Page 74 of Glow of the Everflame

I slid off Sorae’s back and stroked my hand along her downy wing. She gave me an intense look that at first seemed to be a show of support, until I caught the gleam of laughter in her eyes and remembered how she had urged me toward the glittery red number I’d so quickly discarded.

“Point proven,” I grumbled. “Next time, I’ll take your advice.”

She gave me a light tap with her nose before retreating several steps. Her head rose to the sky, and a ferocious snarl tore from her throat and resounded across the arena. She whipped from side to side to repeat the menacing sound to each section of the crowd. She bared her fangs in a rumbling growl, then turned her focus to me. Her wings draped flat at her sides, and she lowered her head to the ground in a reverent bow.

My heart squeezed—Sorae waskneeling. This incredible creature was claiming me as her Queen, offering a fierce vote of confidence when I needed it most—as well as a deadly warning to anyone who might plan to do me harm.

Movement caught my eye. I looked up to see Luther mimicking her bow, his fist beating across his chest as he sank to one knee and lowered his gaze to the floor. Lily followed immediately, then Taran and Alixe, then the rest of House Corbois, until it surged across the arena like a rolling storm.

I should have enjoyed it. Iwantedto enjoy it. Mortals had squirmed beneath their immortal thumbs for so long, forced into a violent, brutal submission, and now the tables had finally turned. Now these monstrous people were submitting tome.

But it wasn’t to me—not really. All their bows and genuflects were for the Crown above my head. They did not know me, they did not fear me, and they certainly did not respect me.

And they didn’t try to hide it. More than a few attendees shot me dirty looks as they kneeled, Aemonn’s father Garath among them, though none were bold enough to remain standing and risk drawing my focus—or Sorae’s.

“Thank you,” I whispered, quiet enough to be heard only by a gryvern’s hypersensitive ears. I knew from the responding pulse of emotion across our bond that she was ready to stand by my side, tacky outfit or not.

She leapt back into the sky, circling the arena then landing on the awning above the royal box. At last I was alone, fully exposed to the crowd and all its judgment.

I kept my chin high as I turned to the wooden tower that encased the King’s corpse, swaddled in crimson silk. On a golden pedestal at my side sat a single log, tied with a white ribbon, on a bed of garnet-colored velvet.

I’d spent my entire life blaming King Ulther for the mistreatment of mortals in Lumnos. After my discussion with Remis, I was beginning to wonder if Ulther might be the sole reason the situation wasn’t dramatically worse.

I might never learn his true intentions or what conversations had gone on behind the closed doors of the palace, but as I gathered the final log into my hands and set it on the pyre, I closed my eyes and offered up a prayer for Ulther’s soul. Whatever kind of Queen I turned out to be, I hoped that someday, someone would do the same for me.

I strolled toward the steep staircase that ran from the floor of the arena to the royal box. At the top, Luther made a move toward the stairs, presumably to come down and escort me up. At the last second, Remis grabbed his son by the arm, and they exchanged what looked to be heated words.

Luther’s focus shifted to me, his expression hard. Remis leaned in and said something further that had Luther’s gaze skirting the crowd—who were increasingly noticing the drama between father and son.

I gave him a faint shake of my head in a wordless order to stand down. His shoulders sagged. He took a step back into place, hands fisted at his sides.

As I made the long walk across the arena floor and up the narrow steps, snippets of hushed conversations floated to my ears.

...completely disrespectful...

...looks like a mortal...

...only days after the attack...

...not even a real Corbois...

I told myself I didn’t care what these horrible people thought of me. I tried even harder to believe it.

My eyes stayed fixed on Luther, the strength in his gaze calming my pounding heart. It felt as if something in him had hooked itself on something in me. While my indignation and my insecurity battled for control, Luther held me firm, steadily reeling me toward him like a fish on a line. Certain death might await me on the other side, but for the moment, he was a shiny lure I couldn’t seem to resist.

When I reached the landing, Remis stepped forward and gave me a low nod. “Your Majesty.”

“Regent,” I answered. “I take it black was a bad choice.”

Garath scoffed. “Atrocious is what it is.”

“Garath,” I chirped with a smile that was equal parts sugar and venom. “Always a pleasure.”

He huffed and looked away. At his back, Aemonn shot me a flirtatious smile. Taran grinned and flashed a thumb’s up.

Remis cleared his throat. “We’ve prepared a seat of honor for you at the front of the dais.” He gestured to one of two wooden thrones on an extended balcony that surveyed the arena floor.

The ornate, oversized chairs were set just outside the awning’s shade, placing their occupants in a sunny spotlight so each and every attendee could see them with brutal clarity. After my disastrous entrance, my throat constricted at the idea of being so exposed.

---