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Gold caught my eye on the dressing table. Ramia’s necklace. I stared at the oversized piece, at the connecting Valalumir stars that would cover me from collarbone to shoulders and drip down my breasts. Starfire glowed red in the center of each star.
It solved all my problems. It matched the dress, it covered me, and it felt like an extra layer of protection against the leering gazes of the men of Ka Kormac. I didn’t care if showing my cleavage would better the Emperor’s opinion of me.
I picked it up then hesitated. Wearing it because Mercurial wanted me to wear it felt like the wrong reason. But not wearing it because he wanted me to still afforded him some level of control over me.
I swept my hair over my shoulder and fitted the necklace across my collarbone, clasping it at the nape of my neck.
I stared at my reflection, dizzy for a moment. My hair looked redder despite not being in the sun. There was a warm yet damp breeze in the room even though snow still fell onto my balcony. I felt like I was outside, walking the shore in mid-summer, my feet sinking into golden sand. I stared at myself, transfixed. For the first time in weeks, I thought I looked beautiful and strong. Powerful, like a warrior. Like a soturion.
The necklace was doing exactly what I’d sought it out for. It was not just a decoration but a distraction to protect me in a fight I was unlikely to come out on top of. As the bells rang the hour, I left my room.
With Meera and Morgana walking before me, we reached the Great Hall, already filled to the brim with Bamarian nobility dressed in their finest.
Tristan found me first, striding forward to take my hand and kiss my palm. It was a formal kiss, one he’d offered many times at the start of our relationship but rarely since.
My stomach twisted. Was this kiss due to the formality of the night, or was this his way of signaling how far apart we’d grown? He’d been lukewarm for the past month, barely coming to see me anymore and barely touching me when he did. We were more like friends now than lovers. And even that friendship felt delicate and strained.
Lady Romula and Lord Trajan bowed their heads as we approached—a small show of respect for my station. But as Lady Romula straightened, she pursed her dry, wine-stained lips together in disapproval at my necklace. Too garish for her taste. Not enough silver. As if anything I did would satisfy her at this point. Her disapproval of me had only become more intense since the Emartis had forced her to stay overnight in Cresthaven. It had been “devoid of luxury,” and the state of Bamaria had her wondering if she might not bring some of her investments out to Elyria. Nothing I did mattered anymore. Unless I was making Tristan the next arkasva of Bamaria, the finish line would always be a few steps ahead of me where she was concerned.
I stood tall, shoulders back, face poised as I’d been trained, the mask of Lady Lyriana Batavia perfectly in place.
Arianna joined the line, looking perfect as usual, her hair swept over one shoulder. She’d traded in her usual blue for a stunning black gown that appeared to be made of endless layers of fish fins all sewn tightly together. Each fin had been threaded in a deep, burnt silver. Every swish of the dress turned the silver from a bright light to a glittering black. Naria was beside her, still as a statue and offering me a death glare.
Eathan shifted around the room, pointing and directing everyone into their place. The lights highlighted his graying hair; he had far more than my father, a marked difference in their appearance. His dark gray cloak flung out behind him as he moved, his lightning-quick eyes checking everyone’s position. He gave me a short nod to head into place. Within minutes, every Bamarian Council member and their immediate family was accounted for, all looking stunning and forming an aisle down the center of the hall thanks to Eathan’s directions.
My father would be at the end, standing at the base of the staircase. He’d be the final person the Emperor would greet after parading through our welcoming committee. I was to stand off to the side of the stairs with Morgana while Meera, Heir Apparent, would be just behind our father. Tristan squeezed my hand before he strode off to stand with his grandparents, just across the aisle from me.
Morgana, in a black dress with a deep v that also veered so low it tucked into her belt—the darker sister of my gown—stood by my side. She squinted and discreetly took my hand, squeezing it.
“His guard comes,” Eathan announced. “Ready now.”
All at once, my father’s sentries shifted position. Two new rows formed, surrounding us. A sentry stood guard every two feet. Across from me was Rhyan, his mouth open as he took in my appearance. One eyebrow lifted as his gaze moved slowly up and down my body. Warmth spread over me before his jaw tensed, and he straightened, maintaining the cold, strong stance of a fortress guard.
Euston and Rhodes formally announced the Emperor’s arrival and flung open the double doors, drawing in a freezing gust of snow-coated wind. One hundred soturi poured through the door, single file, marching in sync, and splitting in the middle of the hall when they reached our lineup. Each soturion alternated turning left or right. They wore perfectly pressed green cloaks, the material somewhat softer and shinier than our own. Their armor was made of a brushed gold, and most of the soturi, as they stepped under the lights, revealed they’d had the Emperor’s sigil, a single Valalumir, tattooed in gold ink across their cheeks.
Within seconds, we were completely surrounded by the Emperor’s army—the soturi loyal to the man who’d ordered Jules’s execution, singlehandedly killed every last member of Ka Azria, and replaced them with the conniving members of Ka Elys.
An entourage of ladies walked through the doors, all of them dripping in white fur cloaks as they promenaded down the aisle, tipping their heads down in respect to me, Morgana, and finally Meera. The ladies of his court were followed by his consort, a middle-aged woman wearing a shimmering silver gown and a simple diadem. Then came the Imperator and the Bastardmaker, followed by Viktor. Naria perked up when she saw him, and as he walked by her, he grabbed her hand, tugging her forward to kiss her brusquely. The Imperator, swishing his black and golden cloak behind him, paused before me, his blonde eyebrows narrowed.
“Our little warrior,” he said, voice mocking, “the reason we’re all here.” He gestured at the hundred soturi now guarding us. “Your grace,” he spoke quietly, “I do hope you’ve been taking your training far more seriously since the last time.”
I bowed and straightened, staring back at him with as much defiance as I could muster. He smirked and extended his hand to me. Protocol demanded I take it.
“I have taken my studies extremely seriously, I assure you, your highness,” I said sweetly.
“Is that so?” he asked. “We wouldn’t want to waste the Emperor’s time, now would we?”
He tugged me forward, his fingers digging into my wrist, and I was in the center of the aisle, my hand in the Imperator’s. Rhyan’s eyes widened, his hands fisting at his sides, but he remained still. Tristan started to move forward, but Lady Romula placed a firm hand across his arm. I tilted my head back to my father, who stood still as a statue, his mouth tight. His only tell of emotion was a slight narrowing of his eyes. He took one step down, and then paused. Coming any closer could be seen as an act of aggression.
I pressed my free hand into my hip, sucking in breaths, praying to be as still as an arkasva, as unmoving. Phantom fingers pressed into my back, but my wounds were closed. This wasn’t like before, when I’d been injured and at the Imperator’s mercy. It was worse.
The Emperor was about to walk through these very doors, and his presence seemed to give the Imperator the freedom to act with a boldness he’d only toed the line of before. Aemon and Arianna had been unable to protect me then. No one could protect me now if things went sour with his majesty.
“Your grace,” the Imperator drawled, twirling me away from him. I faced the double doors, the entrance to Cresthaven, where the Emperor would appear at any moment. “Did you ever replace that tunic?” he asked. “Soturion Hart?”
Fire danced in Rhyan’s eyes, a cold fury brewing in his aura that the Imperator clearly felt, for his own feral energy seemed to push forward and surround me, making me feel sick to my stomach.
The Imperator grabbed a fistful of my hair and tugged it painfully before he tossed it over my shoulder. The entire Bamarian nobility watched me, their eyes wide, their expressions mixed between scandal and something like disdain, like they wanted to distance themselves from me. Distance themselves from this display. The Bastardmaker leaned forward, his cheeks coloring as his eyes dipped down the v of my dress.
