“The princes of the seasonal realms sit on gilded thrones, fat with power and drunk on privilege. But soon, they shall kneel.” Her gaze flicks toward Keldarion’s cage, then returns to the crowd. “Soon, we will take back what was denied to us. Not just revenge but dominion.”
The cheers swell. A goblin tosses a firecracker into the air; it explodes in green sparks. The crowd roars.
“With this rose,” Sira continues, her voice rising above the din, “we shall create others. Children. Brothers. Sisters. An army. Eternal. Ours. Obedient.”
Obedient, I think.To her alone.
She doesn’t want freedom. She wants control. A land of puppets with her fingers on every string.
The crowd doesn’t care. Doesn’t know. The Prince of Thorns twisted her words so prettily when he invited them here. They scream her name, pounding feet and claws against the stone. It’s ecstasy. Frenzy.
She lifts her hand in farewell, already turning from the railing. “Enjoy your festivities,” she says, almost as an afterthought. “My son will ensure everything runs…as expected.”
Then she’s gone, vanishing back into the darkness of the tower, her long train trailing behind her.
Faustrius takes one last look across the balcony down at me. A warning in his glance, or something else. Can he see my eyes no longer shine with green, that there isn’t a single flame bursting around me?
No,he’s too far away.
Then he follows his queen inside the Tower of Nether Reach.
Of course she’s leaving. She always does. This aspect—the drinking, the bodies, the noise—is beneath her. It’s base. Crude.
She never understood how well I play this part.
I drain the goblet of wine beside me and rise from the throne. Shadows lick at my boots and curl up my spine in adoration.
Rosalina tilts her head, lashes low over storm-bright eyes. I press my mouth near her ear. “Be ready.”
Her lips curve, just a flicker. And then I’m standing before my people, going to do exactly what they expect of me.
Drink. Dance. Fuck the night away.
The heir of the dark on parade. And if this works out, every eye in this damned place will be on my Rose instead of Sira’s.
44
Rosalina
I’ve worn crowns of jewels and gowns spun from starlight.I’ve waltzed with princes beneath moon-drenched skies, whispered songs in enchanted gardens, touched magic and realized it was real.
But nothing feels quite like this.
I kneel on the cold steps of a throne made of shadows with hundreds of monsters watching me. My knees ache. My spine burns. My dress, or what little there is of it, clings to my skin. One wrong move and it will fall away.
Good.
Let them watch.
Above me, Caspian shifts on the throne. I don’t look up at him, not yet. I play the part: the courtesan, the possession, the beautiful broken thing that dark princes collect like trophies.
His voice curls in my mind, velvet and sharp.Are you ready, Rose? We need to put on a convincing show. Turn all eyes away from Sira’s prize.
I’m ready.
He pauses. Then:Whatever I say…I don’t mean it.
My stomach clenches, but I nod.And you remember if I yell stop,Idon’t mean it.
