Page 258 of Rage

Scarlett nodded; her lips carefully pressed into a thin line.

Her nail clicked off the clutch of her purse.

“MIDDLE SISTER?”

Liam nodded.

“CODE NAME: SILVER TYRANT.”

Silver Tyrant.

It was rare for a woman of such stature to let her name spill into the streets. Whether by accident or design, Scarlett knew the middle sister would become a problem. She tried to remind herself that it wasn’t her place to act as the First Heir’s hand. Her role was far simpler: to be a docile ornament at his side, paraded like a show dog that only barked when commanded and sat when instructed.

Today, the Silver Tyrant would learn that the First Heir was close to taking the Black Throne. That she would not win this war should it begin, for he had an armada ready to march.

The Pigs were in his pocket, gambling dens flourished, Sharks bloodied the Lowlanding waters, and artillery farms on the outlying counties waited to deliver. The bars on each level of the Doll House were to ensure none of his birds could ever take flight, and the war between Federation and Anarchists kept the people busy while the First Heir stayed his hand closer and closer to what he truly wanted.

The Silver Tyrant won’t meet its mark,Scarlett thought, staring out the window.Not if I can help it.

Chapter Three

Wicked Grace

Amasquerade ball felt dramatic, but those who ruled the Birzan Dynasty had a flair for theatrics.

Scarlett had entered the Dark Palace a thousand times before, but never with this many eyes watching her. Interlopers and Pigs were one thing. She learned how to co-exist among them even if her skin crawled at their lingering stares. But esteemed guests from near and far? It seemed as overwhelming as a set of molten eyes watching from the veranda.

That was all Scarlett could see from the black crow mask that shaped the woman’s face. It hugged most of her brown flesh and kept more than enough to the imagination. Dressed in a striking suit with an onyx-bone corset and gilded daggers proudly displayed, she stood with a woman on each arm—both poised in their laughter, skillfully crafting stories to keep her entertained.

Alas, the strange figure seemed interested only in the First Heir’s most treasured Darling, the one that hadn’t realized she stopped walking until the crow set a hand against the balustrade and tilted her head.

“Scarlett!” She snapped forward, eyes wide as she met the blonde beauty that came sweeping up the aisle, parting a sea of guests with her gusto.

Margot remained a permanent addition to the Dark Palace. Trust, she had her life only because she was the late-king’s favorite, and Fatima’s most treasured source of gossip. Not many knew Margot White was a Darling. Not until they looked close enough to find the chains around her neck matching whatever gown she was meant to preen in for the day. She’d been one of the first girls to help Scarlett find her footing when she was brought into the Doll House twenty years ago.

They were close in age. In fact, Margot was just two years older, which made Scarlett’s time in the Doll House less miserable. Despite the odds, their friendship had sustained itself. They lived what little of their childhood with each other, and by the dark gods’ grace, aided in the grand ascent to appease the Singh’s.

Margot wrapped Scarlett into her embrace. She smelt of wine and lavender, which wasn’t off the mark for a nightingale that enjoyed the sound of her own voice. Even after Fatima’s murder, Amina had use for her.“The daughter I never had.”

“You look breathtaking,” Margot gasped, holding Scarlett at arm’s length.

It took her a moment to remember she’d entered prepped for the ball. Her emerald mask in-laid with black and gold was carefully set against her face. The matching ball gown that once spooled across her bed now clung to her curves. The gorgeous neckline fell down her sternum, and delicate embroidery gave the illusion of spring meadows and forest floors.

It suited the white of her hair that tumbled over her shoulder, the bright blue of her eyes that looked like a burst of spilled ink on a painter’s palette. More, it made her look fit for royalty.

“I think that’d be you,” Scarlett said, envying the embodiment of a white swan that cast Margot in reams of silk. “All my problems would be solved if I looked like you.”

It roused Margot’s beautiful laugh and Scarlett’s smile, but a compliment like that always held a layer of truth.

Scarlett didn’t like looking at herself in the mirror often. She hid behind heavy fabrics and baggy pants. She would write poetry on the days that self-loathing shaped her free will. It would be a scrawl of letters on napkins and papyrus and anything she could get her hands on, really. She would hope, with every fiber of her being, that she would wake the next day and be in someone else’s shoes. Someone like Margot, beautiful and social. Someone like a girl in the Lowlands, greasy-haired and forgotten. Someone like anyone that wasn’t her.

“Come, you little creature.” Margot took her hand, “Jordan won’t be able to keep his hands off you.”

There came the knot of anxiety again, the one that made Scarlett clutch her purse and set her hand low on her stomach. She tried thinking of all the perfect things the First Heir had said to her during their love making. How he would always protect her, cherish her, celebrate her.

Those couldn’t be empty words despite the vast rumors that now followed his near ascension.

Her eyes flickered towards the veranda again. Instead of meeting the brimming eyes of a black crow, she found the two women with frowns, elbows against the stone, missing the charismatic stranger who had long since disappeared.

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