Page 27 of A Broken Throne of Bronze

The sun shines overhead, its warmth dampening the chill of the wind. The weather here isn’t much different from home. Like Keuron, spring will be coming to the Gold Court soon. I think of Acantha and Father. Of my basket for collecting wildflowers that will stay empty.

Don’t think like that, I scold myself. I’ll be home come spring.

Can I ever go home? If I make it out of High Keep, they’ll come looking for me. If not to drag me back and force me to marry the Crown Prince, then certainly to arrest me for treason.

There’s no way the royals would let me run away with no repercussions.

If I want to be free, I’ll have to leave Inatia. For good.

There’s a chance I’ll never see Acantha or Father again.

The threat of tears sting at my eyes. Taking a breath, I walk closer to the center of the courtyard and kneel on the grass. Then I open the sketchbook, putting the charcoal sticks down in a pile on my lap. They leave black smudges on my dress when I move, but I’ve never been one to care much for my clothes.

Picking up one of the charcoal sticks, I lower my hand to the page and let it wander.

My mind drifts, my thoughts fading into the background as I draw. That’s one of the things I’ve always loved about drawing—no matter how much is on my mind, no matter the emotions I feel, everything vanishes the moment shapes start to take form on the paper.

It almost feels as if I am no longer in control as I draw. Like some unseen force guides my hand into swirls and lines and edges. I can lose myself in it. And when I emerge on the other side, I see something on the paper that didn’t exist before.

When I stop, I hold out the sketchbook to look at my drawing.

It’s Acantha, lying in a summer meadow with her face turned to the viewer. A poorly made flower crown slips a little too far down her forehead. She’s beaming, with her eyes crinkled in the corners like they are when she’s very happy. It’s a scene taken directly from my memory—an image of her I’ve seen enough times to memorize nearly every detail.

Closing my eyes, I press the drawing to my chest and hold it near my heart.

Gods, I miss her.

The sound of many footsteps echoes on the stone behind me. Standing, I turn around, holding the sketchbook even tighter, desperately clinging to whatever piece of my sister I have left.

In the castle, the High King walks, flocked by his personal guard. Two noble fae are with him—one male and one female. They’re dressed in similar attire and carry an air of grace and power.

The female leans toward the High King as she walks. I immediately notice a resemblance to Lymseia—sharing the same blue-black hair and gray eyes. Her pointed face is drawn with concern, dark brows knitted together.

“Your Majesty, the mines… They aren’t producing metal like they have in years past. I fear there is a decline.”

“A decline?” the High King asks. Worry pinches his voice.

“A severe decline,” the female—Lymseia’s mother, I realize—says. “And there aren’t enough miners left to mine what metal is there. If we cannot find a solution, I fear we will be unable to produce enough steel to keep ourselves afloat.”

I hold my breath as I listen in.

The High King’s jaw tenses. “And what of the Silver Court?” he asks the male.

“The same, Your Majesty.”

The male must be Asheros’s father—Head of House Larmanne. Though, unlike Lymseia and her mother, Asheros and his father look nothing alike. While Asheros has white-blond hair the color of snow and ice-blue eyes, his father’s hair is dark brown, and eyes such a light shade of silver, that they almost look white.

Those eyes fall to his feet. “It’s as if there is something draining the land of metal.”

I knew of the mining sickness sweeping our lands, but…

The metals are disappearing?

“Thank you for your concerns, Lady Kylantha and Lord Eldred,” the High King says. “I shall discuss this issue with the council when we meet next.”

Lady Kylantha and Lord Eldred give their praises to the High King. They continue speaking, but the farther away they go, the less I’m able to hear.

Fear grips my stomach.

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