Page 9 of The War Queen's Daughter

I watch him register my reaction, but I don’t look away. I’m doing nothing to hide it from him. Why should I? Let them judge me, the people in this opulent city.

Let him judge me if he chooses.

He does something better. He smirks and blows me a kiss.

A defiant spark ignites within me, something hot and uncharacteristic, tied into my physical reaction to him. My mother’s lessons ring in my ears:Never show weakness. Never back down.But this isn’t a battle I know how to fight. In Heald, we aren’t subtle about attraction or the result of it. But here this man treats my open admiration as a jest?

A sudden, almost childish impulse takes hold. The girl I was, rejected by her mother now furious to be moved across a board like a pawn, out of my element and uneasy, goes looking for the means to show her mettle. In a display of pure, unadulterated arrogance, I raise my hand, not in a polite wave, but in a crisp, sharp salute, soldier to soldier. It’s a warrior’s gesture, direct and unambiguous, meant for comrades on the field. My gaze never leaves this beautiful man’s eyes, holding his challenging smirk. I watch his eyebrows raise slightly in surprise, a flicker of something new in his golden stare—perhaps approval, perhaps intrigue.

His giant companion just sighs.

Then, head held high, I turn and remount Gorgon, ignoring the surprised whispers and glances of the surrounding crowd. My cheeks burn, ashamed of my defiant act. The bitter resentment over this whole ridiculous event jabs me like a dagger. As we move past the two men, hulking and handsome, I can still feel their eyes on my back.

Let them watch me ride away. I will not think of them again.

Yes, I’m ashamed, pressing my lips into a thin line, squinting to narrow my field of vision and my flaring internal rage.Idiot,I chide myself.You know better than to show irritationso openly.My disciplined mind recoils from the impulsive act that should have been a simple moment of cold indifference. Instead, I gave power away by caring what they thought. My mother would flay me alive if she knew I’d fallen prey to my own weakness. I resolve, with a fierce tightening of my grip on Gorgon’s reins, to do better. I cannot afford to be swayed by a smirk or a fleeting sense of justice.

My mission is, and must remain, Heald.

The queen’s warriors say nothing as we continue our slow, winding journey through the crowded streets, so at least I’m spared their comments about my conduct. The Citadel, towering overhead, finally looms into open view, the large, grand parade space before the massive doors at the head of the High Street indeed as the guard at the main gate told me.

Impossible to miss. And even grander than the city walls. It is less a single building and more a sprawling complex of gleaming white stone and gold-domed towers, each spire reaching for the sky like a jeweled finger. Banners bearing the golden lion of Protoris flutter from every battlement, catching the sunlight. The sheer scale is breathtaking, no doubt meant to be intimidating. The air here smells cleaner, perfumed with exotic flowers from manicured gardens, a stark contrast to the market’s pungent odors.

The guards who flank the doors are even more resplendently dressed than those in the city, their armor blindingly polished, their stances rigidly formal. They regard my dusty armor and warhorse with disdain, their expressions making it clear I am an inconvenience, an unsightly blot on their pristine entry. And there is no softness in them, not like the others. These are knights of the Overking, battle-trained and experienced.

Not that they’d stand a chance against a warrior of Heald.

“State your purpose,” one says, his tone clipped, impatient.

“Remalla of Heald,” I repeat, my voice now practiced, devoid of the earlier heat. “By Overking’s summons. I am here to wed Overprince Altar.”

The guard eyes my armor again, his lip curling almost imperceptibly. “Lady Remalla.” Princess, but I don’t correct him. “You are expected.” He gestures to a nearby, impeccably dressed man who approaches with a pained expression. “We’d heard of your approach and summoned the Headservant.”

He is a slender man, small and delicate, his silks shimmering like a peacock’s plumage, his pale hair perfectly coiffed, smelling strongly of rosewater and sweets. The Headservant is a foppish puppet amid towering steel soldiers, but he waves them off with impatience and as though they are inconvenient to him, staring up at me with growing horror.

“But you can’t be,” he splutters. “A princess.”

The guards laugh, chuckling deep, while I stare back at this irritating little man.

“I assure you,” I say in Mother’s best flat tone, “I am.”

His eyes widen as he takes me in, clucking and shaking his head, waving a white handkerchief under his nose. “This simply won’t do,” he says. Do I offend him? I shift in the saddle, giving Gorgon the signal to advance one step. The huge horse does as he’s asked, ears flattening as I settle into the seat, white teeth bared at the Headservant who scrambles backward with a cry.

“You were saying.” I am acutely aware of my mud-stained boots, my sweat-streaked face, and the unmistakable aroma of horse and battlefield that clings to me despite my armor’s cleaning and the time and distance from my last battle. Some scents are simply impossible to erase.

The Headservant recoils, face a pinched display of disgust, as if I carry the plague.

“Princess Remalla,” he says, his voice thin, clearly forcing politeness. At least he got my title right. “Welcome toWinderose. You are perhaps a little early for your formal reception? And you are still in travel attire.” He gestures vaguely at my armor, as if it’s a particularly offensive piece of refuse. “It would be customary to refresh yourself, change into courtly garments, before presenting yourself to His Overmajesty.”

I’m at my limit. I feel it, the pressure inside pushing upward like a molten flow, and I’m about to erupt all over this inconsequential and judgmental little man. It’s not his fault, and nor does it really have anything to do with him. On another day, in another circumstance, I would find him amusing, as the armored guardians of this place certainly seem to.

Not today. I lean forward in the saddle, Gorgon responding with a deep grumble, stomping one massive front hoof on the stone. His thick steel shoe strikes a spark that makes the Headservant jump with a little squeak.

Even the guards are paying attention now.

Go ahead. Don’t take me seriously. I dare you.

“I have just arrived from a week on the road,” I say quietly, forcing him to strain to hear me. “And directly from a successful campaign. My armor is my attire. I have a summons from the Overking himself. I will present myself as I am.” My gaze is unwavering. I won’t be cowed by his silk and perfume or the nasty opinion he has of me. The supple, honest feel of my leather armor against my skin is a comfort I will not relinquish for the likes of him.

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