“Yes, Mother,” she whispered, bile rising in her throat. Hastily, she scooped up the firestone and stuffed it into a hidden pocket of her skirts. Slivers of stone sliced her bare feet as she dashed out of the room, but she hardly felt them. She burst into the corridor, shoeless, gasps echoing through the nearly empty halls—luckily, most of the queen’s court had already gone to dinner. Down the grand stairway she ran, only realizing how heavily her feet were bleeding when she nearly slipped, clutching the banister for dear life, a trail of crimson footprints spattered across the glass behind her.
Night had fallen, Asterin noticed, and it seemed as though the lamps could barely manage to ward off the ominous gloom. As soon as the thought struck her, the flames flared brighter. She averted her gaze, the firestone a dead weight in her pocket, and kept running. At last, she reached the passage leading to the medical turret and lurched up the stairs two at a time. Halfway up, she crashed into an apprentice, sending scrolls flying down the blood-streaked steps and scaring the poor man senseless.
Once assured that a healer would be sent to her mother’s chambers right away, she found a deserted workroom on the second landing with its door ajar and scrambled inside.
Slamming the door behind her, she pressed her back against the wood, chest heaving. Forcing her breathing to slow, inhaling air infused with the calming scent of menthol and other bitter herbs, she uncurled her fists and took a tentative peek at the tender flesh. The firestone had burned its sigil right into her palm, and it throbbed something fierce. Twisting around, she discovered that the train of her dress was soaked with blood from the soles of her feet—a grotesque, weeping mess of gashes. Nothing she couldn’t fix on her own, though.
“Haelein,” she whispered, and her skin began to sew itself back together. Moments later, the cuts had closed completely, and the burn had faded without a trace. She couldn’t find it in herself to care about the dress.
Fully healed, she slid to the floor, still breathing heavily. She grimaced when her hand smeared through a sticky puddle of blood. To the empty room, she asked, “What in hell was that?”
But of course, no one answered.
CHAPTER TWO
The bubbling chatter of the royal court rose above the clatter and tinkle of dishes and silverware as Orion sauntered through Mess Hall. He breathed in the mouth-watering aroma of roast. Three long tables swept across the length of the hall, draped in pristine white tablecloths and decorated with blue-flamed candles set amid bouquets of floribunda roses and blushing bellflowers. Even on an ordinary evening like tonight, plump candy goldfish with sugar-spun tailfins swam through the air in a kaleidoscope of colors over gravy tureens or darted between gigantic marzipan mushrooms.
Orion tore off a chunk of mushroom and popped it into his mouth on his way to his customary spot beside the Princess of Axaria. They always sat at the end of the farthest table, closest to the exit and secluded from the rest of the court—an overpopulation of fake smiles, acute ears, and loose mouths. The empty chairs surrounding them were reserved for Captain Eadric Covington and Asterin’s Elite Royal Guard, but their absence probably meant they were running drills.
Princess Asterin herself was bent over her plate, cutting into a pork chop, her ebony hair veiling her face. Orion reached for a hunk of soft cheese as he sat down and took a bite. Then he swiveled to face her, an elbow propped on the table, and waited.
Without even looking up, Asterin asked, “What time are we training tomorrow?”
Orion raised an eyebrow. “I have to go to the residential district to visit my father, so it’ll have to be before dawn.”
“All right.” She stayed focused on her pork chop, apparently unaware that she was sawing away at the bone.
He resisted the urge to pull her hair to get her attention like he used to when they were younger. “Not even a complaint? What’s wrong?”
A hesitation. “I’m fine.” She gave up on the chop entirely and shifted her attention to stirring peas in a puddle of gravy instead.
“Don’t lie. You aren’t still mad at me for clobbering your face, are you?” he asked, peering at her, still unable to see past the impenetrable curtain of black. “I can apologize, if it’ll make you feel better.”
She looked up sharply at that. Finally. He shot her a grin.
Rolling her eyes, she said, “I’ll tell you later,” and promptly shoved three forkfuls of mashed potato into her mouth to prevent further conversation.
“Whatever you say, Princess.” Orion drummed his fingers on the table, eyes darting around the hall. His gaze inevitably landed back on her. “No, but seriously. What happened? Did someone else punch you?”
She huffed in exasperation and pushed her plate away. “No one punched me, but I almost killed my mother’s pet. Accidentally, of course.”
His face split into a grin. He and Garringsford shared a mutual dislike. “Nice.”
“No, Orion, not nice.”
He took a sip of wine from her glass. “Sure, whatever. How?”
“I don’t really know. I held a firestone, and then the rest started floating, and then … they all just exploded.”
He clasped his hands to his chest. “That’s fantastic! I’m so proud of you!”
She swatted him. “Orion.”
“Right, that’s terrible.” He reached for the bread basket. “Why did they explode?”
Asterin shrugged. “Beats me. All I know is that she seriously pissed me off.”
His lips twitched into a smile. “Then it sounds like she probably had it coming.”
A thoughtful nod. “She kind of did.”
He frowned. “But why was she there in the first place? You never practice in front of other people.” As Asterin explained the entire debacle, Orion found Garringsford at the head table in her usual spot flanking the queen among the other important guests of the night. The healers had done their job well; looking at her, no one would ever guess that she had nearly been impaled just a few hours prior.
Technically, he and Asterin should have been up there, too, except Asterin hated the prying inquisitions and badgering that Queen Priscilla never seemed to mind from the guests—so Orion had developed the dreadful habit of “accidentally” pouring hot tea on the lap of whomever happened to be fortunate enough to be sitting next to him when Priscilla insisted on their presence.
The general caught him staring, and he quickly looked elsewhere, unnerved by the intensity of her cool gray eyes.
“How close were you to actually killing her?” he asked out of the corner of his mouth.
At that, Asterin smirked. “Pretty damn close.”
Sweat poured down his neck as Orion sparred with Asterin the next morning, her bedchamber dusted in the pink light of dawn and his ears ringing with the dissonant clash of steel on steel.