Vellia released a long-suffering sigh. She was a faery who lived to dote on us, and I made it rather tough. Fluttering her fingers at the stairwell, she shooed me away. “Go bathe, at least. Your outfit will be waiting.”
White magic sparked from her fingers, floating up toward the high ceiling, and I knew a hot bath waited for me.
I was one foot up the stairs when Vellia’s voice called after me.
“It will be all right, you know, Calla.”
Her reassurance was anything but comforting. I had never been fearful of something so mediocre as “all right”—I had a kingdom to resurrect and parents to avenge. My sister would marry and make allies and sign treaties, and I would be the nameless Wolf who won back our throne.
Three
As promised, my outfit was on my bed when I climbed out of the bath. I inspected the silver brocade along the tunic’s neck and sleeves, a smile tugging on my lips. Vellia had outdone herself yet again. It was the most decadent fabric; the shoulders cut wide to make me seem more muscular, the stone-gray trousers designed to curve over my rounded thighs. But the true gem of the outfit was my freshly shined—and sharpened—dagger. The golden hilt gleamed in the candlelight, the etchings along the silver scabbard clearly defined once more. My eyes skimmed over the symbols of Olmdere—stag’s antlers over a pawprint, a crown in the center pad. Vellia had gifted me the weapon when I was ten years old. It had been far too big and heavy then, but with time came ease, and now, it felt as familiar to me as my own hands.
I traced my finger along the carved metal symbols and sighed. What would it have been like to grow up under these banners? To stand beside my family sitting on their thrones? Vellia had conjured little drawings of my parents over the years—maps of their kingdom and their ethereal castle in the center of a lake. Briar and I would incessantly nag her for more, for her to describe the details of a life we never knew. But some things even faery magic couldn’t conjure. I would never know the sound of my mother’s voice, the warmth of my father’s embrace, or the confidence of who I could’ve been with their guidance. A part of me would always be missing, and that made me grip the handle of the knife all the tighter.
The sound of footsteps grew and then faded as the guests passed my bedroom door, heading to dinner. I sheathed the knife, then dressed, cinching the thick black belt that covered my entire midsection and stretched from my hips to under my breasts. My thick belt kept the knife from tugging my trousers down, the tight leather also making me stand straighter. The fitted material smoothed my curves. Even so, I was shaped more like a rectangle than like Briar’s hourglass figure. It suited me, though—my body looked powerful this way. I stared at my reflection, straightening my shoulders. I liked the warrior who watched me in the mirror. She was strong and soft, masculine and feminine, threatening and enticing, all at once. Briar knew how to be a princess, but this . . . whatever this was . . . I could be.
My eyes tracked down my reflection—my brown curls, my green eyes, my skin a shade darker than Briar’s pale rose, the dagger resting on my wide hips. And a little voice whispered inside me: good, but not enough. How could I ever feel like enough when Briar was perfection personified? I tried to carve my own path, but I didn’t know how, not with her shadow looming over me. Something I couldn’t put my finger on just never felt quite right. So I pushed that feeling away and focused my energy on training instead. I’d trained my entire life against every possible foe Vellia could think to conjure. The dizzying pendulum of thoughts swung back the other way: I have the skill. I am ready, I assured myself for the hundredth time. I just needed to act like I believed it.
Gods, I didn’t know how people did that—be all the things they felt inside.
I picked up my discarded towel and squeezed my ringlets one more time, catching the last drips. Casting a final long look at the image in the mirror, I tried to summon an ounce of the confidence that oozed from my twin. Fake smile, shoulders back, eyes shining . . . but none of it felt real, and I slumped once more. No mask I wore felt right—there was always a piece missing. I sighed, painfully aware of that missing piece as if it were a chunk taken out of my side. Could everyone feel it as much as I could? I wondered if Grae could see it—see that I was incomplete.
I rolled my shoulders back again and opened the door, trying and failing to push my swirling thoughts away. Of all people, I hoped Grae didn’t think of me as incomplete.
Laughter danced through the dining room as I crossed the threshold into the gilded chamber. Grae shot up from his chair as his guards moved to do the same. He was immaculate—like the prince I had always imagined he would become. He wore a double-breasted black jacket and tails; golden buttons dotted down the smooth fabric, and golden epaulettes hung from his shoulders.