Page 39 of Steel Heart Iron Claws

But only one thing will make me feel better about learning the identity of the person who betrayed me to the Volkish enemy.

…their gods-damndeath.

Rachillon rasps quietly, “The man who sold you out was Rian Valvere.”

Chapter 11

Basten

The first few days in Old Coros pass in a blur of unpacking, coronation planning, and getting lost in a damn castle that rivals the size of Duren’s arena.

My bedroom alone is larger than Rian’s sprawling chambers back in Sorsha Hall. Who needs a bed that could sleep four and two fireplaces? On top of that, my chamber is stocked with peonies that make me sneeze. I immediately give them to the first maid I see with instructions to take them home to her mother.

Whoever the former First Sword was, I hope he appreciated the luxuries bestowed upon him. Because I sure as hell don’t.

Give me a campfire and moss for a bed.

Yeah, it’s no surprise, but I’m dismayed to learn that I loathe the formality in Old Coros just as much as I expected to. These bastards really expect the king’s First Sword to comb my hairdaily.

Still, as painful as the days are, the nights are torture.

As soon as half-sleep seeps in, Sabine steps back into my dreams. Between the Valor Bell’s last chime for the night and the first for dawn, it’s a gods-damn orgy of every possible way our bodies can connect. Mouth on mouth, my lips on her perfect breasts, our hips writhing together. In my dreams, she smiles, laughs, and talks for hours about, I don’t know, chipmunks—and I’ve never hung on someone’s words so damn much. Whatever she cares about, I care about, too. Her passion is contagious.

Then, that damn Valor Bell jolts me awake, and before I can even race to a quill or pen to write down the dream’s details, it’s already gone.

“Lord Basten.” A crisp knock sounds on my door. “Rising King Rian has asked for you.”

“Tell him to sit on his spurs!” I groan.

I wrestle with the silken tunic that feels too stiff beneath my armor, pin on the silver sword brooch that marks me as First Sword, and try not to get lost on my way to Rian’s chambers.

The First Sword pin jabs me in the chest as a maid directs me to a balcony leading down to Rian’s private garden, where I find him frowning at a rosebush.

“Joruun loved roses, or so I’m told,” he says as I approach. He plucks a velvety red blossom to run between his fingers. “Frankly, I find the smell cloying. Eventually, I’ll have them all mown down and plant oleander in their place. A more pleasing scent. As a bonus, they’re poisonous.”

I rub my nose, which has been itching from the overpowering scent of roses ever since I set foot in Rian’s apartment. “Always been partial to violets, myself.”

Rian freezes, then slowly looks over his shoulder at me.

“What?” I ask, wiping my jaw for any traces of coffee on my stubble.

“Violets. Little violet. It’s what you used to call…” A cloud passes over his face. “Never mind.”

My hand drifts to my left forearm, squeezing the wrist guard.

He gestures for me to walk with him down a path lined with circular water gardens. According to legend, these pools were once natural springs where Immortal Meric would host debauched orgies of fae and human decadence—but now, they merely hold lily pads.

“I want you at the coronation tonight,” he says.

I start, nearly tripping on a flagstone. “It’s tradition for the coronation to be a private affair between the king and the crown bearer priest.”

“Fuck tradition.” He smooths his fingers over his chin, but the habit doesn’t seem to ease his tension. “I want you and your sword there. I don’t know these damn people yet. And I don’t let anyone near my neck without you nearby.”

I tilt my head. “Of course, Majesty.”

We meander among the labyrinthine walls that Immortal Meric once used to torment criminals. According to the Book of the Immortals, if the jails were full or he felt particularly cruel that day, he would toss a condemned sinner into the labyrinth to face the deadly fae beasts within. Fingernail marks—much too worn away for the regular eye to detect—still scar the stones.

“Majesty.” Maximan strides down the length of the garden walk, pebbles crunching beneath his heavy boots. Beneath his helmet, his face is even more dour than usual.

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