Page 3 of A Heart Disguised 1

The robe was cinched at the waist with a narrow belt, embroidered with silver thread. My trousers, too, were of a finer make than my usual attire, tailored to fit my slight form without the swathes of excess fabric that seemed to adorn my brothers’ legs like battle trophies.

My hair, usually left to its own wild devices, was now tamed into submission—braided and coiled at the nape of my neck in a style that Lily had once declared “very regal, Robin.” I suppose it was an attempt to lend me an air of masculinity that my delicatefeatures stubbornly refused to acknowledge. I peered closer at my reflection, scrutinizing the face that so often led strangers to mistake me for one of my sisters rather than their brother. A touch of annoyance flared within me at the thought.

My father’s height and lean muscularity had skipped me entirely. He stood like an oak among saplings—tall, lean, with a presence that commanded every room he entered. And then there was me: more willow than oak, more whisper than roar. Would I ever possess the robust stature of Henry or Gavin? It seemed unlikely, given my current predicament.

Meredith’s critical gaze swept over me, and for a moment, I held my breath. Then, with a nod of approval that seemed to surprise even herself, she shooed me toward the door as if I were a wayward chick straying too close to the fox’s den.

Russet, sensing the tension in the air, whined softly from his spot by the hearth. “Stay, Russet,” I commanded gently, rubbing the spot behind his ears that he so adored. He was not welcome within the main manor’s hallowed halls—a decree issued by Lady Aldercrest after an unfortunate incident involving her favorite gown and Russet’s then-puppyish exuberance. The memory of her sharp slaps and his protective snarl still lingered, a ghost of a welt on my cheek and a shadow in his amber eyes.

With a final, fortifying breath, I stepped out into the brisk afternoon air, Meredith’s anxious mantra of “don’t be nervous, don’t be nervous” trailing after me like a prayer. She, too, was barred from certain chambers of the main manor—a realm reserved for the likes of Lord Aldercrest and his favored offspring. As I crossed the threshold, her voice caught up to me, whispering a hasty “good luck” that seemed to carry the weight of all her unspoken fears.

Alone, I made my way down the long, tapestry-lined corridor that led to the main hall, navigating it as though it were a gauntlet. My mind raced with possibilities, each more fancifulthan the last. Perhaps Father had finally seen fit to acknowledge my talents. Maybe he intended to send me to a prestigious magic school, despite my being somewhat past the age of a typical initiate.

Wild thoughts fluttered through my mind, daring to hope Father might recognize my affinity for healing magic. The notion was so delightful that a thrill of excitement coursed through me, momentarily pushing aside the dread that had taken root in my chest. I was so caught up in these pleasant fantasies that I nearly missed the imposing oak doors looming ahead.

Their intricate carvings stood as a silent tribute to the Aldercrest wealth and power, marking the entrance to a world far removed from my own. The footmen, resplendent in their dark green livery with the silver Aldercrest emblem emblazoned on their chests, pulled open the doors with an ease born of countless such openings. I hesitated on the threshold, a rabbit poised at the edge of a predator’s lair. Taking a deep breath, I stepped over the invisible boundary that separated the mundane world from the rarefied air of the main hall, my excitement now tinged with a renewed sense of apprehension.

Inside, my gaze was immediately drawn to Henry and Gavin, who might as well have been carved from the same oak as the doors, given their stony countenances. Henry, the elder, was a mirror of our father, with the same piercing blue eyes and dark hair that fell in controlled waves to his shoulders. He wore a kaftan of deep burgundy, its silk so rich it seemed to drink in the light of the room. Beneath, his trousers were a stark, snowy white, the fabric molding to his muscular legs like a second skin.

Gavin, just a year younger, was his brother’s shadow in build and demeanor, though his hair was a shade lighter, his eyes a touch warmer. His kaftan was a midnight blue, the silver thread of the embroidery catching the light with every shift of his broad shoulders. Their height, a towering five foot nine, dwarfed myown modest stature of barely five foot five, making me acutely aware of the fact that I had yet to see any sign of the late growth spurt that had been so often promised to me by Meredith.

Henry’s smirk was a slash of condescension as he eyed me with the same interest one might reserve for a moth that had wandered too close to the flame. “Well, well, look what the cat dragged in,” he drawled, the derision in his tone as familiar as my own reflection. “Our little half-blood, trying so hard to play at nobility.”

Gavin’s glare was no less withering, his words sharp as a blade’s edge. “What are you doing here, runt? Did you lose your way to the stables?”

I shrugged, feigning nonchalance, though the casual cruelty in their words stung like nettles. “I was summoned, same as you.”

Before they could volley back another barb, the door behind me swung open, and in breezed Rosalind and Lily, their entrance like a gust of fresh air amid the stifling oppression of my brothers’ presence. Lily, with her infectious smile, immediately enveloped me in a hug that threatened to crack my carefully constructed armor of indifference.

“You look so adorable, Robin!” she exclaimed, her eyes wide with genuine delight. “Like a little doll dressed up for a ball.”

Gavin rolled his eyes while Henry’s glare seemed to intensify, but I found myself smiling at Lily’s innocent exuberance. Rosalind, never one to stand idly by, fixed Henry with a fiery glare of her own. “Stop glaring at Robin, or I’ll roast you where you stand,” she warned, her fingers twitching with the barest hint of a flame dancing at her fingertips.

Henry sneered at her threat. “Watch your tongue, brat. You’d do well to remember your place—and mine.”

With all the grace of an unruffled swan—or perhaps just an obstinate goose—Rosalind stuck out her tongue and made a face,an act of rebellion that would have earned a lesser sibling a swift reprimand.

The door to the end of the room swung open, and Hargrove, the head butler, announced in his deep, resonant voice, “Lord and Lady Aldercrest are ready to receive you now.”

A collective hush fell over the room, and my heart clenched like a fist in my chest. Taking a deep breath to steady my nerves, I followed my siblings into the lion’s den. I was the last to enter, a silent acknowledgment of my place in the Aldercrest hierarchy—but not a surrender. Never that. As we approached the imposing doors of the grand drawing room, I couldn’t shake the feeling that our lives were about to change dramatically—for better or worse remained to be seen.

2

Robin

The grand drawing room greeted us with an air of suffocating opulence, a gilded cage in which the Aldercrest dynasty preened and prospered. My father sat in his favored throne-like chair, dominating the space with the effortless command of a born ruler. Lord Aldercrest was a lion in repose, dark hair threaded with silver—nature’s attempt at gilding what was already formidable. His eyes, as sharp and cold as Aethoria’s winter skies, swept over us with a detached indifference that chilled the room more effectively than any draft from the enormous fireplace.

Beside him, Lady Aldercrest reclined on the velvet settee, the very picture of noble elegance, though her lips were thinned with displeasure—a common expression on her face whenever the business of the family was brought into the open. Her hair, a cascade of honeyed gold, was coiled into an intricate chignon, and her dress was a tapestry of wealth and taste. The emerald silk draped over her figure complemented her brown eyes, making them appear almost amber in the firelight.

“Sit,” Lord Aldercrest commanded, though his gaze did not stray to me. He might as well have addressed the air, for all the acknowledgment I received in that moment. I remainedstanding, a silent reminder of my precarious place within the family structure.

Heart thudding against my ribs, I braced myself for whatever bombshell was about to rend the fabric of our carefully orchestrated lives. The silence stretched thin, punctuated only by the crackling of the fire.

Then the axe fell.

“We have received a missive,” my father began, each word measured and precise—the calm before the tempest. “From Azrael.” The way he said the name spoke volumes of his contempt, as if speaking it dirtied his tongue. “The heartless bastard has decreed that I am to offer one of my daughters to that wicked demon lord, Duke of Lunaria.”

A sharp, collective intake of breath echoed through the room, the sound almost foreign to my ears, like the discordant chime of a cracked bell. My own breath caught in my throat, the walls of the room closing in with sudden, crushing finality.

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