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But I held my head up high. I would not react. I would not cry.
“Your back has healed remarkably well,” he said. “And I assume by this pristine state of your skin, you didn’t require quite so many spare tunics.” He turned me to face him again, his hand snaking around my waist and drawing me toward him, his body pressed to mine. One finger caressed my cheek, the blunt tip of his finger circling around my eye. “This also healed. Perhaps you’ll get that dance with the Emperor after all.”
He released me back into the line and walked forward to take his place to greet the Emperor while I fought to keep the tremors in my body at bay. Tristan cocked his head to the side, his eyes flicking to Rhyan before returning to me. I could feel the heat of his aura pulsing with anger, the combination of hot and cold leaving me slightly faint. Morgana rested her palm against my lower back.
“Easy,” she whispered. “You’re safe now. That was his only plan for tonight.”
Right…now we just have to face the Emperor.
She rubbed my back, shifting her body closer to mine.
My father walked down the remaining stairs as the Imperator and Bastardmaker moved to the side, taking their official posts for his majesty’s arrival.
The Emperor’s sentries shouted at once, their voices harmonizing in a singing choir, chanting the Emperor’s praise in High Lumerian. Their expressions remained blank and neutral as they all—at once—lifted their swords. The practiced perfection of the movement, the way they held themselves, and their facial expressions all suggested this was nothing more than a ritual to enact in which they were all players assigned their part, but their muscles told a different story. As I took in the exact positioning of their feet, the way they held their swords, the tension in their arms, and the way they carried their weight, I realized I’d had it wrong. They weren’t on display for the Emperor or a show of his strength. This wasn’t simply a ritual or performance, or even a line of defense. They were ready to attack. One word, one call, one breath from the Emperor would be all it took—and they’d have our heads on pikes. They could slaughter us all within minutes if they chose to do so.
Had it been the same with Ka Azria? Had they dressed in their finest, trying to make a good impression, with no idea they’d dressed for their deaths?
For a second, I felt panic, fear that this was all a set up—that the Emperor hadn’t come to test me at all but to execute me, my family, and all of Ka Batavia because he knew that deep inside of Cresthaven, we were concealing vorakh.
“Formality,” Morgana hissed in my ear. “It looks scary, but it’s by design. A formality. I’ve seen this show before. Stay calm.”
I swallowed, shifting my glance from my father, standing regally with the golden Laurel of the Arkasva atop his head, down the row of the stiffly waiting Bamarian Council. There in the doorway to my home, to Cresthaven, the fortress of Bamaria, stood the Emperor of Lumeria.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“HisMajesty,EmperorTheotis,High Lord of Lumeria Nutavia,” cried the herald.
Like a wave crashing against the shore, we sank to our knees. Even the Imperator knelt. I stared down, fixating on the folds of my dress, the way the fabric rippled across the marble floor. My hands shook in my lap as I wrung them together.
I didn’t dare look fully upon him as he made his way down the aisle in slow measured steps. The Emperor was undoubtedly an old man, with thick white eyebrows and a white beard trimmed short. Gold and purple velvet robes cascaded down his back with a train that flowed into the aisle. Golden Valalumirs had been threaded into the material, shining and sparkling with every step he took.
His tunic was tightly fitted to his body, revealing plenty of lean muscle. He was a killer in every way, even at his age. The Emperor’s warlord, the warlord of the Empire, formally known as Arkturion Pompellus Agrippa, marched behind him. Like most arkturi, he too had been granted a nickname. Arkturion Pompellus was known throughout Bamaria as the Blade. I’d heard it had been his hand that had snuffed the life of the first member of Ka Azria, and that he himself had personally overseen or handled every execution. He hadn’t used a weapon but his actual hand; hence he, like the akadim, had become a weapon.
The Blade was also ancient in appearance though I knew all too well from the stories that he was a fair match for the Ready in battle. The capital regularly hosted games in the Nutavian Katurium, and the Blade was famous for competing against soturi in the arena. Now, his gray eyes moved quickly as he marched, assessing each corner of the Great Hall and every Bamarian noble. A few of the nobles looked down from his gaze.
Every measured step of the warlord seemed to show some ripple of muscle, as he allowed his red arkturion cloak to flow behind him. The frown lines on the Blade’s face deepened as though they’d been carved into his skin. A sentry, one of ours, coughed uncomfortably behind me.
I shivered as the Blade drew closer, noting each weapon he carried—the dagger sheathed in his leather belt, the sharpened Valalumir stars hanging from its seven straps, and the sword at his side. They all had blood on them—Ka Azria’s blood—as did his hands.
I had to be perfect. I had to survive. One wrong move, and another Ka’s blood could be on the Blade’s hands or weapons.
It seemed like hours passed as I sat with my back stiff, my arms and hands placed just so in my lap, but the next thing I knew, Emperor Theotis and the Blade were before me, their ancient-looking, piercing eyes coldly assessing me.
“It’s been some years, your grace,” the Emperor said, “but that is the youngest Bamarian Heir to the Arkasva, is it not? All grown up? And training to be a soturion?” His voice was quieter than I remembered. I couldn’t tell if it was due to my fear of his power that I’d been expecting his voice to be harder and louder, or if I’d simply thought he’d sounded louder when I was younger and all adults sounded loud in my ears. I’d been thirteen for his last visit and considered too young for this formal greeting. I’d remained upstairs, listening in the hall, curious about the Emperor of the Lumerian Empire.
“Your majesty,” I said carefully, properly, as I’d been trained. “You honor us with your presence on Valyati.”
He placed his hand before my face, presenting his golden Valalumir ring. I leaned forward to kiss it, the cloudiness of his aura more suffocating the closer I got. There was an overwhelming scent to it, something old and rotten.
“Rise, your grace,” he said softly, his hand held out for me to take. “Let me look at you.”
My ankles felt weak as I bore weight down on my feet, standing. My dress fell in loose waves from my hips, and my necklace felt as if it had gained ten pounds, pushing into my chest and warming against my skin.
“A girl of an ancient bloodline,” he said, almost as though he was musing to himself. “And yet….” He frowned, flicking his finger in a circle.
I was to spin around. Again. I twirled and curtsied, praying to every God in Heaven my face was neutral, that I wore my mask that hid my fear and disgust.
He shook his head, sharing a small glance with his arkturion. “Not an ounce of magic.”
