Chapter 12

Senka

The whispers were like a swarm of locusts fluttering around the palace. It was an odd thing to feel so smug at the thought of a successful kill, of a smooth death. I mingled among the other women, feigning my own distress while wicked satisfaction curled inside me. Merikh had her reasons and who was I to question a goddess?

"Such a tragedy," I murmured, my voice laced with an impeccable blend of concern and sorrow. "The heart is a fickle thing."

"Indeed," replied Lady Pearl, a pretty thing at the ripe old age of twenty seven, with her bright red hair and cat-like green eyes that swam with tears as if the priest meant anything to her personally. It was all just a show for these people. "And with the ceremony tomorrow night, it"s all so sudden."

I nodded solemnly, tuning out the continuous drivel about funeral arrangements and fake tears for the old priest. Far more interesting were the rumors that slithered through the elite circles like serpents, whispers of Saltburn and Red Sam on everyone"s lips. I had no idea how the information spread so fast, but the palace was alive with gossip.

There were even more rumors that a god-blood was responsible for resurrecting Red Sam. It was impossible, of course. It was rare for the same blessing to manifest twice. Unless, of course, you were a twin born of the same womb at the same time. But the god-blood responsible for Red Sam died three hundred years ago, so rumors were only rumors.

I found myself perched comfortably on a platform overlooking the training grounds with the rest of the rabble. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and steel from the soldiers of the Tonne below, clashing swords in a dance of power and grace.

My boredom was palpable, and the idle chatter of marriage-minded ladies was grating against my nerves. That was until Lady Rosalind decided to grace the seat beside me.

"Quite the spectacle, isn"t it?" she muttered.

I raised an eyebrow in amusement. "What do you mean?"

I was surprised she'd decided to sit with me, given how our last interaction had gone.

"Oh, you know," she said with a dismissive wave of her hand, "the desperate attempts to catch the eye of the Tonne. As if any of those men down there would look at them twice."

"They're like peacocks," I mused, the corner of my mouth lifting.

"Do you think any of them stand a chance? With the prince, I mean."

"One of them does." I shrugged, careful to keep my tone light. "He seems like a hard man to win over, but something tells me the woman he chooses will have less to do with how pretty she looks in a dress and more to do with what the empire can use her for."

She sighed deeply and sipped from her tea. "You're probably right. Honestly I don't know why they even bother with this ridiculous pageant, as if the winner hasn't already been chosen."

"You think?" I asked, arching a brow.

"The royals are nothing if not calculated."

"True. If batting eyelashes could win wars, I think these ladies would give the rogue prince a good fight at least."

She laughed, and I couldn't help but join her, trying not to spit out my sip of tea. "It makes for good entertainment though."

Down below, Prince Baz moved among the Tonne with a grace that belied the raw power of each strike he delivered with his twin curved blades. I couldn"t help but admire the way muscle rippled beneath taut skin, drawing my gaze to the myriad of scars that marred his chest and back—each one a silent testament to battles fought and survived.

To my surprise, the prince was also covered in strange black tattoos that I couldn't quite make out from this high above him. They swirled and dipped over the expanse of his muscled back and curled over his shoulders down to his arms.

Baz was a true warrior; I had to give him that at least. As much as I loathed the royal family, the bloodline responsible for the societal divide, I had to admit that he wasn't what I'd expected.

The Elysian Empire was always at war in some way or another. The Emperor, in his youth, had an insatiable need to conquer and absorb more and more lands. Kings bowed to the Emperor, swearing fealty to his power and offering up the services of their armies should he ever call on them.

Prince Bazaan, heir to the Emperor's throne, was born blessed with the power of the sun in his veins and had single handedly conquered territories and armies on his father's behalf. Soldiers revered him and respected him, and I had no doubt that each and every one of the Tonne would throw themselves on their own sword in his place.

"His scars scare me," Rosalind murmured, her voice barely rising above the din of clashing steel. "I can't even imagine the things he's seen."

"Don't pity him for them. Scars are worn like a badge of honor for men like him." I replied, studying Baz"s form as he parried a blow before countering with a swift, decisive strike that sent his opponent staggering back.

My own scars burned at my back and wrists, which I carefully covered with golden bangles. Scars I'd received at the hands of slavers, punishment for my father's crimes. Five years worth of those scars decorated my skin, and I never bothered to have them removed, even when Cross offered to have Valera try healing them.

"I guess you're right," she added thoughtfully, turning her gaze toward me. Her disinterest in the prince was refreshing compared to the other ladies who watched him with rapt attention, their breaths caught in eager sighs. "I think he'll make a far better ruler than his father."

"He will," I conceded, even though the words felt like acid coming out. "Don"t you find it odd, though? The prince"s coldness towards us? The man hasn't bothered to glance up here once."

In fact, Baz seemed rather bored down there with the soldiers. He was covered in a sheen of sweat, his black hair dripping, looking every bit the warrior he was, and the ladies salivated over him. Yet he was utterly unbothered.

"Why should he? He could look like the backside of a boar and they'd still claw each other's eyes out to be his wife," Rosalind said, her eyes now tracing the movement of a falcon overhead."

I followed her gaze, watching as Emore circled overhead. He landed on a nearby rooftop, his eyes on the soldiers below.

"You may have a point," I said with a chuckle, my eyes flickering to the ladies who giggled and whispered as they watched the show. I peered over at Rosalind. "So why aren't you as eager to impress his highness then?"

Taking her eyes off of Emore, she met my eyes. "I have no interest in winning this nonsensical game. I'm only here to shut my mother up." She picked at her delicate nails, a slight smirk tugging at her lips. "She's too eager to sell me off to some man or another. I'll bide my time until it gets tedious, and then I'll bow out with my tail between my legs."

"You don't want to be Empress?"

She huffed, placing her hand on her chest. "Gods no. Can you imagine? I've lived my life under my mother and father's iron thumb; I'm not exactly frothing at the mouth to slip under another."

I nodded, understanding. "You're an activist, aren't you? Do you have a blessing?"

The question might have been seen as rude to most, but I had a feeling that Rosalind wouldn't mind me prying.

"I am," she said, a hint of surprise flashing in her eyes before it was gone a moment later.

I waved off her concern. "My lady's maid is a gossip. She knows everything about everyone."

Rosalind's shoulders dropped a fraction. "I've been trying to worm my way into politics for a while now, but according to my mother, the lower council is no place for a lady." Unlike the high council, which advised the royals, the lower council presided over inner city matters that the royals didn't bother to waste their time worrying about.

"My blessing isn't all that impressive," she continued. "My memory is nearly perfect. I can recite entire books from memory, or recall a person's face, even if I haven't seen them in years. Not very practical."

"Actually, that's impressive," I said genuinely. "Politics must be your calling then. I have no doubt that you could out-debate those arrogant fools any day."

She laughed humorlessly. "My mother thinks it's a phase I'll grow out of once I meet the right man."

"Ambitious women scare the closed-minded," I mused. "Why do you care so much anyway? A rich girl like you could live an easy life. You could have your pick of any lord on the continent and never have to worry about a thing."

She gave me a dry look. "Now you sound just like my mother."

"All hypothetical, of course," I said with a laugh.

She smiled, shaking her head, her golden hair shining in the midday sun. "My sister was a god-blood too. Born with the ability to control thirst and hunger." Her eyes slid to mine to gauge my reaction. "She could make you feel like you were ravenous or dying of thirst with a single thought. She was deemed too dangerous to…" She paused abruptly.

"She was killed," I finished for her, a sinking feeling taking up residence in my gut.

Her eyes darkened and her jaw flexed and she picked up her cup of tea and took a sip. "You must not have spent much time in Andune. It was all quite the fucking scandal when it happened."

"I rarely left the Ashwater," I said softly so that only she could hear. "I'm sorry about your sister. You're right to fight for others like her. You're braver than most."

"Brave or stupid?" she asked with a bitter huff.

I shrugged. "Maybe both. Or maybe even braver than half of those warriors down there." Our eyes slid back to the men below.

"Perhaps," she said after a thoughtful moment. "But not braver than you, right?" I met her eyes as they glittered with memory.

"I know how to handle myself," is all I said in response.

Rosalind snorted, shaking her head and accepting that for as much of an answer as she would get from me.

The sound of clanging metal suddenly stopped, catching our attention. We turned to see Prince Baz standing in the training grounds, his presence demanding respect and silence before he even spoke.

At his signal, the Tonne warriors in their black armor lined up along the perimeter of the arena, moving as one cohesive unit with each synchronized step.

"Enjoying the view, I trust?" His voice, rich and resonant, cut through the air, reaching us with an intimacy that belied the distance.

A collective gasp fluttered among the ladies. I pressed my lips together to stifle a laugh.

"Good," he continued, his sunset eyes sweeping across our faces. "Because after tea, you will leave your finery behind and join us. It is time for you to prove your worth to your prince."

A rustle of silk and lace followed his proclamation, the laughter of moments ago now replaced by nervous glances and hushed murmurs. My heart gave a feral leap—excitement flooding through my body at the thought of holding steel in my hands again.

"Let me be clear. The future empress of my empire must not only rule with wisdom but also be able to defend her throne and her people with strength and skill." Baz"s gaze lingered on me for a heartbeat longer than necessary, igniting a thrill that danced like shadows along my spine. "Every aspect of leadership is essential, including proficiency in battle."

"Battle?" Lady Isolde's voice trembled like a leaf in a storm. "But we're ladies, not soldiers."

"Even so," Baz replied, his tone brooking no argument, "We live under the shadow of war, so even our empress must bear the mantle of a warrior. I don't care if your hands are too soft to wield a weapon. They'll harden, or else you won't make it to the end of this pageant. None of you were forewarned of this requirement," he admitted, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. "Yet, should you win and become our future empress, you will endure the same rigorous training as every member of the Tonne. This is non-negotiable."

He paused, his eyes sweeping over us once more, a sea captain gauging the resolve of his crew before a tempest.

"Return to your rooms and dress in more appropriate clothing. And remember," he added, his voice dipping into a register that held both promise and warning. "In my court, weakness is death."

With that, he dismissed us, turning back to his men, who awaited his next command with unwavering loyalty. The platform erupted in a flurry of motion, the ladies rising in a chorus of rustling gowns and whispering.

As the others departed, Rosalind and I met each other's eyes, and grinned.