Page 9 of The Dead Queen

My mouth snaps shut. He’s never had patience with me. Three years haven’t changed that much.

Almost as an afterthought, he adds, “There will be an engagement celebration at the end of the week.”

He knew the Dead Queen’s unnatural army has been sneaking past our borders. And he wants to cover it up with parties and cakes.

I can’t help myself. I scoff. He ignores me, preferring to stare into the flames. I look between him, Malen, and Hunter. I can’t decide who I’m more upset with. Hunter’s eyes plead with me to understand. To be accommodating.

To hell with being accommodating. I whirl around and march out of the room, slamming the door behind me.

Chapter 4

My old rooms are just as I left them three years ago. My fingers trail along the silk bedspread, cool and smooth to the touch. But the linens smell fresh, as if someone changed them in anticipation of my return.

When I open the carved wardrobe, its hinges creak. Inside, new gowns hang in orderly rows, a rainbow of rich fabrics and intricate embroidery. They’re beautiful, yet impractical compared to the simple clothes I’ve grown accustomed to. Dresses this elaborate take weeks to sew.

Clearly, even the tailors knew I was coming home before I did.

I take my time washing and dressing into a court-appropriate gown. The skirts hang heavy, the fabric itchy and stiff against my skin. This is attire for a woman of leisure, not the working healer I’ve become. Nothing fits quite right, but it’ll have to do. The sleeves are too tight around my shoulders and the bodice threatens to rip at its delicate seams if I bend too far. I’ve grown stronger from my years in the borderlands. Hard labor does that.

With a deep, steadying breath, I leave the sanctuary of my quarters.

Palace corridors stretch before me, a gauntlet of curious eyes and hushed whispers. Sunlight streams through the windows, casting long shadows across the polished stone floor. As I walk by stunned nobles, I nod politely, feigning nonchalance. From the corner of my eye, I see walking parties slow to a halt, their conversations dying mid-sentence.

The heir has returned.

My long copper skirts whisper against the stone floors as I pass, keeping my chin up and my eyes forward. I may as well let them all stare and get the shock over with. Soon, they’ll hear of my engagement, then they’ll have new gossip to entertain them.

I just want to go back to my old habit of hiding in the library while the nobles wonder what’s wrong with me. The heir who detests her court.

I wish I could explain that I don’t loathe them. It’s everything else here. The parties, the gossip, the petty problems of the wealthy. The superficiality of it all. The allure of the castle intoxicates everyone. Everyone except me, the one person stationed to inherit it when the time comes.

When I reach the safety of the royal library, the tension melts from my shoulders like spring snow. I take a deep breath, drawing in the familiar scent of aged parchment and leather bindings.

Bookshelves line every wall. Their dark wood stretches toward cathedral ceilings so high they seem to touch the sky. Light glows from gilded sconces, creating a maze of shadows and illumination. The aisles of books extend so far they could be mistaken for a labyrinth.

The silence is welcome. Few nobles ever venture here, preferring the noise and glitter of social gatherings to the quiet of books.

I take my time reacquainting myself with the tall stacks, my fingers trailing along the book spines as I weave down the aisles. My footsteps echo softly against the marble floor.

In the distance, I hear the muffled rumble of wheels, likely a librarian pushing a cart. As the sound nears, an elderly man in brown robes turns down my aisle. I look up to greet him and he freezes mid step, nearly tumbling into his overflowing cart. His face pales as if he’s seen a ghost.

“Sorry, to startle you,” I say.

He closes his eyes and puts a hand to his chest. “No, Your Highness. It’s just, for a moment, I thought you were your grandmother.” A relieved smile brightens his face. “You look so much like Áine.”

This small compliment takes me by surprise. In the court’s hostility, I rarely expect to encounter kindness.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

He nods. With quiet efficiency, he resumes his task, the soft creak of the cart’s wheels fading as he disappears around a corner.

It seems I’m not the only one who still remembers my grandmother.

She used to tell me stories of the great deeds my ancestors did with our light and healing powers. My family inspired entire armies to fight against the northern Wolves, the Dead Queen’s most gifted warriors. My great-great-grandfather lit the midnight sky to high noon for surprise attacks in our ancestral lands. Before I was born, my paternal grandfather famously survived the Kiss of Death from the Dead Queen herself—proof that light and life are stronger than darkness and death.

“Light power is inherently good,” Grandmother always said. “You can never use it to harm.” Unlike the corpse-makers in Annwyn, whose power is dark—raising the dead, manifesting shadows, and inflicting pain. This is why our kingdoms are forever at odds. Well, that and the fact that they keep moving into our ancestral lands. It’s why my family has been fighting the Dead Queen for centuries.

Only now my father just sits in our gilded palace and plays war games with other people’s lives. Like our citizens are nothing but living, breathing pawns in a morbid chess match. If you throw enough peasants at the corpse beasts along the northern border, you’ll keep them too busy to attack the wealthy cities further south.