brother, a tyrant in his own right, reigned as regent.
“Yes, rest. When the God Stones arrive, you will be tested,” Aliea added. “We must prepare, regardless of the outcome.”
I suppressed the urge to roll my eyes and offered a demure nod instead. Sainte pulled my chair aside, clearing a path for me to navigate around the table.
When I left the hall, I slipped down a side corridor, rubbing the bridge of my nose. To be honest, I dreaded visiting my friends. Lyana’s glare of animosity softened over the past few days, replaced by a defeated resignation whenever we approached her to wash up. She finally mustered the strength to attend to her basic needs, though eating still required persistent encouragement.
Whenever I entered that room, a tidal wave of guilt engulfed me, drowning me in self-disgust. For a few breaths, a few fleeting moments, I didn’t want to feel like a rotten excuse for a human.
Sainte snagged my arm, then shoved me into a cramped closet. I let out a startled yelp as he squeezed in after me, easing the door shut with a soft click that plunged us into darkness. The whiff of oil from the stored lanterns cut into my senses, mingling with the musty reek of aged wood.
“What are you–”
His large hand slapped over my mouth, muffling my words as he pressed in close, crushing his body against mine.
“Shh!”
I squeaked and bit his finger, eliciting a hiss as he tightened his grip, silencing me. My head jerked back, slamming into a low shelf. The impact sent a jolt of pain through my skull, but before I could reprimand him, voices snared my notice.
My brother.
“—set to arrive within the week?”
I trembled, blood boiling as my rage returned like a flood during a monsoon. Sainte cradled my face against his rough cheek in an attempt to still my temper.
“That is our prediction, Your Highness,” someone replied.
My fingers traced the contours of his sides until they reached the hilt of his dagger. I gripped it tight.
His hand left the back of my head, sliding down my arm to cover mine, squeezing it in silent warning.
“The Priests of Fiera are prepared?” Adastrus’ voice resonated just beyond the closet door.
