Page 35 of Embers of Ruin

As I pass, I catch the corner of her mouth twitch. Just for a second, but it's there. I count it as a victory. Unfortunately, she leaves before I can enjoy it properly.

The moment the door shuts, I let out a breath and glance at the gown again. I don't hate it, but I don't exactly want to wear it either. Unfortunately, my options are limited unless I plan on greeting the Shadow King barefoot in a borrowed nightdress, which admittedly has a certain appeal if only because it would offend everyone.

The thought is tempting. Very tempting. But not wise, and after my outburst in the throne room yesterday, I think today is the day I should focus on surviving.

* * *

I wash quickly in the bathing chamber, splashing warmed water from the black stone basin over my face before scrubbing the sleep from my skin. When I return, I slip the gown over my head with a sigh so dramatic even I find it excessive. The fabric settles against me with irritating precision, skimming every curve before falling to the floor in soft folds. Long fitted sleeves hug my arms, while the bodice cinches neatly at my waist. Silver embroidery winds along the cuffs and climbs the sides of the gown in delicate vines. It's honestly … beautiful.

By the time Mazelle returns, I've managed to tame my curls into something similar to how it was styled last night, but I refuse to pin them up. If everyone in this palace is determined to stare at my hair, they can suffer through the full experience.

Mazelle pauses in the doorway as her gaze travels over me once, assessing.

“Well?” I ask, lifting my chin.

“You will do.”

“How generous. I was hoping for a standing ovation, but I suppose I will survive.”

“Follow me.”

“Do you ever say please?”

“No.”

Well, at least she’s honest. I can hate her for many things, but I can’t hate her for that.

I follow Mazelle into the corridor as we navigate halls stretching wide and endless, carved from the same black stone as my chamber. Servants move quietly along the edges, carrying trays, linens, and stacks of parchment. They exchange quick glances when they see us—Mazelle pays them no attention, holding her head high as her eyes focus straight ahead. I have the decency to give a polite smile as we pass.

I spend the walk glaring at the back of Mazelle's head wondering how she manages to look judgmental from behind. “How long have you served the king?” It's a random question, but if I can get her talking, maybe something will slip. It's a long shot, but I've had worse ideas.

“Long enough.” Her answer is short and simple. Right. So she's not giving me anything.

"Why is everyone so vague?" I throw my hands in the air behind her back. "Do you all gather in a room and practice being infuriating?"

“No,” she says. “Some of us are naturally gifted.”

I blink. Did she just make a joke? Gods help me. I may like her against my will.

We pass through a gallery lined with tall windows overlooking the city. Gray light spills over the marble floor enough to reflect the arches overhead. Along the walls hang portraits of kings and queens I don't recognize, their faces severe, their eyes following us with the same joyless disappointment that seems to be a requirement of nobility. Beneath each portrait, silver plaques bear names written in an old script I can't read.

Beyond the gallery, the palace is anything but empty. Servants, soldiers, scholars in dark robes, and courtiers with jeweled collars weave through the halls, speaking in quiet voices as they hurry about their business.

Every step through this place chips away at the simple version of the world I have carried since childhood. I’ve always heard that the Shadow King is a monster. That his palace is a den of vipers where everyone is cruel. His people suffer beneath him as we do in Elvora. All of that should be easy to believe. And yet, the servants here do not look starved, or miserable. The soldiers do not look neglected, and the halls are maintained.

Either the king is excellent at hiding rot in his kingdom, or I have been wrong about more than I want to admit. I dislike both possibilities, because I know a fact about the king that will never make him a just ruler in my eyes: the king did something awful, and it affected my entire life.

“Where are you taking me?” I ask Mazelle as we descend a curved stairwell.

“To the Sacred Gardens.”

I nearly laugh. “What? There isn’t a garden anywhere on Solaris because of the rot. How could anything grow here? There are gardens here, in this palace?”

“Yes.”

“As in an actual garden?"

“It’s called the Sacred Gardens, Tarethyn.”