Page 40 of Steel Heart Iron Claws

He takes a knee before handing a rolled parchmentto Rian. “A missive arrived from our northern army general. Word has spread to the border towns that Iyre is risen and in league with Volkany. Villagers burned straw effigies of her in protest, and in return, Volkany sent a flock of starleons to rain down plaguedust. They’re saying the casualties are already in the dozens.” He removes his helmet and wipes his sweat-plastered brow. “In retaliation, Astagnonian villagers are attempting to tear down the border wall to attack the Volkish people.”

Rian snatches the missive hard enough to crumple it in his fist. “That wall has stood for five hundred years. Ropes and pulleys aren’t going to budge a brick.”

The damn First Sword pin jabs again into my pectoral. I shift, trying to dislodge it discreetly, and Maximan slides me a disapproving frown.

Rian crumples the letter. “Tell the general to send two battalions to the border villages. One each of archers and infantry. Keep the calvary on hold. If this is the start of war, then our soldiers should be fighting it, not farmers and woodsmen.”

His order hits me like a strike to the solar plexus, knocking the wind right out of me. I swallow hard, my throat as dry as sandpaper, and force myself to breathe.War?Already? The word echoes in my mind, a relentless beat that portends dark times ahead.

Maximan gives a crisp nod. “Yes, Majesty.”

His footsteps crunch over gravel long after he’s out of sight.

Rian pulls in a deep breath, gazing at a point somewhere amid the darkening clouds. The weight of the sky seems to press down on him, the first few raindrops splashingon his cheek.

“Damn it all, maybe it should have been you, Wolf. This kingdom deserves a good man on the throne. And I’m not a good man.” He wipes away the rain.

This rare flash of vulnerability sends a shiver down my spine.

Guiltis not the first—hell, not even the twentieth—sentiment that Rian Valvere is known for.

“You think I’m any better?” I bark. “You must not remember the debauchery we got up to in the Sin Streets.”

He laughs flatly, turning back to the roses.

I know better than to ask questions of a man who plotted his own father’s murder. I’m not sure there’s a soul alive who holds more to himself than the future king standing before me—and I can’t help but wonder what has him feeling so guilty.

The coronation ceremony is blessedly brief. A smear of holy oil on Rian’s forehead, a prayer from the priest, and Rian’s recitation of the sacred vow.

Boom.

Crown? On head. Throat? Intact.

The celebratory banquet, well, that’s another story. If the coronation itself was small and sacred, the banquet is anything but that.

Hekkelveld Castle’s Grand Hall is filled with tables laden with roasted peacocks, succulent venison with herb oil, and pies bursting with fresh berries. Nobles bedecked in silks and velvets mingle, and some already take to the dance floor. It’s a more restrained form of opulence than Sorsha Hall’s balls, where a fistfight was a commonsight. The fashion here isn’t fae-inspired, with no pewter earpiece or asymmetrical hemline.

My stomach growls. The assault of so many smells on my senses makes me wonder when I last ate. Yet, as I saunter over to the head table to take my place at Rian’s right hand, my stomach revolts.

A roast peacock sits on my plate, drowned in orange glaze with a fat hunk of walnut bread, a practically overflowing glass of wine reflecting the candlelight.

All I can think is:Today, an army marches on the border. Villagers are dead from plaguedust. And we’re fucking eating peacock.

Rian smiles as he holds court at the head of the table, looking resplendent in the steel crown cast to look like raven feathers.

Not six hours ago, he gave the order for war.

Now he’s laughing?

The last thing I could do was smile after issuing a death sentence. But as I tear into my bread, there’s a gnawing guilt that won’t let go. Some senseless part of me almostwantsthat damned throne, if only so that Astagnon gets the moody, scowling king that it deserves.

Decorum? No, I’d fail at that.

But pure bloody strategy? I’d fucking dive in.

Lady Suri sits to my left, taking such small, birdlike bites that midnight will toll before she finishes. Kendan sits across from her, refilling her water glass after every sip she takes. He makes sweeping hand gestures as he describes his latest diplomatic mission to Kravada.

The rest of the table is filled with distant Valvere cousins, the white-haired councilors I can’t tell apart, and nobles whose names I’ll have to eventually learn.

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