Fyrn slipped her arms around me, her embrace warm against the coolness of the breeze. “At least you’ll have me. You can always claim you need mountain air, and I shall escape my brood of children to join you.”
“You’d better bring sticky buns,” I murmured into her shoulder, a faint laugh breaking through the ache in my chest.
“Only if you bring the wine,” she teased, nudging me as her giggle mingled with the rustling leaves.
For the first time that day, the cage felt less suffocating. At least someone sympathized, even if they didn’t have all the information.
The afternoon unfolded more smoothly than expected. Sharing burdens with Fyrn—her secret and mine—was like balancing the scales. With that silent understanding between us, the pretense eased. We slipped our masks back on, even if the smiles weren’t genuine.
My return to the noblewomen for tea brought the inevitable talk of the wedding. Murmurs churned like a gathering storm, and I braced for the onslaught. Fyrn must have noticed the tension in my posture because she steered the conversation away from Tallon, redirecting it toward subjects she knew I could tolerate.
“Who should paint the ceremony?” she asked, her bright tone lifting the mood like sunlight breaking through clouds.
Chatter turned to palace artists and their most beloved works, and Fyrn lamented the loss of one particular painter whose masterpiece immortalized a ceremony following the Great Hunt. The mention drew giggles from the younger women, but an older noblewoman from the north silenced them with a sharp look.
“The celebration of life is sanctified by Verdis,” she admonished, her milky-blue eyes locking onto me as though searching for weakness.
I straightened my spine and let my expression settle into practiced reverence.
“Life demands death, and death precedes life,” she intoned, raising her tea cup with a deliberate motion. Her scrutiny burned like a brand on my skin. “Radaan should lose the blessing of the gods if its royals scorn their will. Do not mock the sacred—such irreverence borders on blasphemy.”
“We meant no disrespect, Madam Elain’gog,” one of the younger women murmured, her voice honeyed with deference. “We only recall the… modesty of the painting.”
Elain’s glare could have frozen the tea in her cup. “There is no shame in what the gods have blessed.”
“But imagine the painter asking Princess Nienna and Prince Tallon to disrobe–”
“Enough,” Fyrn cut in, her words slicing like a sword.
The offender flushed crimson, shrinking into her seat, mumbling an apology to her tea.
Elain turned her withering gaze back to me. “A word of wisdom, Princess. You are in Radaan now, where we rise and fall with the gods’ favor. Earn their hand, and your future will be secure.”
Her meaning struck with all the subtlety of a dagger. Radaan’s people demanded devotion from their rulers, their faith woven into their loyalties. A monarch without the divine might rule, but they’d find their throne cold and their allies scarce.
I swallowed hard, the tea bitter on my tongue. Kallias worshiped Elohios, the god of justice and truth. My chest tightened at the thought, guilt gnawing at the edges of my conscience. His devotion to honesty felt like a cruel irony in light of what happened in the library.
Choosing a deity wasn’t a matter of faith—it was survival. If I hoped to save these people, I had to become one of them, even if it meant pledging myself to a god I didn’t believe in.
My gaze drifted to the garden gate, the path beyond it calling to me like a promise of freedom I couldn’t claim. It was a reminder that my life was not my own.
Fyrn suggested I skip the council meeting. I admitted I wanted nothing more—not just to avoid Tallon, but his father, too.
Still, we went. Together, hand in hand, we entered the chamber as a war general took his seat—Darius. I avoided the king’s piercing gaze, offering only a polite bow. Fyrn dipped into a deep curtsy, her grip on my hand tightening as we straightened.
My chest constricted, each heartbeat a hammer’s blow. I stood caught between the man my heart ached for, who wanted nothing of me, and the boy who openly despised me.
I lifted my chin. A future queen wouldn’t cower before discomfort. Steeling myself, I stepped toward the row where Tallon sat, his conversation halting as he glared at me. His gaze crawled down my deep blue dress, his lip curling in disdain.
Egath’s sharp smile greeted me, his jagged teeth a cruel taunt. I braced myself, but the sight of him sent a chill down my spine. Prepared for Tallon’s hatred, I hadn’t accounted for the Velli ambassador’s unsettling presence. My hand tightened around Fyrn’s, seeking her steadiness.
“Greetings, Princess.” Egath rose, his bow shallow and mocking. The prince remained sprawled in his seat, eyes sharp with scrutiny, as though he could peel away my secrets.
“Ambassador,” I replied, the smile on my lips brittle. My teeth clenched as I lowered into my chair.
Tallon shifted, moving his leg further from me with an exaggerated gesture. I forced a sweet grin, but the memory of pressing a blade to his throat simmered beneath it. He underestimated me before. He was foolish enough to do it again.
Egath’s low chuckle slithered like some slick creature as he resumed his seat. I lifted my chin against the unease gnawing at me.
