A knock echoed through her empty chambers. She rose from her seat, the fabric of her gown rustling as she left her bedchamber and crossed the antechamber into the sitting parlor, the fine-spun rugs softer than clouds beneath her bare feet.
When she looked up, the almighty Council of Immortals—the nine gods and goddesses of the Immortal Realm—stared down upon her from their thrones, painted in vivid, lifelike strokes along the parlor ceiling. Vicious Lady Fena with her circlet of fire and her foxes, elusive Lord Pavon half-hidden in hazy smears of gold with a peacock mask dangling from his slender fingers, and of course, the majestic Lord Conrye with his pack of snarling wolves and sword of unbreakable ice.
The knock came again, insistent. Asterin wrenched the door open and sighed. “What do you want?”
“Princess Asterin,” said her Royal Guardian. He leaned against the doorframe, ankles crossed, his perfect mouth twisted in a smirk.
“Dinner isn’t until half past six, Orion,” she snapped. “Go away.”
His ice-chip blue eyes glinted with mischief. “Such poor manners for a princess. Your mother wouldn’t be pleased.” She snorted at that. When was her mother ever pleased with her? He glanced from her cheek to his knuckles and then back again, all innocence. “Glad to see your bruise healed so quickly. Looked quite nasty.”
She slammed the door in his stupid face.
“Oi!”
Asterin sucked in an exasperated breath. Although she loved Orion dearly, it was more an affection born from spending over a decade side by side. Only separated by six years of age, they squabbled on the daily, just like they had as children. A few members of the court pegged it as some sort of sibling rivalry, but Asterin could never think of Orion as a brother. He was her friend and mentor, but Guardian first and foremost. He put a sword in her hand and told her to try and beat him up, which didn’t strike her as particularly brotherly.
Now she listened to the unimpressed tap tap tap of his foot outside. Oh, how she wished to bash his pretty nose in with a flick of her wrist or rip all his tailored finery to shreds with a wave of her hand—but she couldn’t. The two of them had exactly one rule and one rule only—that they would never use magic against one another. Because history had proved magic could do terrible things when provoked, even accidentally—and great Immortals above, she was definitely provoked. She took another breath, forcing her pulse to slow and her mind to calm. “Please?”
The doorknob twisted into her side. She thrust her weight against the door as Orion shoved it open, his gleeful face poking at her from the crack.
“No can do, Your Highness,” Orion said. “Your mother has requested your presence in her chambers.” He shoved again, and her feet slid backward.
“I’m a little busy.” She adjusted her stance to add pressure on the door. “Thanks to a certain someone.”
“When I say requested, I’m being polite. So,” he said, grunting as she gained on him, “I suggest that you go see her immediately.” He suddenly withdrew, throwing her balance off and causing her to crash face-first into the wood with a thunk. She heard him stroll away, his laughter pealing through the corridor like an off-key bell.
Forehead throbbing and tiara knocked askew, Asterin hiked her silk skirts up to her knees, muttering vehement, very un-princess-like words beneath her breath as she stuffed her feet into some jeweled slippers and stormed out of her chambers.
Two guards waited outside her door, but she signaled for them to stay and bolted before they could protest. Peaked windows lined the white marble corridor, interrupted only by the occasional archway adorned with enchanted snow-laden ivy. The corridor opened into a large alcove and Asterin swerved right onto the spiraling grand stairway, just barely skirting past a cluster of tittering court ladies. Each glass step shone like ice beneath her slippers.
The sixth and topmost floor was reserved for the adjoined quarters of the king and queen, as well as their personal guards. Asterin passed the king’s chambers. No one had occupied them for a decade.
At last, she arrived at her mother’s door. Asterin drew in a deep lungful of air before rapping thrice upon the black obsidian, rubbing away the sting in her knuckles with a slight wince as the door opened. The round face of one of the maids peered out at her. Without a word, the girl curtsied and beckoned Asterin through the sitting parlor and into her mother’s bedchamber.
Asterin toed off her slippers before entering, her feet sinking into the plush carpet. The teal curtains had been braided back, the last of the waning daylight bathing the walls in an amber glow. An enormous four-poster bed sprawled across the center of the room, a riot of peacock feathers fanning out over the massive headboard.
A slender woman stood silhouetted by the farthest window. Tendrils of blond hair so light they could have been mistaken for gossamer were piled in an exquisite coil atop her head. Shimmering blue silk—she only ever wore silk—cascaded from her shoulders, rippling on a phantom breeze. From the slant of her spine to the delicate tilt of her chin, her entire being seemed to exude an effortless elegance that Asterin had always struggled—and failed—to replicate.
And of course, it was impossible to miss the stunning diamond spires encircling her head like spears of ice, crowning her as Queen Priscilla Alessandra Montcroix-Faelenhart, ruler of Axaria.
Asterin performed her best curtsy, low to the ground, her skirts pooling like syrup around her. “Mother.”
The queen turned, a single brow arched. Eyes of teal swept over Asterin. “Ah, there you are, Princess. You’ve kept us waiting … as usual.”
Asterin flushed, averting her eyes. Only then did she spot the shadow in the corner, half-hidden by a candelabra. She plastered what could hopefully pass as a civil smile onto her face. “General Garringsford.”
The general swept into an austere bow, the lines of her silver uniform sharp enough to cut flesh. “Your Highness.” Her inflection sounded more command than greeting.
Carlotta Garringsford had first risen to her position as the General of Axaria when Asterin’s father had been just a boy. And though illness had taken King Tristan nearly a decade ago, Garringsford still appeared not a day past forty, a few strands of silver amidst her perfect golden bun and several crinkle lines between her brows the only signs of aging. She trained right alongside the soldiers and personally kicked the recruits into shape without the slightest mercy. Rumor had it that someone once tried to stab her in the heart, but the sword had shattered instead.
Whereas Asterin had lost her father, Garringsford had once had two sons. They had both been killed while assisting a raid many years ago, not yet full-fledged soldiers—merely trainees that King Tristan had thought might benefit from the experience of tagging along with their superior officers to stamp out a very much underestimated threat.
Asterin swallowed the slightly acrid taste in her mouth and curtsied to her mother again. “What is it you need of me, Your Majesty?”