CHAPTER ONE
SILVER EYES
had learned to measure my worth in the castle by the sound my footstepsI made against the stone. The lighter I walked, the less likely I was to draw attention.
Today, I abandoned such caution. My heels struck the polished marble with deliberate force as I strode through the dim, echoing corridors of Vareth palace, my fingers trailing over cold stone walls that had witnessed generations of royal blood and betrayal.
I could admit, I was in a particular mood.
The palace held its breath around me, ancient stones exhaling stale air that carried the musty scent of forgotten histories and buried secrets. Sunlight struggled through narrow windows, casting elongated shadows that seemed to reach for me with spectral fingers. The chill that perpetually haunted these halls seeped through my gown, a familiar discomfort I had long since accepted as part of my inheritance.
I caught a whisper as I passed a cluster of courtiers. Three women with elaborately coiffed hair and painted faces who fell silent at my approach, then resumed their murmuring the moment I passed.
“—the King’s shame —“
“—those unnatural eyes —“ “—her mother must have been —“ I didn’t turn. I’d heard worse. The rumors about my mother had circulated since before I could understand their meaning. Sorceress. Witch.
Enchantress. The court had never forgiven her for capturing the King’s heart, nor him for succumbing. And they had certainly never forgiven me for existing as constant proof of that indiscretion.
The portraits of my ancestors, or rather, my father’s ancestors, stared down at me from ornate frames, their painted eyes seeming to follow my progress with silent judgment. I knew each face by now. Stern King Edric, my grandfather, whose furrowed brow I had inherited; Queen Maeve, whose legacy of diplomatic brilliance was still taught in the schoolrooms; and dozens of others stretching back through Vareth’s bloodied history.
None resembled me quite enough, which, to the court, was the problem.
I paused beneath the portrait of my father as a younger man. King Aeldrin had been painted soon after his coronation, before I was born, before the weight of his crown had stooped his shoulders and etched permanent lines around his mouth. His eyes were dark and clear, lacking the silver specks that marked mine as different, as other. As my mother’s daughter.
“Lady Mireille.”
I turned, composing my features into the careful mask I wore within these walls. A young page stood with his gaze respectfully lowered, though I caught the quick, curious flick of his eyes to mine before he looked away again.
“The Queen requests your presence in the east drawing room,” he said, his voice cracking slightly. New, then. The Queen’s experienced servants had mastered speaking to me without ever meeting my gaze.
“Does she?” I replied, allowing a trace of amusement to color my voice.
“How unprecedented.”
The boy shifted uncomfortably. “She said to tell you it’s a matter of some importance.”
“I’m certain she did.” I smiled without warmth. “You may tell Her Majesty I shall attend her shortly.”
He bowed, clearly relieved to be dismissed, and hurried away with the distinctive gait of someone trying not to appear to be running.
Queen Ira “requesting” my presence was tantamount to a royal command, and while I might delay to assert what little independence I possessed, I wouldn’t refuse entirely. The fragile peace between us depended on such small surrenders.
A flicker of movement caught my eye—my own reflection in a large, gilt- framed mirror at the turning of the corridor. I stopped, drawn by morbid
curiosity to study what others found so disturbing.
A young woman with sun-kissed skin looked back at me, her features a discomfiting blend of royal heritage and something indefinably foreign. My father’s high cheekbones and straight nose, yes, but set in a face too finely drawn, too sharply angled to belong comfortably among the robust beauty favored in Vareth. My hair fell in waves of midnight, lacking the golden or auburn tints that ran through the royal bloodline.
And then, of course, the eyes.
I leaned closer, watching as my pupils contracted in the shifting light.
Around them, irises the color of winter storms, gray-blue like twilight on snow, scattered through with flecks of silver that caught the light like miniature stars. Eyes that marked me as surely as a brand.
When I was younger, I believed they were beautiful. I remembered spinning in my chambers, watching my reflection blur and the silver specks seemingly swirl into constellations. “Star eyes,” my nurse had called them, before she was replaced with someone who didn’t indulge such whimsy.
Now, I knew better. My eyes were a curse, a constant reminder to everyone who saw me that something in my blood was different. Wrong. The court physician had examined them when I was a child, pronouncing them a simple quirk of nature. Yet, the whispers persisted. Unnatural. Bewitched.
Evidence of my mother’s mysterious origins and questionable humanity.
“Admiring yourself, sister? How utterly… common.”
The voice sliced through my thoughts, sharp as a blade wrapped in silk. I didn’t need to turn to know who stood behind me, but I did anyway, keeping my expression carefully neutral.
“Cordelia,” I said, inclining my head. Just enough to acknowledge her status as crown princess, though not enough to suggest I considered myself truly beneath her.
My half-sister’s lip curled slightly, her amber eyes, so like our father’s, sweeping over me with practiced disdain. “Mother is waiting. Though I suppose punctuality isn’t valued among whatever gutter folk spawned your maternal line.”
I smiled, slow and deliberate, knowing it would irritate her more than any retort. “How fortunate, then, that our shared paternal line valued education enough that I understand the strategic value of a fashionable delay.”
A flush of anger stained her cheeks, but she maintained her composure, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her immaculate gown. “Do hurry along.
The sooner your obligatory appearance is concluded, the sooner the rest of us can enjoy ourselves.”
She swept past me, her perfume lingering in the air. Roses and musk, custom-blended by the royal perfumer to complement the natural scent of her skin. Another small luxury denied to me, another reminder of the careful distinction maintained between legitimate and illegitimate daughters.
I watched her retreating back, noting the rigid set of her shoulders beneath layers of silk and lace. For all her confidence, Cordelia feared me. Or rather, she feared what I represented. The king’s indiscretion made flesh, a living reminder that her mother had not always held his heart.
With a final, steadying breath, I turned toward the east wing, toward the drawing room where Queen Ira awaited with whatever fresh torment she had devised for me today. My heels struck the floor with renewed purpose, echoing through the corridor like a declaration of war.
The east drawing room reeked of false propriety—cloying perfumes and lavender polish barely masking the stench of ambition and resentment. I paused at the threshold, cataloging my enemies. Queen Ira at the center like a spider in her web, surrounded by her sycophantic ladies-in-waiting, each one more eager to curry favor.
Tall windows admitted afternoon light that seemed reluctant to touch the dark, heavy fabrics draping every surface, creating instead pools of illumination that transformed the room into a landscape of harsh contrasts.
Fitting, for a gathering where every smile concealed sharpened teeth.
Conversation stuttered and died as I entered, replaced by the rustling of silks and the soft clinking of porcelain as teacups were lowered to saucers.
Twenty pairs of eyes turned toward me with expressions ranging from open hostility to feigned disinterest. I straightened my spine and stepped forward, the wooden floor creaking beneath my weight as if the very palace conspired to announce my unwelcome presence.
I moved further into the room, aware of every eye that tracked my progress while pretending not to look. Lady Lorraine whispered behind her fan to Countess Elspeth, their gazes flicking toward me then away. Lord Hathely’s wife shifted in her seat as though my mere proximity might
contaminate her. I recognized the daughters of several noble houses clustered around Cordelia, who sat at her mother’s right hand, a perfect echo of Ira’s regal posture.
Ira herself remained seated, forcing me to approach and make obeisance.
Another of her small power plays. I crossed the room with measured steps, keeping my back straight and my expression neutral. Thick rugs muffled my footfalls, creating an illusion that I glided rather than walked, adding to the whispers that followed me everywhere within these walls.
When I reached her, I sank into a curtsy that was exactly the depth required by protocol and not a hair’s breadth deeper. “Your Majesty,” I murmured, my voice pitched to carry no further than necessary. “Thank you for your kind invitation.”
Ira’s lips curved in what might have appeared to others as a smile. To me, who had studied her expressions for years, it was merely a baring of teeth.
“Mireille,” she said loudly, my name in her mouth sounding like something distasteful. “How fortunate that you could join us today. I had begun to fear you preferred the company of shadows to that of the court.”
She did not offer her hand to be kissed, nor did she invite me to rise. I remained in my curtsy, feeling the strain in my thighs as the seconds stretched uncomfortably long. Finally, with a slight gesture that managed to be dismissive despite its subtlety, she released me from the position.
“Your presence here is intolerable,” she said, her voice pitched low enough that only those nearest could hear, though I had no doubt she would have preferred to announce it to the entire gathering. Her gloved hand cut through the air between us, directing me toward a small chair tucked in the corner farthest from the fire. “Seat yourself. I wouldn’t want you to feel... overlooked.”
The chair was positioned exactly where a draft from the ill-fitting window frame would ensure constant discomfort. It was also isolated from the main seating arrangement, an island separated from the archipelago of social power by an expanse of empty flooring.
I met her gaze with my own, refusing to lower my eyes despite years of conditioning that demanded deference. My jaw tightened, the only outward sign of the anger simmering beneath my carefully constructed façade. I said nothing. What was there to say? She was queen, I was the living reminder of her husband’s infidelity, and we both understood the boundaries of our silent war.
I moved to the appointed chair, aware of Cordelia’s satisfied smirk as I passed. My half-sister was twenty-five, seven months my junior but infinitely more secure in her position. Her blonde hair was arranged in an elaborate style that emphasized her delicate features, her gown the precise shade of blue that best complemented her fair coloring.
Everything about her had been cultivated to highlight her status as the legitimate heir, the true daughter of Vareth.
“Sister,” she murmured as I passed, the word somehow transformed into an insult by her tone.
Her companions tittered, the sound like small, venomous creatures scuttling across stone. I did not respond, merely inclining my head slightly before continuing to my designated place of exile. Behind me, I heard her stage-whisper, “Those eyes are so unnerving, like an animal’s. Perhaps we should check her for a tail.”
More laughter, slightly louder now that I had passed. Still, I said nothing.
Her cuts no longer hurt.
I settled into the uncomfortable chair, arranging my skirts with deliberate care, using the moment to compose myself.
The draft from the window was indeed cold, creeping beneath the collar of my dress like ghostly fingers. I suppressed a shiver, unwilling to give Ira the satisfaction of seeing my discomfort.
From this vantage point, I could observe the entire gathering while being easily forgotten by most present. It was, ironically, the perfect position from which to listen, and listening had long been my most valuable skill in navigating the treacherous waters of court life.
Lady Lorraine was speaking now, her voice carrying clearly across the room. “—and they say he’s taken the eastern port of Callais with barely a struggle. The local lord simply opened the gates rather than face siege.”
“The Blood King grows bolder,” Countess Elspeth replied, her brow furrowed with genuine concern. “Nocthar was nothing but a minor kingdom merely five years pass. Now, half the coastal cities fly his banner.”
I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the draft.
The Blood King. King Valen of Nocthar. The Butcher.
His name alone was enough to silence a room, to make mothers draw their children closer.
The stories that reached Vareth spoke of public executions, of nobles who opposed him being impaled on spikes outside his castle, of rituals performed
to strange gods beneath the new moon. Most dismissed these as exaggerations, the kind of embellishments that attached themselves to any feared ruler. But there was enough consistency to the reports to suggest at least some truth to the horrors.
“They say he bathes in the blood of virgins to maintain his youth,” one of Cordelia’s companions whispered, clearly thrilled by her own daring in speaking of such things.
Cordelia scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous, Emeline. No one actually believes those peasant tales.” She glanced toward her mother. “Though the matter of Callais is concerning. Father should have sent aid to Lord Ferrin, not left him to face Nocthar alone.”
“Your father does what he must for the security of Vareth,” Ira replied, her tone making it clear that the topic was closed. “The affairs of state are not matters for afternoon tea.”
A flash of movement caught my eye. A small figure darted between the clustered ladies, bright as a songbird among crows.
Lysa, three years old and unbound by the constraints of court etiquette, spotted me in my corner. Her face lit with genuine delight.
“Miri!” she cried, using the pet name she had given me when she first learned to speak. She ran toward me, arms outstretched, heedless of her mother’s sharp intake of breath.
I couldn’t suppress my smile as she reached me, her small body colliding with my knees before she raised her arms in the universal demand to be lifted.
I complied without hesitation, gathering her onto my lap where she immediately began fidgeting with the silver pendant at my throat.
“You missed story time,” she informed me solemnly, her hazel eyes—so like her mother’s in shape, yet warmed by an innocence Ira had long since sacrificed—fixed on my face.
“Nurse read about the princess and the dragon, but she doesn’t do the voices right like you do.”
“A terrible oversight,” I agreed, matching her seriousness. “Perhaps I can properly read it to you later.”
Lysa nodded, satisfied with this promise, then reached up to touch my cheek with fingers that smelled faintly of the candied violets she’d clearly been eating.
“Your eyes are pretty today,” she declared. “Like stars fell in them.”
From across the room, I saw Ira stiffen, her disapproval a palpable force.
Cordelia’s expression had soured as well, her lips pressed into a thin line at the sight of her youngest sister’s obvious affection for me. But neither moved to separate us, aware that doing so would only upset Lysa and potentially cause a scene.
It was one of the few joys I possessed—Lysa’s uncomplicated love. She knew me only as her half-sister who told the best stories and snuck her sweets when the nursemaids weren’t looking.
Her affection was pure, untainted by court politics or the bitterness of adult grievances.
“Tell me about your day, little sister,” I said, settling her more comfortably on my lap.
As she launched into an elaborate recounting of her morning adventures, I kept one ear tuned to her chatter and the other to the conversations flowing through the room.
“—expansion westward means he’s looking toward Vareth,” a lady-in- waiting was saying quietly to her companion. “The shipping port is strategic.
It controls access to River Mallen.”
“River Mallen feeds directly into our eastern territories,” came the troubled reply. “If he takes both the port and the river —“ “He won’t,” the first woman interrupted firmly. “King Aeldrin and the neighboring kings would never allow Nocthar to gain such advantage. The treaty between kingdoms has held for two hundred years.”
“Treaties are only as strong as the men who uphold them,” her companion murmured. “And the Blood King has shown little regard for such niceties.”
I suppressed a shudder, tightening my arms slightly around Lysa as though I could protect her from the very mention of such a man. The Blood King’s reputation for cruelty extended even to his treatment of noble children, using them as hostages and leverage against their parents.
The thought of someone like him anywhere near Lysa made my blood run cold.
“And then Nurse said I couldn’t have another sweet because it would spoil my supper, but I think that’s silly because it’s hours and hours away,”
Lysa was saying, blissfully unaware of my divided attention. “Don’t you think that’s silly, Miri?”
“Terribly silly,” I agreed automatically, brushing a stray curl from her forehead. “Though Nurse does have to consider your mother’s wishes.”
Lysa wrinkled her nose at this unwelcome reminder of authority.
“Mother says sweets ruin the com-plec-shun, but you are perfect and I know you eat honey cakes when no one’s looking.”
I smiled at her slow pronunciation of complexion, then pressed my finger to my lips, feigning alarm at her disclosure of my secret vice.
“Shh, don’t tell anyone. It’s a special magic that only works for big sisters.”
I glanced around, as if to see if anyone was listening, before I whispered, “But since you’re my favorite sibling, I’ll make sure the magic works for you too.”
She giggled, delighted to be included in a conspiracy, however minor.
As she settled her head against my shoulder, content for the moment to simply be held, I felt a presence approaching and looked up to find Isolde making her way toward us.
Isolde was perhaps the only person at court I would call a friend.
Daughter of a minor noble family with ancient ties to Vareth, she had been assigned as my companion years ago and had somehow, against all expectation, developed a genuine affection for me.
Unlike most at court, she never flinched from my gaze or treated me as though I carried some contagious misfortune.
“Princess Mireille,” she greeted formally, though her eyes held the warmth of genuine friendship. “Princess Lysa. What a charming picture you make.”
Lysa beamed at the compliment while I shifted slightly to make room for Isolde on the small bench beside my chair.
She settled there with the grace that came from years of navigating court spaces, her ash-blonde hair immaculately styled, her gray-green eyes missing nothing.
“I was beginning to think you might not come,” she said quietly, pitching her voice to carry no further than my ears. “The queen’s invitation seemed particularly... insistent this time, and I know how much you like to be ordered around.”
“It did seem more like a royal decree,” I murmured back. “How could I possibly refuse?”
Isolde’s lips quirked in acknowledgment of how often I attempted to defy the queen.
“Well, I’m glad you’re here. These gatherings are unbearable without
someone sane to talk to.”
Lysa, growing restless, spotted another child across the room and wiggled to be set down.
“Miri, please let me down. I want to play with Lady Kelleth’s daughter.”
I released her, watching as she darted away with the unselfconscious energy of childhood.
“Don’t wrinkle your dress,” I called after her softly, a reminder that would almost certainly be ignored.
Turning back to Isolde, I found her watching me with a small smile.
“Lysa adores you,” she murmured. “It drives the queen mad.”
“One of life’s small pleasures,” I admitted, allowing myself a slight smile in return. “How have you been? I’ve hardly seen you these past few days.”
Isolde glanced around, ensuring no one was paying us any attention, then leaned closer. “I’ve been... occupied,” she said, a hint of color rising in her cheeks.
I raised an eyebrow. “Occupied? That sounds intriguing. Do tell.”
“Do you recall that stable master’s son I mentioned?” she whispered, her eyes sparkling with secret delight. “The one with the —“ “Shoulders like a young god and hands that could break a wild horse?” I finished for her, amused by her sudden bashfulness. “I recall you waxing rather poetic about his various attributes, yes.”
Her blush deepened. “Well, there have been... developments.”
“Developments?” I repeated, lowering my voice to match her conspiratorial tone. “Am I to understand these developments occurred somewhere private, possibly involving fewer clothing than propriety would suggest?”
Isolde’s eyes widened in scandalized delight. “Mireille! Must you be so direct?”
“Would you prefer I speak in riddles and metaphors like the court poets?”
I teased, feeling some of the tension drain from my shoulders.
This was why I valued Isolde. She treated me as a friend rather than a curiosity or a threat. With her, I could forget the weight of being King Aeldrin’s shameful secret, Queen Ira’s living insult, the court’s perpetual
outsider.
At least, if only for a moment.
“Perhaps I should compose an ode to the joining of noble lady and common stable hand, their passionate embrace beneath the harvest
moon —“ “Stop,” she hissed, though laughter bubbled beneath her scandalized tone.
“It wasn’t beneath the moon. It was in the hayloft, and it was... educational.”
I pressed my hand to my heart in mock horror. “The hayloft? How scandalously rustic of you, Lady Isolde. What would your mother say?”
“She’d likely have apoplexy and then arrange my immediate marriage to some decrepit baron with gout,” Isolde replied dryly. “Which is why she will never know, and neither will anyone else.” She fixed me with a pointed look.
“Anyone.”
I softened my teasing smile. “Your secret is safe with me, as always.
Though I hope this stable boy is being discreet. The court has eyes everywhere, and the queen would love nothing more than a scandal to distract from rumors of the Blood King.”
Isolde’s expression sobered at the mention of King Valen. “I’ve heard those whispers, as well. Do you think there’s truth to them?”
I hesitated, weighing my words. Isolde was perhaps my only true ally at court, but even with her, I kept certain thoughts to myself.
“I think there’s rarely smoke without fire,” I finally said. “And I think my father wouldn’t have summoned the war council three times in the past week if there wasn’t cause for concern.”
“The war council has been called three times?” she asked, her voice dropping lower.
I gave her a wry smile. Isolde knew of the small network of servants I’d cultivated who, for various reasons, were willing to share information they overheard. A kind word here, a small favor there, sometimes merely bothering to learn their name.
It was surprising how such small acts could purchase loyalty that gold could not.
“You should be more careful,” Isolde warned, genuine concern in her eyes. “If the queen even suspects you have been gathering intelligence —“ “She already thinks the worst of me,” I interrupted gently. “Knowledge is my only protection here. I need to see the blade before it falls if I’m to have any hope of avoiding it.”
Before she could respond, a movement at the edge of my vision caught my attention. A page in royal livery was weaving through the gathering, his expression taut with urgency. As he approached, I recognized him as one of my father’s personal messengers, and a flutter of unease stirred in my
stomach.
He came to a stop before me and bowed stiffly. “Princess Mireille,” he said, his voice cracking slightly. He couldn’t have been more than fourteen.
“His Majesty King Aeldrin requests your immediate presence in his private study.”
He extended a sealed note, which I accepted with fingers that remained steady despite the quickening of my pulse.
My father rarely summoned me, preferring distance from the living proof of his indiscretion. For him to send for me now, in the middle of the queen’s gathering, suggested a matter of unusual importance.
I broke the seal and scanned the brief message, written in my father’s precise hand:
Mireille,
Come to my study immediately upon receipt of this
message.
We have matters of consequence to discuss.
—A.
No terms of endearment. No explanation. Typical of our relationship— formal, distant, necessary.
From across the room, I felt Ira’s gaze on me, her attention snagged by the page’s presence. I could read the speculation in her eyes, the calculation.
Whatever my father wished to discuss, she would undoubtedly have opinions on the fact that she was not aware of it first. Opinions she would make known at the earliest opportunity.
As the messenger bowed and withdrew, I rose from my seat, smoothing the folds of my gown with deliberate care.
“It seems I’m required elsewhere,” I announced to Isolde, loudly enough for nearby ears to catch. “Father calls.”
She nodded, understanding without words that I couldn’t share more.
“Shall I look in on you later?”
“Please do.” I squeezed her hand briefly, grateful for her steady presence.
I made my way across the drawing room, conscious of the speculation rippling through the gathering. A summons from the king, delivered directly
to the drawing room rather than through the usual channels, was fodder for the rumor mill that would keep tongues wagging well into supper.
I paused to drop a kiss on Lysa’s head where she played with her young companion. “I’ll come find you later for that story,” I said softly, receiving a beaming smile in return.
“Promise?” she asked, holding up her small finger.
“Promise,” I replied, linking my finger with hers in the solemn pact that meant everything to her three-year-old sensibilities.
As I passed Queen Ira, I dipped into a flawless curtsy, the picture of filial respect. “Your Majesty, I must beg to be excused from your delightful gathering. My father requires my presence.”
Her lips pressed into a bloodless line at the public reminder of my connection to her husband. “By all means,” she replied, her voice brittle as winter ice. “One mustn’t keep His Majesty waiting. We shall try to bear your absence with… fortitude.”
I straightened, meeting her gaze with calm assurance. “Yes, do try.”
Then, in a moment of pure, petty defiance that I knew I would later regret, I winked at her—a quick, unmistakable gesture visible only to her— before turning away.
Her gasp of fury that followed me was almost worth the retribution that
would inevitably follow.
Almost.
But then I was through the door and into the corridor beyond, my mind already turning to what my father could possibly want from me after so long of careful avoidance.
