Page 110 of The Gilded Survivor

Somewhere, the backless red dress that Antonio had picked up was carefully packed away. The memory burned my cheeks red, just as surely as that scandalous gown was burning a metaphorical hole straight through the bottom of a trunk. I deserved to burn in the volcano, but I likely would anyway.

Besides, I genuinely liked the dress.

The ball began at nine, and would last the entire night, ending with the first rays of sunlight. It was annoying to stay up so late, but not unexpected after that dreadful dinner party two weeks ago. I settled into my seat and watched the scenery pass. I already knew that the Primera Isla was the most fertile of the six isles, but I was still happy to see it.

The acres of land belonging to Antonio’s estate were familiar from our trips to the training center, but when we reached a fork in the road, we went down the path I’d previously left untraveled. My stomach lurched as I looked up at the mountain range in the distance.

Except it wasn’t a mountain range. It was the Cinturón de Fuego.

Three cinder cone volcanoes that stretched out right to the ocean. La Nina, La Doncella, and La Dama.

The girl, the maiden, and the lady. The third and largest, La Dama, was nestled in the middle of the three.

Loose fragments of ash mixed with fresh snow spilled down from the mouth of the volcano after its last eruption. Volcanic ash was a hard mix of rock, mineral, and glass. It did not dissolve in water, and was extremely abrasive, not to mention mildly corrosive.

Comerciantes Nocturnos often hired Dregs to harvest bits and pieces to be processed into Ash. Damned bastards.

For the millionth time, I reminded myself that it hadn’t erupted in over twenty years. These volcanoes were in a perpetual state of teasing, sending slow plumes of smoke into the sky, but never actually exploding.

The thought comforted me about as much as it had every time before, and I sank further into my seat.

Every move I made was two steps behind everyone else—like Isaac’s engagement. That had been decidedat birth.

I didn’t want to go to the ball. I didn’t want to face the world after my attempts to find a suitable match had crumbled pitifully in front of me. I didn’t want anything anymore.

As we drove, the temperatures plummeted. Isolda produced a fur coat out of seemingly nowhere for me and I slid into it while watching the windows fog over. Patches of snowfall clung to the ground, and I shivered just thinking about living in these conditions for nearly a week.

Night descended quickly, plunging the early evening into the dark mess of the first strands of winter.

When we arrived at a long wall of pine trees, I saw the tall cast iron gates illuminated by cold, yellow lights. Each bar resembled a spear, and my stomach churned. Everything was so bloody in this culture. What made me feel even more queasy was the way the pointed tips were painted gold.

I knew that this was a reminder of the line of kings that had preceded our current government, and the Canciller used it as a reminder of the royals that had been slaughtered and overthrown.

If they were gone, it wasn’t hard to see that few people would support me bringing a fraction of them back to life. I shivered as the car pulled to a stop before continuing down the smooth brick road. On either side of us were men carrying large, menacing guns. Magazines dripped off of them like the jewels of Élite women, and their barely visible mouths were fixed into a thin, straight line. A warning to all.

The only way to survive guns was to have enough energy to outweigh the damage done to your body. Too much Blood Magic, and you would go into hibernation.

If you were wounded during hibernation, you would die.

I swallowed twice and tried to ignore the gut feeling that I was in danger. I was too soft for this vicious life-style, too rigid when they demanded that I would bend and bow before others.

Isolda let out an audible sigh as we continued up the brick road. The same warm, amber lights illuminated endless stretches of expertly curated landscape. The greenness of the grass defied logic, and it was paired with crawling ivy vines that coated walls. Leafless trees were wrapped in twinkling lights, and vibrant red flowers were dotted on either side. I spied a bronze statue in the distance. It appeared to be of a man holding up something large and round. A basket, perhaps?

Making a mental note to go exploring during daylight hours, I watched my maid. “Have you been here before?” I asked. She looked out the windows like a small child might look at a shining solstice tree. Our interactions were mostly stilted and uncomfortable, but she was my closest acquaintance.

How she scrunched up her nose told me everything I needed to know about her thoughts on the Old Palace.

“I’ve been here more times than you, Señorita Renata,” she said stiffly.

I took a long-suffering deep breath. If she wanted to sass me, I might as well return the favor. “Yes, but I get to experience it in a way you never will.”

She soured even further. And muttered, “You may be right.”

No further fights, then. I hummed in response, proud that I got her to shut up with so few syllables—even though they had been nasty and entitled. We said nothing further as the car brought us up the long driveway, which widened out into the entrance to the enormous building constructed entirely of white soapstone. Fluted columns flowing into a series of arches with gold leaf accents framed the large carved wood front doors and fanned out to the end of the building before turning into curtain walls.

The palace was four stories high and curved balconies peaked out from the facade all across the front. Massive arched windows decorated the front-facing walls and a long parapet connected two spiraling towers in the back.

It could be something out of a nightmare or a dream, depending on one’s perspective.

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