Page 19 of Crown of the Courtesan

Phyrne hesitates. “Keep her safe. Keep her hidden.”

“You failed me,” he croaks.

She stands taller. “I honored her wishes. Her final wishes! It’s almost certain Theodora never survived. Only a fool would think she’s still alive after how much blood she lost that night. So the least I could do was take the baby she wanted hidden.”

“You think I would hurt a babe?” he gasps, spitting blood clots onto the stone floor. “You were my confidante, my closest friend, and yet you abandon a dying man with the cruelest gift? A daughter I’ll never know. How can you live with yourself, giving this kingdom a queen unprepared to rule?”

“You could have remarried and had other heirs. Heirs who didn’t have a missing mother claiming you weren’t the father.” She gives him a knowing look. “Not to mention, everyone thought you would marry again.”

“Leave Wella out of this.”

The arched door of the turret bursts open, halting Phyrne’s confession. The twelve High Lords of the Council hasten into the room, following Balor.

General Metalla is notably close behind, a figure of fury in his silver-polished armor and sweeping ivory cape, which bears an odd resemblance to the cloaks of the priestesses. Iridescent metal cuffs wrap around his wrists as he clasps his brother’s shoulder in greeting.

King Xander stands, his veins popping through his temples and forehead. “May I have a single conversation uninterrupted tonight?” He falls back into his chair like smoke disappearing from a blown-out candle.

“If it’s a matter of succession, then we should be here,” the general says to his older brother. Once, a very long time ago, they might have looked similar in the way that siblings do, but thanks to the dragon-burn scars marring the king’s face, the only similarity remaining now is those same azure eyes.

Considered quite striking, General Metalla’s hair is thick, pure white, and cropped short, while his equally white goatee is groomed to a fine point on an older yet still handsome face. His terrifyingly confident power resonates with every action and word. No man in the kingdom instills such fear, save for the sovereign. And as such, my heart leaps into my throat when he announces, “Klara is your heir apparent. These lies are treason.”

Even though it was an unusual arrangement, General Metalla negotiated for his daughter to bypass him and to gain the heirdom. There was a dramatic ceremony at the Spirit-Fae Cathedral, where General Metalla made a vow never to claim the throne. Rumors of a nasty feud between the two brothers circulated, but eventually the gossip died down, and the new line of succession was accepted.

“Your Grace, you’re weakening,” the Royal Secretary, Briggs, pleads, kneeling before the king. “Perhaps it’s time to retire to your chambers.” He’s the tallest of the group, with steel-gray hair and a stubbled face. “The chancellor was right to bring us in.”

With his arms crossed, Balor stands in the darkened recess of the room, his expression smug. I can’t help but notice he keeps his distance.

The members of the High Council start bickering. King Xander’s voice is dangerously calm as he orders, “Be silent. I am still the ruler, and you shall obey.” He turns to Phyrne and asks, “Does she possess the powers of the fae?”

Magic, the lone remnant of the Fae Realm, flows in the royal bloodline, but only a dwindling drop still remains. A wave of voices rises simultaneously, the High Council vying to get their opinions heard. If Phyrne has answered, it isn’t audible over the shouting. My face burns while they talk as if I’m invisible.

“She cannot have powers. This is absurd.”

“The girl wants to change her position, just as the old Courtesan Queen did—I tell you!”

“She’s nothing but a fraud⁠—”

“NOT ANOTHER WORD,” bellows King Xander.

“Sire, there is another method to verify her lineage,” Wellcrest suggests above the fray. “Place the circlet upon her head. Test her power.”

The king rubs the iridescent metal against his forehead. “You’re right, my boy. There’s no other way with such limited time.” The king braces his grip on the armrests of his chair.

“Wait,” I object. “Please wait. I’m not ready for this. Give me a moment to collect my thoughts.” Suddenly, I feel parched, my throat dry as sand. “I need some water.”

I need to wake up.

My face beads with sweat as the High Lords bicker and openly insult me. Were they the ones who watched through the window while Balor attacked me? Would they leer at me again when I surely fail the king’s test? Every muscle in my body is painfully rigid as I realize this is futile. I possess no power. I have a gift for enhanced hearing, but that’s a far cry from magic.

The king struggles to rise, his legs wobbling. Wellcrest tries to help, but the monarch curses and swats him away before standing tall. He reaches the top of his head and removes the circlet, the firelight making its iridescence reflect crimson and orange.

Briggs begs, “Please, sire, its toll will be too great.”

Ignoring him, King Xander says, “Come here, child.” He points to the ground in front of him.

The whispers flood me as I kneel, the silvery fabric of my ceremony gown pooling around us.

He lowers the circlet onto my head.