Heartbreak.
And now Princess Amarande stood before her father on the dais, head bowed, clasping her hands tightly against the stiff black lace of her bodice, trying for once to look the part of a storybook princess.
Respectful. Feminine. Lovely.
There for the world to see, throat and wrists heavy with the best diamonds of the Ardenian mines. A mourning veil draped across her face, black as night but unable to defeat the sun, as strong as it was this close to the heavens. The ice-and-night display was at the request—demand—of the council.
Because, even now, even saying good-bye, she was upon the auction block.
Behind where she stood on the dais, the royal leaders of Pyrenee, Basilica, and Myrcell all bowed their heads with one eye open, appraising their target from the arena floor. A performance of mourning for Amarande as much as for the citizens of Ardenia who packed the stadium seating. Strategic. Brutal.
Bile crested in Amarande’s throat as she cataloged her father’s features for the final time. Soon his loyal soldiers would close the coffin lid, and Sendoa’s face would only live on in castle paintings that never got it quite right. Dulling the fire in his hair. Straightening the nose he’d broken at least six times. Blurring the gash on his cheek given to him by the Warlord of the Torrent—a forever memory for one of the few outsiders to see the man’s face and live to tell.
But she’d stood there too long.
The crowd’s feelings were starting to show. The masses were embarrassed to watch this sad girl bent before the only parent she’d ever known. Wooden seats sighed under the shifting weight of Sand and Sky nobility, murmurs growing loud enough that the commoners and low-level soldiers seated in the stands could clearly hear the shape of royal whispers.
It was time for more closed doors, more whispers, more sagardoa—Ardenia’s high-hill orchards produced the best cider in all the world.
The moment passed, General Koldo rose to her feet, ready to guide her princess offstage—to stop her from making things any more uncomfortable with her open grieving. Standing, too, was Prince Renard of Pyrenee—his mother, Dowager Queen Inés, must have urged him forward, an effort to show Myrcell, Basilica, and all commoners of Ardenia that the winning contract had already been arranged.
The princess was surprised when Koldo sat back down, allowing Renard to step up onto the dais and press his hand to the lace at her spine, patting, ready to steer her away.
Very well then—now people were really paying attention.
She sweetened the pot by reaching for her veil, lifting it off her face, letting her anguish out into the sun. Between the sight of Renard “consoling” her and the opportunity to witness tears, snot, or something else painful, this was a development to write home about.
They wouldn’t be disappointed.
“Guardians of the Sand and Sky and loyal people of the Kingdom of Ardenia,” the princess began, the very first sounds from her lips killing off every murmur within the arena and maybe all of the Ardenian countryside. She continued to the heavy silence of a thousand people holding their breath. “Your remembrance of my father is heartening and very much appreciated during this difficult time.”
That was when someone began to clap. It seemed to start with King Domingu and his ilk, who were surely eager to get back to angling for the diamonds at her throat and in Ardenia’s mines. The noise was enough to prompt Renard to add further pressure to her back as if to help her down from the dais.
“Thank you, but I’m not yet finished,” Amarande said, her gaze finding the Basilican king—her barely known-to-her great-grandfather by way of her mother’s side—watching him intently until the silence was renewed. Her father had taught her more than how to use a long sword.
When the quiet returned, she set a tight-lipped smile upon her face and found Luca in the crowd. He was seated with the other servants of the Itspi, in the very first row of the stadium seating, sandwiched between Abene and Maialen, the tough-bird, Torrent-born sisters who raised him after his mother passed of illness. Luca returned her gaze, chin tipped—go on.
“I have something I would like all of you to hear, yet I will only say it once.”
That was another of her father’s sayings.
If people are tired by the sound of your voice, they no longer hear you.
These people had barely ever heard her speak a word. The commoners and court alike had only ever seen their princess in her father’s mountainous shadow, playing a part—they’d never heard her speak without cause. They hadn’t heard her father’s advice, meant for her ears alone.
She was going to make these words count and do everything in her power to make them listen. Giving them a single chance to hear what she had to say only made it more enticing.
The silence sat heavy in the mountain breeze. The entire mood of the arena had changed from sad but bored to the perfect posture of interest.
“As you know, the laws of the monarchy require the marriage of a female heir to secure the ruling powers of the Kingdom of Ardenia, as directed by the Sand and Sky. All that is required is for the Royal Council to reach an agreement with the most ideal suitor. A wedding, a new alliance, someone else to call king. It is an archaic law—one that must change. But, as every person in a position to vote for such a change would benefit by marrying me”—her eyes settled on the three royal families before her—“it will not.”
There wasn’t a pin drop in the pause. Every ear was trained to Amarande and the dais. The princess lifted her eyes to the faces of her citizens, leaning forward from the stadium seating.
“Therefore, as your rightful ruler and the last remaining blood of King Sendoa, I have a requirement as well: my consent.” At this, she paused again, testing the silence. “Hear me now: I will not allow the Royal Council to make this choice for me. Any marriage contract will require my signature to be valid.”
Her words ringed around the arena, repeated on shocked lips. Beside her, Renard’s hand dropped.
“You can’t be serious,” he whispered, incredulous smirk pinned to one corner of his lips—a speck of humanity coming to the manicured surface. It was a whisper, but the crowd was on high alert now and nearly everyone heard it, the murmurs stopping mid-sentence.
When Renard realized he’d been caught, the prince turned on the manufactured charm, smirk slipping into a grin, blue eyes glinting in the full sun.
“We are very serious in the Kingdom of Ardenia, Your Highness.” Amarande gave him a smile that was as sharp as an aragonite cave flower—cutting, hard, and beautiful. “My father did not raise me to settle; he raised me to rule. And if I must have a man for that, I demand a partner who cares as much for the Kingdom of Ardenia and its people as I do. I won’t approve of less. No signature—no consent, no contract, no wedding.” She looked out to the crowd in the stands—her people, not the sycophants closest to the dais. “Each one of you is my witness and we must make it so.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Princess,” the prince said with an exasperated little laugh. The kind men give women as a way of closing doors that were only very narrowly open in the first place.
And that was his mistake.
In a flash, the princess unsheathed Renard’s sword and had the tip pressed to his sternum before he could even react, that dumb little laugh still puffing its way out into the arena air.