Page 14 of Twin Crowns

“One day, the desert swallowed it.”

“What a grim fairy tale.”

“It’s no fairy tale, Princess.”

Rose let out a short, sharp laugh. “The country of Eana has onlyoneruler, and she is standing before you. Not to mention, nonsense of this sort has never been mentioned in Anadawn’s long-standing historical records, which I have read many times, by the way.”

Shen shrugged. “Perhaps the movements of this desert have never been any of your business.”

Rose blinked. “Excuseme?”

“You are excused,” said Shen as he returned to the trickling waterfall.

Rose fumed in silence. She had to remind herself that the ravings of a lowly bandit meant nothing to her. But as she drank, she couldn’t shake the uncertainty that his words had sown inside her. This washerkingdom, not his. She should knowallits hidden places and secret tales, no matter how outlandish they were.

“Follow me when you’re done seething,” said Shen as he turned from the water. Rose glowered after him as he wandered deeper into the caves with the lazy confidence of a bandit who knew she had nowhere to run.

7

Wren

Prince Ansel was built like a soldier, so tall that Wren had to tilt her chin to take him all in. His shoulders were broad, and his arms were thick and corded with muscle. He was pale-skinned with dark tousled hair shot through with strands of copper. He wore a navy frock coat inlaid with silver brocade, dark trousers, and black leather boots. Exquisitely tailored. His face was exquisite, too. His eyes were wide and gray—the exact shade of a sea at storm—and the hard edge of his jaw was softened by the barest hint of a smile. Wren might not have noticed it at all if she hadn’t been staring so hard at his lips.

As they stood apart from each other in the courtyard, it occurred to her that she should probably say something. “Good morn—aftern—hi—hello!” The words came out in a breathlesswhoosh. She tried again. “I’m sorry I’m late. Icompletelylost track of—”

“No need to apologize, my flower.” Wren blinked, but Ansel’s mouth wasn’t moving. He was just... staring at her.

A much slighter man stepped out from behind him. He was a sapling compared to the oak tree towering next to him—with porcelain skin, a dainty nose, and a wide, smiling mouth. “You are, as ever, worth the wait.”

He twirled his hand as he bowed, strands of thick blond hair flopping into his eyes.

Wren’s excitement curdled inside her. She dropped her head, masking her disappointment with a curtsy. “You’re too kind.”

The real Prince Ansel offered her his elbow, and Wren scurried to take it, ignoring the stormy gaze of his silent companion as she brushed past him.

They wandered into the rose garden, where the bushes were bright and the air was heady. “You seem a little flustered this afternoon, my flower. I hope my guard’s continued presence isn’t proving a bother to you.” Ansel tossed his head, flicking his hair away from his face. “You know I have the utmost trust in the Anadawn court. The palace has been nothing but hospitable since the moment we arrived, but I’m afraid my brotherinsistson a personal guard, and we’ve known Captain Tor Iversen so long, he is practically family to us. Thankfully, he is a man of few words. He fades right into the background.”

Wren was too embarrassed to look over her shoulder. Ansel might not have noticed her mistake, but his soldier had witnessed her salivating in close, agonizing detail. “It’s perfectly fine.” She gestured to the palace guards stationed at the far corners of the courtyard. “I’m well used to silent company.”

“Well, a treasure as fine as you must have a keeper,” said Ansel, in what Wren assumed was his attempt at a compliment. “You know, my brother has long been convinced there are at least ten people looking to kill him at any given time of the day,” he said with a chuckle. “Alarik keeps his most trusted guards within arm’s reach of him at all times. Even at family dinners! Or perhaps I should say,especiallyat familydinners. My sister does have quite a temper.”

Alarik.A rush of dread coursed through Wren. There was only one royal Alarik known throughout all of Eana, and not for his kindness. Alarik Felsing was the iron-fisted ruler of the icy kingdom of Gevra on the northern continent—a young, feral king who led with brute force and boundless cruelty.

Oh no.

“Sit down, my flower. You don’t look quite well.” They had reached a table set in the middle of the garden. There was a platter of miniature cucumber sandwiches and fruit tarts waiting for them, as well as a steaming pot of mint tea.

Tor stationed himself beside a tall yellow rosebush that peered out over the courtyard, and beyond it, the Eshlinn woods. Wren did her best not to look at him, but she couldn’t help the odd traitorous flick of her gaze. This time, she noted what she had missed the first time—his impressive sword. The pommel was made from frosted glass and glinted like an icicle in the sunlight. The scabbard was midnight blue and wrought with silver—the same colors as his uniform.

Gevra colors.

Now Wren really was starting to feel unwell. She swayed on her feet, and Tor’s arm shot out to steady her.

“Rose?” Across the table, Ansel’s face creased in concern. “Are you well?”

Wren ignored the soldier’s arm and sank into her chair. “Just a little warm, that’s all.”

Ansel nodded knowingly. “I know spring is mild here, but after growing up in Gevra, these tepid afternoons feel like a desert to me.”

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