Page 53 of Court of Bone and Amethyst

She was never meant for me. I knew that from the moment she arrived in Valaron.

But that doesn’t lessen the fury that burns in my core.

At first, I was angry with Sarielle, but I’d quickly realized my anger was misplaced. She is the queen. She doesn’t have to consult me on her decisions. I told her that our marriage was only duty and that she was free to make whatever choices she needed to for her life. And she hadn’t made the choice for personal gain. She’d made it for Valaron. Just as she’d been willing to marry my brother, someone she’d never met. She may not have been raised to be queen, but something within her knows how to rule, knows to put her realm before herself. She embodies a leader more than anyone I’ve ever met.

No, my anger is because I feel helpless, once again. Here we are, in the same position as before, something larger than us requiring a sacrifice neither of us want to make. But a sacrifice that must be made nonetheless. After centuries of living my life for others, countless years making the right choices for the good of the realm, all I want to do right now is make the wrong choice. I want to rush into her room and make a very bad choice, over and over again, until Sarielle screams my name and the entire castle knows she is mine.

So, I stand here, my feet rooted to the floor like a tree, because I don’t trust what I might do if I see her face.

Owyn and Merla emerge from their rooms after a time and go to practice magic with Sarielle in hers. Owyn shoots me a strange look as he walks past. I almost follow them, but I manage to stop myself.

A few hours later, several servants come, a large box carried by one, and a basket of supplies carried by another. I catch glimpse of hair brushes and perfume bottles, and I stare resolutely ahead at the wall opposite me to keep my shadows at bay.

And then, after night has fallen, what seems an eternity later, the door opens and the servants step back out, followed by Sarielle.

My breath leaves my chest in one big rush.

She is wearing a dress the color of fresh blood, satin, with a tight, low-cut bodice that shows the rounded tops of her breasts. The sleeves are off the shoulder, revealing her glowing skin before draping elegantly to her wrists. The skirt flares out, layers of silk beneath it that make a swooshing sound as she walks. Her hair is pinned in elaborate curls on top of her head, tendrils of it hanging around her face. They’ve added paint to her lips so they’re as red as the dress, and a smoky color to her eyes. A glittering necklace of gray quartz crystals hangs across her chest.

She looks stunning. The lords of the north are going to start the war early tonight just fighting over her hand.

“Zyren,” she says, her tone formal, though her eyes search mine as if looking for something. “Will you escort me?”

“Of course,” I respond, my voice thick.

I want to apologize, to tell her I understand why she did what she did. But then she is sweeping away in her rustle of silks, the servants behind her, and my chance is gone.

The servants lead us to the first floor of the castle, back to the throne room we entered when we arrived here. I hear the cacophony of voices as we approach the doors. And then we reach the doorway from our wing of the castle, and I see the chaos within. Half the northern armies seem to be jammed inside the space. The ball spills over into the courtyard beyond, where I can see twinkling lanterns and strings of light criss-crossing the space.

Inside the throne room, huge banquet tables have been set out, laden with a sumptuous feast. Musicians play in the corners, happy tunes that distract the warriors from the fact that they’re riding to their death at dawn. Servants walk throughout the space with silver platters holding cups of wine, handing them to the warriors and the lords and ladies. I see Esbella and her husband sitting in their thrones at the far end of the room.

When Sarielle steps into the room, two trumpeters lift their instruments and play several notes from where they stand a dozen paces ahead between two of the elaborate columns lining the room. Then, a herald in a golden vest steps forward and calls, for all the room to hear, “We welcome Sarielle Otreyas, Queen of southern Valaron, ruler of the Court of Nightmares!”

The buzz of voices in the room quiets, and everyone turns to look at Sarielle as she walks slowly through the crowd, between the columns and out into the open part of the huge room. Esbella rises from her throne and walks forward to greet us. I can see the hungry gazes already, the lords of the north sizing up this new queen, imagining her as their bride. When Esbella reaches us, the two offer each other a slight bow in greeting. I notice the baron on her tail, and suddenly realize that I haven’t seen or heard mention of his wife. My suspicions are confirmed when Esbella loops her arm through Sarielle’s and leans in to talk in her ear.

“My nephew will take your first dance, to start things off. He is unmarried, and I can introduce you to the other eligible lords in the Court of Memory throughout the night. Mingle and enjoy the festivities.”

Baron Ethanas steps up and bows to Sarielle, which is ironic considering he couldn’t be bothered to show the proper courtesy before. I feel a rumble from the nightmare within me and have to force back the lash of shadows that threatens to pour forth. Sarielle takes the hand he offers, and he leads her out into the center of the room. There’s an open space for dancing, lined by tall crystal urns filled with plumes of black feathers. I stalk along the edge of the crowd, suppressing the desire to walk out there and choke the baron until he blacks out.

I see red when the baron slides his hand around to the small of Sarielle’s back. He leans in and whispers something to her, to which she smiles politely. I know Sarielle well enough to knowshe’s not falling for the baron’s sudden display of charm, but it doesn’t matter, in the end. She’ll have to pick one of these lords to win her an army that can save Valaron. Someone in this room will wed the woman I love, and there’s nothing I can do about it unless I want to watch my whole realm burn.

And there’s a part of me—abigpart of me—that would rather have Sarielle than the world.

Thoughts of death and destruction rotate through my head as I watch Sarielle and the baron twirl around and around on the dance floor. He’s looking at her as if she’s a deer in the forest, and he a hunter, his arrow notched, his gaze traveling the length of it to the deadly point at the end, sighting her for the kill. That’s all she is to him—to any of them—a political pawn, a play for power. The fact that she’s beautiful just makes the game all the more enticing.

I want tokillhim.

When the song is over, I breathe a momentary sigh, feel my shoulders release their tension the tiniest bit. But another suitor is already waiting, stepping onto the dance floor before the baron has even dropped her hand from where he planted a kiss. Another northern lord with a build like a bear, burly and thick, his boots and cloak lined with fur. Another hand sliding around Sarielle’s lower back, fingers splayed just shy of an inappropriate length from her ass; another whispered comment, this one making Sarielle’s cheeks turn red.

I don’t know how I’m going to survive this night. Because surely, someone will push me over the edge. Someone whose life I will claim. And then my own will be forfeit, and Sarielle will be all alone here, in the cold, dark north, in this pit of serpents.

That’s the only thought that keeps me in check as this torturous night continues.

Three more suitors come and go. One of them escorts Sarielle to get food and wine, and I follow on their heels. She glancesback at me once, but the northern lord does not. I am invisible to them, someone they view as a non-threat. If they only knew the dark plans spinning through my mind for each of them, they might pay some mind to the threat that looms behind them, might realize that any wrong move, and I will be theirend.

The night continues, my own personal hell. When suitor number seven approaches Sarielle on the dance floor, I am instantly on high alert. It’s how he carries himself with an arrogant swagger, the smirk on his lips that tells me he’s had just a bit too much ale, and that he’d probably wear that smirk even if dead sober. But when he leans in to speak to Sarielle as they begin to dance, the look of shock on her face as she pulls back tells me all I need to know.

I am out on the dance floor in an instant, stepping up next to them, my shadows coiled just below the surface, one hand on a dagger at my belt.

---