Page 96 of Stolen
I swear one of the stories was about a pair of talking boots that fell in love—isn’t that amazing?
Truth is, I’ve beenokay, all things considered.
But when I walk into the kitchen and see Harold with a vein bulging in his temple, I know something’s up.
“What’s the matter?” I ask, wiping my hands on my apron as I step forward.
Harold throws up his hands in dramatic despair.
“That blasted woman again! I made her venison twice, and now she says the potatoes are ‘too aggressive.’ What in the blazes does that even mean?”
“Lady Jules?” Nyna steps up beside me, her expression apologetic. “Um, apologies, we have a guest who is making some demands.”
I already know who she means. I heard some of the attendants whispering about her.
Dauphiné.
They say she’s a noblewoman. A guest of rank. An important ally of the Eyrie.
Respected. Honored. Needed.
And yet, I’ve heard the whispers.
The kind that slip under doors and echo across cold stone floors when servants think you’re not listening.
The ones spoken behind half-closed doors with tight mouths and wary eyes.
They say Dauphiné once had her sights set on Alaric with the kind of focus that felt less like admiration and more like a hunt.
That her father—a powerful Northman from just beyond the Thorn Mountains—once tried to arrange a match between them. One that would’ve combined territories and strength.
But Alaric refused.
And according to the whispers, she didn’t take it well.
They say she lost her mind.
Tore through her own home—something the attendants call theWinter Court, though none of them seem to say it fondly.
Apparently, the Eyrie is the only true seat of power in these parts, and she never quite got over that.
In fact, according to those pesky whispers, she still thinks there is hope for her.
She wants the crown.
She wants him.
And though he already denied her, she still covets Alaric.
Nyna told me how Dauphiné made her rage known.
Publicly. Violently.
Declaring herself the only one worthy of ruling beside the Lord of the Eyrie.
Of reigning not just over the North, but perhaps all of Nightfall.
Part of me—the smaller, weaker part—wants to shrink at the thought.
