Page 7 of A Broken Throne of Bronze

Putting my hands on my hips, I throw her a pretend scowl.

Father laughs, but then his expression darkens.

“What is it, Father?” I ask, pulling out a stool to sit with him.

“Manfred is sick,” Father says, taking a breath. “The physician says he likely won’t live another week.”

“Oh, Father.” Acantha leaves the hearth and drapes her arms around his neck. “That’s awful.”

The same, long expression adorns both of their faces, emphasized by their shared eyes and mouth. Acantha has always taken after our father—inheriting his chestnut brown hair and infectious smile. With my rusty auburn hair and fair complexion, I’m the one that stands out.

“How many have gotten sick this week alone?” I ask, leaning forward. Manfred is one of many miners who’s succumbed to the mysterious sickness this winter. Even though spring is nearly upon us, the numbers of miners falling ill, and dying, has been steadily increasing.

“More than I can count,” Father says, rubbing his forehead. “Those of us left will need to work double time to make up for our losses.”

Fear takes hold of my stomach. “Is Loren all right?” Oh gods. Maybe that’s why I haven’t seen him.

“Loren is well,” Father tells me. “Busy, is all. You have no need to worry, my darling.”

My shoulders relax a little. But the worry I felt mere minutes ago morphs into frustration.

I stand, the force of my movement pushing the stool back with a screech. “You would think the Head of House would do something. After all, it’s the hard work of the gold miners filling her coffers.” Crossing my arms, I start to pace. My voice rises in volume, dripping with sarcasm. “But of course, how silly of me to expect the Pelleverons to care for the lives of the lowly humans living under them.”

“Come now, Cryssa,” Father’s voice is calm. His expression soothes me in an instant. My anger dims but doesn’t fade. And why should it? It’s not as if the Pelleverons—or any noble fae, for that matter—act like humans aren’t anything but a means to an end. “The Gold Court isn’t the only one affected by the mining sickness.”

“It’s not?”

Father shakes his head. “We’ve heard rumors that it’s happening in the Steel and Silver Courts as well.”

I swallow, realizing the implications of this rumor, if true. Made up of five Courts, each territory in Inatia belongs to one of the five Noble Houses. And each noble house has a leader, the Head of House, that reigns over their court. The Gold Court, my home, is loyal to House Pelleveron. The Silver Court, House Larmanne; the Steel Court, House Wynterliff; the Copper Court, House Tarrantree; and the Bronze Court, House Avanos—the current ruling house of all Inatia.

Each of the five Courts produces the metal of its namesake. Each, a vital piece of Inatia’s overall prosperity. Here, in the Gold Court, we’re lucky we can afford what we can. In some other Courts, others aren’t so lucky. If some or all of the Courts stopped producing metal…

I shudder to think about what would happen to the unlucky ones at the bottom of the hierarchy.

“I’m worried for you, Father.” Acantha tightens her grip around him, lowering her head so it’s parallel to his. “What if you fall ill?”

My father turns, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “I’ll be all right.” He reaches for my hand and squeezes it. “This sickness will die down come spring, girls. You’ll see.”

Still holding his hand, I nod like I believe him.

In reality, I’m not so sure.

But I don’t have time to consider the matter.

Pounding sounds at our door. The thin wood rattles against the doorframe.

I move to answer it, but Father holds up his palm, mouth wary.

Blood pounds in my ears. I’m frozen, staring at the door.

Father stands and crosses the room. He opens the door and all the color drains from his cheeks.

Two armored guards wait outside. I don’t need to see their pointed ears to know they’re fae.

“Grorth Thurdred?”

“Yes.” Father nods, eyes dropping to the swords sheathed at their hips. “Can I help you?”

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