Around the time I was five, everyone in Aenir had decided my title no longer meant anything. The king had allowed Father to join his council.
Out of pity, I supposed.
Liam and I had never quite fit in with the other noble children. They had regarded us as outsiders, at best. Tirnanog stock growing up in the wrong city. We'd grown up in solitude, with only each other for company.
Full-grown now, we loitered under Father's wings, not poised to inherit any titles or join the council ourselves.
I hated it—the feeling of nothingness where there should have been duty.
Lifting my skirts, I followed the growing crowd into the ballroom. The visiting party from Aenir was easy to pick out: shocks of light hair, colorful finery with too much lace, and skin pale as snow. The natives of Muirashi had an orderliness my people lacked: long gowns and tunics in muted colors, dark hair in neat, simple styles, and eyes in every shade of blue.
Father's white hair and bright green cloak stuck out from the sea of shadows.
I briefly considered avoiding him, but he spun in his seat, as though he sensed our presence. Beaming, Father waved us over.
"I know what he's going to say," Liam whispered.
Pulling my fur cloak off, I laid it over the back of my chair. "Evening, Father. You look positively radiant."
It was true. His pale eyes shimmered. "Lady Muirin said she saw you with Prince Laiserian?"
Liam grabbed a wine bottle from the table. "Lady Muirin works fast," he murmured, plopping into a chair.
Nobody gossiped quite like the ladies of Aenir.Nothingescaped their notice.
"I'm happy for you, dear," Father continued. "Your mother floated the idea of you and the prince . . . " He trailed off, mouthslowly stitching shut. "Well, fate has a funny way of working out."
Any mention of my mother made Father fall silent. Swallowing, I glanced away.
King Ailithir stood at the head of the room, talking with Kentoro's governor. Laiserian arrived at their side and stood with his father—they were mirrors for one another: sharp features and steel hair. I caught a smudge of white skirts as a woman walked behind them. The queen, most likely. A quiet woman who kept to herself.
But the younger prince was nowhere to be seen.
What ill-favored venue had Prince Ferris chosen tonight? A seedy bar in a back alley, perhaps. For all the grief I gave Liam, Prince Ferris' roguish ways made my brother seem positively polite.
As though sensing my thoughts, Liam shot me a sour glare. "Get your wine, sister. We're about to toast."
Throwing myself into my seat, I grabbed the wine bottle and filled my glass. Shifting in the cold wooden chair, I observed the room.
My countrymen, the people of Aenir, couldn't be more different from the Muirashins. The Iceborns of Muirashi were stiff and formal, quiet and polite. Most of the Aenir guests were already drunk, their voices boisterous.
The merriment echoed in this austere room. Muirashins weren't known to decorate anything. The ballroom in King Ailithir’s palace glittered with crystal chandeliers and hung paintings of vivid landscapes. This place had simple wooden floors and barren tables set with a single candle.
Father had explained their creed to me: vanity breeds sin. A pure soul had little need for the material.
Thank the saints I hadn't been born in Muirashi. I would sooner brawl a wild herd of elk than give up my wardrobe.
King Ailithir raised his glass to begin the toast. Back home, his speeches were raucous, but during Winter's Tide, he reigned it in.
"Good people, though we've gathered to celebrate another turning of the years, we must not forget the darkness we faced, five years ago, nearly to the day. I would begin by honoring those who gave their lives."
Silence fell over the room as everyone bowed their heads. I did the same. Five years ago, while we packed up to depart Winter's Tide, the Emperor had been slain, felled in the next city over. Every year since, we'd held a vigil in his memory at the beginning of the festival.
A flutter of movement caught my eye, and I glanced up at the chandelier. Perched on the edge of the flickering candles was a small black bird—a crow.
Its beady black eyes met mine, and a sense of dread washed over me. Ice flooded my veins, and I sat upright, looking around.
How had a bird gotten into the ballroom?
