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Even Mika senses the weight of the situation and falls back to cling to my leg as we walk forward, toward the stairs and the form seated above.
I take Corrin’s advice and channel the same courage I dug up when Princess Romeria offered me a position within the castle, knowing that if I said yes and then she changed her mind, if I somehow ended up back in Freywich, we would pay dearly for my disloyalty.
“Your Highness. The baker and her family, as requested,” Corrin calls out when we reach the bottom of the steps, followed by a deep curtsy.
I follow suit a split second later—a poor attempt, given the baby in my arms—and then right myself, keeping my focus on the swirls in the marble floor.
“Does the baker have a name?” a fluid but deep male voice asks.
After a moment’s pause and an elbow to the ribs from Corrin, I realize I’m supposed to answer.
“Gracen,” I croak and then clear the gruffness from my voice. “Your Highness.”
“You seem more interested in the pattern on the throne room floor than in your king, Gracen.” Humor laces his tone.
“I …” I falter at how to respond. How else am I supposed to behave?
“Look at him,” Corrin hisses.
My head snaps up as commanded until I meet the gaze boring down on me from above.
So this is the new king of Islor.
His muscular frame is partially slouched on the throne, his thighs splayed, a finger tracing his angular jaw, looking utterly bored by this event. But I imagine that’s by design. My father once said lords and ladies are more apt to dance like court jesters before an uninterested king when they want to win his favor.
He is even more handsome than Sabrina claimed. His golden-blond hair is cropped short, but the ends wisp up around his crown, as if begging for the chance to grow long enough to form plump curls. I heard he led the king’s army before and is said to be a proficient swordsman. His frame certainly suggests that. Corrin claimed he is young and brash. He’s young-looking, yes, but he could be a mortal thirty or an elven three hundred.
And his piercing blue eyes dissect me.
“How long have you been under my employ, Gracen?”
I don’t dare look away. “Since the Cirilean fair, Your Highness.” The best weeks of my children’s lives. I suppose all must come to an end.
“Since Princess Romeria stumbled upon you in the market and demanded you join the royal household?”
“She never demanded,” I manage around a hard swallow. Corrin told me not to lie.
His eyebrow arches. “No?”
I shake my head. “She asked if I’d like to come here, and I said I would. Your Highness.”
“Surrounded by soldiers carrying swords, with her children by her side, what else was my subject supposed to say?”
The blood drains from my face at the sound of that voice, but I can’t bring myself to turn toward it. There’s no need; I can easily picture Lord Danthrin, with his perfectly coiffed silver-white ponytail and his tailored suit and his wicked smile. He still thrives in my nightmares.
Lilou lets out a wail. It’s echoed by Mika’s sob. I promised them they’d never have to see that cruel lord again.
“None of that, children. Come now.” Corrin herds them away, off to the opposite side of where Danthrin hovers. I sense him moving in, preparing to claim his property.
“The children seem thrilled to see you,” the king drawls, as if this is amusing.
Lord Danthrin laughs—that forced, false sound that he uses around nobility to pretend he’s pedigreed when he’s a demon. “They probably missed their naps. They will sleep in the wagon on the way back to Freywich.”
This can’t be happening.
“No, Mama, please don’t make us go back there!” Mika cries, finally realizing the gravity of the situation. The terror in his voice …
Fates, please help us. I squeeze my eyes shut but not before several tears escape, rolling down my cheek, falling.
The sudden stir within my arms tells me they’ve landed on my sleeping daughter, disturbing her slumber. She coughs as her tiny body stiffens and then her eyelids blink open.
“Shhh.” My tense body sways, the instinct to lull her back to peace kicking in despite the doom that surrounds us.
A loud creak cuts through an otherwise quiet throne room—the spectators’ attention now rapt. The king has risen from his throne in a swift, graceful move, but his steps down are painfully slow by comparison as he descends to stand inches from me.
From this proximity, he is far more imposing. I struggle to keep my composure, my body trembling.
“Gracen …”
The unexpected softness in his voice compels me to look up. Blue eyes the color of the spring hyacinths in Lady Danthrin’s garden bore into mine. I imagine he’s doing what all elven are adept at—seeing what we don’t wish them to see. As a child growing up, I thought it was another empty threat delivered to small children by their parents when they misbehaved. But soon after Lord Danthrin collected me on Presenting Day, I learned how easily the immortals sensed our fear.
