The two guards manning the enormous doors draw them open with ease, revealing the immense room and crowd beyond.
Nausea churns in my stomach. “Mika, stay by my side at all times, and do not say a single word,” I whisper.
Countless heads swivel, and my stomach tenses under the rapt attention of Islor’s lords and ladies, at least the ones who did not run home to safeguard their lands at the first signs of this poison. Most discount us immediately, but there are those who watch my little family tread along the marble aisle toward the steps, their keen interest on my children. I can guess what they see—the same thing Lord Danthrin hoped for when he acquired me: a high return on investment.
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 …