I wear a pale gray dress, cut to a high gold embossed collar and gold trim along the hem and sash. Tulle-covered cutouts on either side of my waist display the splashes of gold spread around my torso and hips. The dress should have been white, but the Queen amended it to light gray as a compromise between nuptial purity and mourning of the King’s death.

  I draw in a breath and watch my four new handmaidens fuss noiselessly around me, each with their own assignment. My hair is loosely braided in multiple strands and pinned into an elegant chignon. My lips painted red and dotted with gold. Nails filed and painted gold.

  Soon, I will be presented to the Kingdom as the Affianced Princess Aubrey of Kheovaria. A princess. Prince Emory’s fiancée.

  The future queen.

  A knock sounds behind me, and I meet my personal guard’s gaze in the mirror’s reflection. His silver armor and crimson tabard make me think of the High Guard—Ray. He’d appointed this guard to me.

  I nod and the guard pulls the door open. My handmaidens curtsy and retreat deeper into my chambers to give me privacy.

  Clara strides in, dressed in lavish purple silk, her hair and neck loaded with pearls and gems. Lilianna follows behind, head low, dressed in simple green chiffon.

  My stepmother beams as she comes up behind my stool. “Aubrey, my dearest. You look absolutely dazzling.”

  Lilianna’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “You do look lovely, Aubrey.”

  I’ve expected them. Family of the bride visits before the engagement is formally announced to offer congratulations. If I had a normal family, they’d give me well-wishes and share a heartfelt embrace of goodbye—for I will be bound to the palace and the monarchy as a member of the royal family from this moment on, even with my wedding postponed until after the grieving period.

  But I do not have a normal, loving family. I have Clara and poor Lilianna.

  “Thank you, stepmother,” I say to the woman responsible for my father’s murder.

  “You look exactly like a Princess.” Clara waves her hand at me. “Really, they had little choice. Look at you.”

  Lilianna nods her agreement and recedes to the far side of the room.

  I smile as if such words please me. Clara doesn’t even detect the dishonesty in my face.

  “And to think, for a moment there, I doubted any of this to be. You’ve really exceeded my expectations, Aubrey.” She strokes the gold at my shoulder. In the mirror, it can almost be confused with tenderness.

  “Did you speak with the Prince before the ball?”

  “Of course, any good mother would. Honestly, I thought it was a shot in the dark, assuring him he need only make a grand gesture… one last little push.” She runs her talons across the gold at my temple. “And? I was right. That’s all it took. And now, look at what we’ve accomplished. We’ve been through so much, all these years, but now you must see the value in all I’ve taught you.”

  She is right. I’ve learned so much. Whatever tremulous grip I have on kindness and gentleness snaps. The last shreds of love or warmth or even sympathy for Clara falls away. I draw in a breath and it’s like breaking the surface of water after being held under far too long. “The congratulations are all yours, stepmother. You did it.”

  Clara glows. She strokes the gold down my arm, the very gold that has brought the Gallant legacy all the way to royalty. “Yes, I suppose I did.”

  I watch Clara’s face as I deliver the lines I’ve wanted to say for years. “Yes, all the rules, the hours spent studying and practicing, the days spent in the dark of the attic without food or water, the years of doing your every wish. My calloused and bleeding feet. The rules, limitations. Trapped in isolation. Never allowed to play or run. Never having friends and dismissing any servants who cared for me. The constant threats, the insults, the screaming, the beatings. The bleedings. Yes, stepmother, you have made me a Princess, and soon a Queen.”

  Clara’s smile freezes. There are few better at maintaining their composure than her, yet the woman’s eyes widen ever so slightly. Her pupils dilate.

  Fear.

  I revel in it. “And now, stepmother, you bow to me.”

  Slowly, Clara raises her gaze to mine in the mirror. Her fingers peel from my arm.

  My red, gold-dotted lips twist into an icy smile of my own. “Don’t worry, stepmother. I’ve had a townhouse in midtown set up for you.”

  “I…I won’t be living in the palace?” Clara takes a step back.

  I raise my brows in mock-surprise. “Of course not, stepmother. I don’t particularly enjoy your company. But, I am benevolent. This whole thing, after all, was to assure the Gallant family’s security, was it not? I will be sure you have every amenity you could need. Food. Water. You’ll even be free to leave it when you wish. Better accommodations than you ever afforded me.”

  On the far side of the room, Lilianna presses a hand to her mouth.

  I rise slowly from the vanity’s stool, allowing the fabric of my dress to fall and pool at my feet. “My father’s estate will no longer be of your concern, nor are you welcome there. Ever.” I turn to face Clara, straight on, no mirror between us. “You understand, if you displease me, all of this can be rescinded in a second. I will leave you with nothing.”

  Her eyes narrow and her voice lowers. “I will reveal your fraternization with rebels.” She hisses the last word under her breath, so quiet I’m certain no one else hears it. Not that it matters.

  I’ve anticipated this threat. I lower my voice to a similarly discrete whisper, though I certainly don’t need to. “Stepmother, I am Prince Emory’s betrothed. Who will they believe? His wife to be, his chosen Gold? Or the exiled, bitter stepmother? Honestly, Clara.”

  She stares at me. “But… all the years I’ve cared for you, everything I’ve sacrificed for you.”

  “Lets not misplace our motivations, stepmother. You did that for yourself.”

  Clara’s face darkens, her hands clutch one another at her chest. She takes another step back. “I did what I had to, to make you who you are. You wouldn’t have any of this if it weren’t for me.”

  “Perhaps you’re right, Clara,” I say, not even attempting to curb the steady increase in speed and sharpness of my voice. “I don’t often think of all that could have been, had you never entered my life. It is a dream too painful to think about, if I’m being honest.”

  “But I—What will people say? Midtown? I’ll lose all my invitations, connections I could share with you.” Desperation pangs every syllable.

  Vindication lights me alive as I unleash every glorious rush of violence to my words. “I’d strip your title and send you to the Pits if it were up to me. Apparently, that sends the wrong kind of message, so this will have to do.”

  With every lash of my rage, I expect to feel better. For the pain and memories to release me. Yet, even as I stand there watching a woman’s life slip away, I feel very little at all. Warning bells sing a distant toll in the back of my head. My morality is back that way, I’ve sailed far off course.

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  I tuck that annoying sound away. “You will never set foot in the Gallant manor again. It will be managed by the servant staff and Lilianna. The estate and its property are none of your concern anymore. Your things are being delivered to your new address at this very moment.”

  All color drains from Clara’s face. “You can’t do this.”

  A stab of pity strikes me. I ignore it. “I’m a half-step away from being queen, Stepmother. I assure you, I can. Perhaps you should have considered what I might do before you set this little arrangement up.”

  Clara stumbles back. Her back strikes the post of my gigantic bed covered in silks—so very far from the cold, hard boards I slept on so many days and nights in the attic. So very far from the table I laid upon while she bled me of my Goldblood.

  “Goodbye, stepmother.” I turn away, even as Clara begins to babble and barter, inching ever closer to begging. I push the sounds from my consciousness. This, this is what Clara taught me to be. A heartless monster—a creature capable of compartmentalizing even my most vivid emotions. A creature capable of taking on any face, any inflection, any role I have to. It’s about damn time I embrace it for the weapon it is.

  I focus my gaze on Lilianna and step towards her. Dear Lilianna, who’s gotten the worst possible end from all of this. Who’s been bought and sold like property by her own mother. Who never had a chance in hell to marry a Founder Lord—and now is engaged to the worst of them.

  Expressionless, Lilianna watches her mother fall apart. Is there still some kind of unconditional love between them, even now, even after all Clara has put her through? After all these years of neglect and belittling, does Lilianna still harbor love for the monstrosity that birthed her? I wouldn’t know what that’s like.

  I clear the sudden upwelling of emotion from my throat. I can cry later. Now, I have to be the strong sister Lilianna needs. “Lilianna, I’ve arranged for you to be officially a ward of the palace, if you should so ever wish a place to live. Or you may stay at the estate. You can be unwed forever, if you like.”

  Lilianna’s focus jerks from Clara to me and her brows rise, as if she can’t quite believe what I’ve said. She opens her mouth to speak, but Clara steps between us.

  “Aubrey.” Clara grabs my forearm, her talons digging into my skin. “You can’t do this. You’ll ruin me. You’ll ruin the family name.”

  The guard leaps from his position by the door, but my raised hand stops him.

  I search Clara’s face and try to feel a shred of regret. This woman has acted as my mother for years. There’s something there that I feel. A twisted painful sort of something. An empty, hollow, loveless wound that has long since given up trying to heal.

  “That’s the idea.” I break Clara’s grip with one smooth twist and shove the woman back.

  Entirely unprepared, Clara stumbles back into an unlit lamp, knocking it to the ground.

  No one moves to right it.

  Clara slowly straightens and smooths the front of her dress. Her gaze, no longer manipulative but laced with a mix of panic and fury, darts between me, the guard, Lilianna, and the guard’s hand resting on his sword.

  I raise my chin so as to look down upon my stepmother as I speak. “Next time you lay a hand on me or Lilianna... I won’t stop him.” Or myself. “You’re dismissed.”

  Clara stares, face pale, lips parting and pressing together, then opening again.

  “Ma’am.” The guard steps to Clara’s side and she jumps. He reaches for her arm.

  She yanks it away and casts me one last look, lips still parted as if she has something left to say.

  Instead, she turns and walks away, out of my life.

  I draw in a shaky breath and close my trembling hands into fists. It doesn’t feel as good as I dreamed. I will the rising well of rage and horror and overwhelming sadness down and away.

  I turn back to Lilianna. “Lily, I… I am truly sorry for… everything.” I try to make the words compelling, to put strength and meaning into them. It isn’t enough. It’ll never be enough, not for everything Lily’s endured all these years. “Don’t marry. Stay here, or at the estate. Anywhere you want. Let me keep you safe.”

  Slowly, Lilianna drags her gaze up to mine. Her hardened face softens. She draws in a breath, as if considering the idea. “I have to marry him. I can’t withstand the scandal. Neither can he. And neither can you. It’s my burden to bear. I’ll bear it on my own. I… want to.”

  I bite down hard on my tongue and nod. A choice. Her own choice. I owe her at least that much. Someday, somehow, I’ll make this up to her.

  Lilianna’s cheek puckers as she bites the inside of it. “Congratulations and everything,” she says and glances at the guard. “I... I hope you find happiness here, Aubrey.”

  A painful lump rises in my throat. I know she’s thinking of the rebel, the one Clara accused me of scandalizing myself with. I wish I could explain, tell her everything. “I will. Thank you.” I’ll find happiness in the Prince’s death. Happiness in tearing this place apart.

  Lilianna lets out a little huffing laugh and shrugs. She hugs me. We’ve never been a particularly affectionate family and I hate that this feels like goodbye forever. I hug her back.

  She offers me a weak smile and turns towards the door.

  “You deserved better than this,” I hear myself say when Lilianna reaches the door.

  Lilianna’s hand stills on the handle. “No, I’m not sure we do.”

  I follow one of my new handmaidens down the hall of the east wing and then down to the first floor. My guard trails a few steps behind. The first floor bustles with servants darting about, the walls decorated with garlands dotted with white roses, strangely alive and vibrant against the harshness of the stone surrounding us.

  We enter the expansive room typically used for High Court’s social After Tea. It, too, is full of servants interspersed with uniformed guards.

  The Queen stands in the middle of the room speaking with the High Guard. She notices my entrance and turns to welcome me.

  The High Guard takes a respectful step back. I still don’t know how to behave around him. I want to ask him to tell me all that’s happened after that fateful day in the forest, when he lost his finger and I lost my father. And everything afterwards. Obviously he joined the guard like he’d planned, but to rise this far… All the way to High Guard. The same path my father took. Judging by the scars that cover Ray’s face and body, it cost him a great deal.

  It’s hard to believe my childhood best friend ever existed within the man I see today.

  Queen Ophelia’s richly red-painted lips curve into an approving smile as her gaze evaluates me without subtlety.

  Although we are approximately the same height, it still feels as though I look up at her. The Queen’s crown glistens with diamonds and rubies, but every other inch of her is draped in black silk—mourning for her husband’s death.

  She crosses to me, her movements so elegant. As if her feet never actually touch the ground. She touches my cheek. “You look lovely.”

  It’s how I’ve always imagined a mother might touch her daughter, gentle and kind.

  “But you are not quite ready.” Queen Ophelia’s smile widens such that the corners of her eyes crease with a hint of wisdom. She lifts her opposite hand and in it lays a bundle of rich crimson silk. She slowly unfolds it to reveal a small gold crown.

  A strange fluttering ignites within me. All this posturing and pretending suddenly feels very real.

  She lets the silk fall away and places the crown gently upon my head. “There. Much better.” She gestures towards one of the many mirrors that line the walls and make the room appear even more grandiose. “You are now the Affianced Princess of Kheovaria.”

  I let out a little breath at the sight of the crown on my head. Smaller than the Queen’s, but no less breathtaking. Hundreds of tiny diamonds and rubies shimmer and sparkle with the most minute of movements.

  The crown matches the heavy, diamond-encrusted gold chain around my neck.

  “You are now an honorary member of the Royal Family. You will be addressed as Your Highness or Princess, though your status is not official until the wedding,” the Queen says.

  I meet her winter blue eyes. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

  She smiles again, the one that touches her eyes. “You may now address me as Ophelia, my daughter.”

  “Thank you, Ophelia.” For the first time, a tug behind my sternum sparks hope that this might not be all bad, maybe I can find some semblance of comfort here.

  “It’s time.” The Queen offers her hand. Long thin fingers sparkle with gold rings of rubies, diamonds, and color-shifting alexandrites.

  I put my hand in the Queen’s. From this moment on, I will lean in, instead of away. I will grasp my place in the royal family and wield it like the weapon it is.

  Marble and gold and high arches blur in my periphery as the Queen leads me to the palace front doors. I place my steps in time with the Queen’s. Keep my posture erect, my face impassive, cold, regal, just like the Queen’s.

  We emerge out onto the palace steps where hundreds, maybe thousands, have gathered. The Prince already stands to attention and he beams as his mother passes my hand to his moist and clammy one. I squeeze that hand and curve my face into a perfect smile—one I barely have to fake if I imagine him dead.

  High overhead, the sky shines clear and blue and wyvern-free. I look out over these people I might one day deign to rule. They cheer and clap and wave small Kheovarian flags marked with a gold sword-stabbed wyvern head.

  I raise my chin and swallow down the rise of bile in my throat. All these people stand before me like they are beneath me. One day, they’ll understand I stand here for them. That every smile I make, every move, every word is a fight for them.

  I scan the faces. None are familiar. Until…

  About four people back from the front, among the fine colors and clothes of lower nobility, stands a young man I know. He has red hair—combed, I’ve never seen it combed—and a fresh, pink scar runs down the side of his face. He wears a tailcoat and smart-looking waistcoat, just like the lower nobility around him. But I would know that face anywhere.

  Bright eyes meet mine, glistening and alive. Gloriously alive.

  Farnell. The last of my blood. My dearest friend.

  He smiles. That wonderful, crooked smile, one incisor missing.

  All at once, everything is worth it.