Page 153 of Hellbound

Brimming with wine, it shone like a ruby-red beacon in the afternoon sunlight filtering through the domed glass.

Behind it, on a platform, was a long table with many seats, but most prominently, a high-backed throne at the center.

Ksenia tugged on the ribbon laces at the back of her corset, which was stifling her breath. Her dossier from Bohdan had relegated her to playing the role of a handmaiden, which she had hoped would have more reasonable attire.

A gold-chained headdress in a diamond pattern weighed down her wavy locks with ruby teardrops glistening at every point. Around her neck, a matching velvet choker boasted a dangling cabochon pendant.

Beneath her dress, a burgundy lace bodysuit fit her like a glove, starting from her collarbone and pulling down to her forearms and wrists, ending in a delicate loop fitted over her middle fingers.

The entire ensemble was cinched at the waist with a pomegranate-velvet corset and matching dress, its neckline plunging and whose split sleeves gathered at her elbows with silken ties.

Every inch had been designed for pageantry, making her want to vomit.

Instead of conducting reconnaissance, she had been gathered with the other handmaidens since early morning to review the itineraries and responsibilities and prepare to serve the guests that evening.

No two maidens matched in their brilliant red dresses. They ranged from a rusty crimson to the deepest mulled wine. Their sparkling smiles and glittering eyes were a stark contrast to Ksenia’s half-lidded glower in the corner.

“And of course, the reason why you all volunteered to do this: the Thread of Grace.” A smattering of applause echoed through the crystalline prison.

Ksenia rolled her eyes.

“The Lord King has declined to perform the Thread of Grace for the last few years, so we should prepare in case Bohdan steps in once more,” the event coordinator said.

Ksenia’s ear pricked.

“Now, to be clear, ladies. I want decorum and elegance! No jostling or fighting for the ribbons; they are all the same, and you have as much chance as the young lady next to you to dance with him. But of course, there will be a single winner by the end of the ceremony.”

Whispers clustered around the room as girls gossiped about who danced the year previous and the drama that ensued: whom Bohdan had bedded afterward, and his colorful reputation as a lover.

An odd feeling burned in her chest, much like acid in her stomach, churning like a poison that reddened her cheeks and set her jaw on edge.

“Quiet, quiet!” The event coordinator’s horn-rimmed glasses were askew on her face.

In her hand, a simple wooden sword had been tied with dozens of lengths of red ribbon. The coordinator stood in the center of the ballroom. Obediently, the girls lined up and followed one another in a single file to retrieve a ribbon end.

Ksenia sulked forward, earning a pointed stare from the older female coordinator, who then cleared her throat. “Remember to smile, dear.” A muscle twitched at the corner of Ksenia’s eye as another twitched at the corner of her mouth. Her hands itched to wring the woman’s neck.

The girls moved to form a perfectly spaced circle around the coordinator, who then thrust the sword above her head.

Then, they began to weave. Every other girl crossed in front of the other, with measured ease.

Had the sword been real, the ribbons would have severed and frayed with each twist.

“Many of you have performed this literal song and dance, so I don’t need to explain too deeply. When a single ribbon remains, that lucky maiden will dance with Bohdan, concluding the opening ceremony of Kindling.”

Why did the gods forsake her so? A splintering headache struck her as Ksenia willed herself to survive the evening. Tonight, she would be expected to mingle with both the Grastelian and the Kraalian nobility. Make them feel welcome, at home, and essential.

All social niceties she loathed.

“You should be witty and disarming enough to loosen people’s tongues, but forgettable at the same time. The mark of a good operative is not to be memorable, but to get in and get out without a single trace.”

Mirko’s words echoed in Ksenia’s mind as the event coordinator’s cries of “Again!” punctured her ears, and she refrained from elbowing her in the sternum.

Dressed in sumptuous fabrics, nobility from Grastel and Kraal arrived—cliques and pockets quickly forming as they thronged amongst familiar faces and gossiped about the others.

Sighing, Ksenia gathered her first tray of wine and made her rounds—an act that soon became an exercise in not dumping the liquid directly onto guests.

The afternoon sun shifted, and the southwest and western walls ceased to exist. They didn’t let in light; they became light itself. White and incandescent. Impossible to look at.