Amalthea entered the throne room and immediately dropped to a low curtsy. In front of her was nothing but white marble, perfect slabs with barely a hint of brown or gray.
“Rise,” the queen commanded.
Thea rose gracefully. “Queen Ophelia, thank you for receiving me.”
The queen appeared even younger than Samara, maybe eighteen, nineteen. But there was no mistaking the monarch.
Her white hair gleamed, a shade lighter than the marble. It was long and loose, reaching the floor while she sat on a throne. The throne was polished quartz, looking like the same frost that coated the kingdom. A glass crown rose tall on her head. A piece that would have shattered from carelessness centuries ago if anyone else had worn it. A statement that the queen could afford fragile eccentricities—like a kingdom where no males were permitted.
The kingdom colors were white and red, but the only spot of red in the entire room was the banner behind her and the dress she wore from her collarbone to her knees.
As long as Thea ignored the blood dripping from the bodies Eka saw fit to display in the room, anyway.
“LadyAmalthea, surely there’s no need for formalities,” Queen Ophelia chastised.
Thea allowed a slight smile. “I do enjoy them, Your Majesty.”
The queen’s consort was at her side. They stood to the right of the throne, hands clasped in front, the sword at their hips scant inches from the floor. Unlike the queen, their hair was cropped short, nearly to the skin.
“Consort Quinn, warm blood and long nights to you as well.”
Quinn dipped their head.
Ophelia flicked her wrist in Thea’s direction. A chair of ice emerged in front of Thea. The queen’s powers on display—the least of what she could do. The palace was half ice, half stone, and held together by her magic.
“Sit,” the queen commanded.
If not for the enchanted cloak Thea kept fastened on her shoulder, it would have been wildly uncomfortable. Hesitating wasn’t an option, regardless.
Thea sat.
Another flick of the queen’s wrist, but no magic stirred in the air. Just an indolent gesture. “So Raphael has turned his Chosen.”
Ophelia never called him King Raphael. She wasn’t one for propriety.
“That is correct, Your Majesty.”
“He must be quite taken with this woman,” the queen mused. “The first one he’s turned since . . . well. Since then.”
It wasn’t a question, so Thea remained silent. The queen was probing for details, but truly, after all these years, she should have known better.
“Rumors reached my ears that he hid her away to see her through the transformation, being so taken with her,” Ophelia continued.
Thea knew—she had started the rumor, after all. “It’s as you say, Your Majesty. He’s fond of Samara.”
“Samara,” Ophelia repeated, as if to imply it was the first time she was hearing the name. Thea was confident she’d learned it weeks ago. “Do you know what he sees in her? I mean, a fledgling after so many centuries. I was beginning to wonder. When I’d heard he’d taken her as his Chosen, I could understand—eventually the thirst claims us all. But to then sire her and pledge himself? Tell me, Amalthea. You have great insight, I’m certain.”
The truth would get Thea promptly killed, so that wasn’t an option. Vampires couldn’t lie, and some forgot humans could. But Ophelia would never be so careless, so it wasn’t just the words—her body language had to be fluid, her heartbeat even.
Thea was very, very good at keeping secrets.
“I’m honored you think me so privy to the workings of my liege’s mind, but I regret to disappoint you. I’ve spent little time with her, but from what I’ve seen, the king is kind to her. Affectionate, even.”
“Is she a great beauty?” Ophelia mused.
“I’m sure she couldn’t compare to you, Your Majesty.”
The queen rolled her eyes. “Yes, because there’s a world in which I’d be competing for Raphael’s affections? Hardly. I’m just wondering how some random void managed to charm him. Julian, I could understand. He’s always been more prone to these flights of fancy. But Raphael? He’s never been inspired to act by anything as mundane as beauty.”
