Page 6 of The Dead Queen

Hunter’s grin wavers slightly and I realize my mistake. When we were young, we used that term for the King’s Guard, the knights appointed to protect the royal family and do my father’s bidding. Only now he’s one of them.

“Sorry,” I say, flushing. “Old habit.”

He lets me off the hook. “I get it. And …” He stops me with a gentle hand on my arm. “I’m glad you’re back. Truly.”

I just nod because I’m not sure that I am.

We walk forward, memory guiding me down the familiar path. Hunter pivots toward the servants’ halls, understanding that I don’t want to be seen by the entire court yet. I’m sure the nobles would have fits if the heir traipsed through the great hall smelling of horse and looking like crumpled laundry.

I’m thankful for this small mercy. It gives me a few more minutes to gather courage to face them all, the people I ran out on three years ago without a word of explanation. I grimace, thinking of all their nosey questions and judgmental glances. But first, I must face my father, the Fox King.

Each step echoes like a countdown. My mind races, replaying a lifetime of lectures. I can almost see the familiar lines of disappointment etched into his face. My father spent my entire life complaining about me—wishing, out loud, that he’d had more than just one miserable child. That way, he could take away my birthright and give it to another, more responsible heir.

I remember standing before him countless times as a child, my chin high, tears threatening but never falling. I’d tell him I wish the same, because I don’t want the throne. I never did.

After those fights, I’d always find Grandmother waiting for me, arms wide. I’d cry on her shoulder until the storm passed. She’d dry my eyes and give me that mischievous smile I loved so much.

“Come, Sienna,” she’d say. “Let’s have an adventure.” And just like that, the world would right itself again.

We’d sneak through secret passages, our giggles muffled by cupped hands as we pilfered sweets from the kitchens. Under the cover of darkness, we’d dash across the moonlit grounds, our nightclothes billowing behind us like ghostly wings. Sometimes, in the dead of night, we’d slip into the throne room, its cavernous space feeling magical in the dim light.

Perched on the ancient throne, we’d dream up what sort of future we wished for Llwyn. One without war, she’d always say. And in the deepest, most secret part of my heart, I’d wish for a kingdom without my father. A world where the crown didn’t loom over me like an executioner’s axe. A future where I could just be Sienna. Not the heir, not the disappointment, just ... me.

In front of me, Hunter pokes his head through a hidden doorway designed to keep the servants out of sight.

“There’s no one in the hall,” he says, turning back to me. “Are you ready for this?”

I groan. “Never. But let’s get it over with.” I straighten, lifting my chin. I may not be the heir my father wanted, but I’m the only one he has. And this time, I’m not running away. Not while I still need answers about Grandmother.

Hunter steps out first, and I follow him into a corridor bathed in ethereal light. Tall, arched windows line one side, sunlight streaming through their leaded panes. The air here is different, still and heavy with the weight of history. It smells of aged wood, cool stone, and scented hair powders left in the wake of passing nobles.

Enormous family portraits hang in gilded frames along the opposite wall. They depict generations of great Fox rulers who’ve fought the Dead Queen for the past five centuries. They stare out from their canvas prisons with cold eyes. They’re men and women with high collars and higher expectations. The famous auburn hair of our family blazes like dying embers in the slanting sunlight.

Predictably, my father’s is the largest portrait of all. The most imposing. As in life.

Even here, captured in oils, his presence is suffocating.

I pause in front of a portrait of my mother, who died in childbirth. She looks down at us with an expression I can only describe as worried. The artist did nothing to hide the crease between her eyebrows or the slight downturn at the corner of her mouth. Her dark eyes are distant, as if she’s thinking troubling thoughts.

“You look like her,” Hunter says.

“Except for my auburn hair.”

He nods.

As if on instinct, my eyes scan the hall for Grandmother’s portrait, even though I know it isn’t here anymore.

“That’s because Áine isn’t a royal,” my father said when I pestered him about it. “She was little more than a commoner.”

But I know that’s not true. She had more power than Father likes to let on. Especially with the people who weren’t nobles. After she died, everyone told me how sorry they were to lose her, from the bakers to the chambermaids. And they meant it. People loved her. The entire city was in mourning. All except for Father, who barely tolerated her.

My hand hovers over the silver moth blade hidden beneath my skirts.

Keep it safe.

I will. And, I’ll find out what really happened to Grandmother.

Hunter steps up beside me and his natural calm eases my tension. He knows the roiling emotions in my heart. After all, it’s how we met. Two motherless children, thrown together to comfort each other while the adults moved on. Grandmother took us under her wing, understanding full well that we needed each other as much as we needed her.