Page 1 of The Prince's Captive

Chapter1

MARCELLA

The wheels of Clan Desero’s finest chariot had never sounded more like the beat of an execution drum. It could sound like nothing else while Marcella was the one riding in it.

She couldn’t see much past her veil, which meant it was equally difficult for anyone to make out her face. The cold metal of the gold lily pins in her hair and lily clasps at her shoulders kept her as still as their immortalized petals. The weight of the voluminous and luxurious peplos and himation she wore were greater than iron chains.

It was a great honor for a girl like Marcella.

To be so finely adorned for her death.

Most girls of her station in her clan wouldn’t get the honor.

Of course… she might not die.

Chances were high she would, but there was always the slim possibility the vision that foretold this event had left something out that confirmed her survival or that Marcella would pull off a miracle.

Miracles were better left in Asentai’s hands. Marcella wasn’t capable enough for something like that, but still… with Asentai’s Heart locked in a chariot traveling behind her, maybe her goddess would show her favor.

When Marcella’s chariot passed over the dirt, rolling along a path cleared through the forest, she saw it out of the corner of her eye.

But her orders were to stay still and keep her mouth shut.

Lines in the ground lit up, and the second after the magic was activated, Marcella grabbed the edge of the chariot. The horses let out high-pitched whinnies. The other soldiers of Clan Desero, her guards riding beside her, cried out at the burns from the explosion. Marcella’s head slammed into the ground while wood splintered and rained down over her.

She threw her hands up, trying to shield her face that was protected only by flimsy, thin silk, but she could still feel debris cut into her and her ankle was burned by the foreign magic.

Inimicus magic.

Low voices filled the air with a sharp language, polished like a knife. Marcella had never been a skilled linguist, and at a time like this her head was so rattled and her heart racing so fast she couldn’t even begin to try to translate the little she did know.

Besides, what did it matter what they said?

They were her enemies. And she had her orders. That was all she needed to know.

She could hear her fellow Desero soldiers shouting and fighting around her as her blurry vision began to clear.

The chariot that had been toward the back of the entourage—and spared from the worst of the explosion of magic—raced forward. Marcella’s vision cleared in enough time to see it swerve around the wreck she was in. Only one man, dressed like all the other Desero soldiers, rode beside it at the same breakneck speed. He had one hand on the reins and the other flying through the air to cast runes, defending the driver and the trunk on the back of the chariot. The trunk holding Asentai’s Heart.

The driver of the chariot similarly had the reins in one hand and the other flung out, casting her runes to create a shield from the Inimicus magic being thrown at her. Hypatia.

Her thick black curls had been straightened with fireside irons and were held back by a scrap of cloth, as opposed to Marcella’s which was still curled and half pinned up and half left down in the style of all Desero brides, the hairstyle that best highlighted the curls they were known for.

The driver wore a practical chiton—Marcella’s favorite actually, not that Marcella had many. It was a plain off-white from years of use. There was no speck of special trimming, just enough fabric to belt at the waist, the complete opposite of the extravagant bridal clothes Marcella wore now. Frankly, Marcella would never have been able to get herself into the bridal clothes by herself and she wouldn’t know where to begin to figure out how to get out of it without ruining it or breaking the lily clasps.

That was a problem she didn’t anticipate having.

Especially as the driver of the chariot flew through the fighting. If anyone was able to look under Marcella’s veil, they would startle for just a moment at how similar they appeared. To be fair, they were distant cousins. So distant it didn’t really count anymore.

They had the same golden-brown eyes, the same shape to them as well as their eyebrows—although that had been more because Marcella had been held down by two of the other Desero soldiers as her eyebrows had been plucked and shaped to mirror Hypatia’s.

It hadn’t been nearly as excruciating as the next measure they had taken to make her Hypatia’s exact replica.

But it had been under Chief Eustathios’ orders. Chief Eustathios had also taken great pains to disguise himself as well. No one but their clan would know he was the soldier riding beside Hypatia, protecting his daughter.

Marcella pushed herself off the ground, glancing around at the fighting, and even though her fingers itched to begin casting to help her clan, she had her orders. She took a fumbling step, hissing as the burn on her ankle sent a rush of scorching pain up her leg, and she had to catch herself on what was still standing of the ruins of her chariot.

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see that Hypatia, Chief Eustathios, and the Heart were almost clear of the fighting and the Desero soldiers were being pushed back toward the edges of the road and into the woods. Marcella shoved her veil to the side enough so she could see the chaos surrounding her better. Her ears were still ringing and half of the words were foreign anyway.

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