Page 29 of Between Smoke and Shadow
The cold touch of my father’s skin. His eyes, wide and empty.
The man in a wolf mask, red like my father’s spilled blood.
And his emotionless children, their blank stares, bored posture.
Is this not enough?I wanted to yell.Does this not appease you?
Now, I stare at that throne of shattered skeletons and wonder if my father is somewhere in its design.
“Thank you for joining us for the Flood Season Celebration!”
I startle, realizing a woman has entered the stage. A stunning elite with soft curves and an elaborate dress. Her mask is as lush as her build, covered in dainty gemstones and thick tulle. She smiles so wide it must hurt and lifts her arms to the crowd. Like called animals, the partiers surge toward the stage.
“You are in for an absolute night to remember,” she continues. “Not only will you be treated to delicious food, complimentary nightwater, and enough dancing that you’ll want to kick off those heels…you will also be thefirstto learn of the crowned siblings’ betrothals!”
Several people hoot and squeal, and multiple men lift their chalices over their heads. Viana and Saskia disappear into the crowd, wedging themselves forward until I can no longer see them. Normally I’d be a foot behind Viana, but she ordered I keep my distance tonight and only come when requested.
That’s more than fine by me.
Saskia’s new servant shifts beside me, eyes darting my way. I ignore her. I haven’t spoken to her once, and I’m not going to start now. It’s not worth the risk.
“Let the party begin!” the elite woman calls. “Please, ladies and gentlemen, kneel for your leaders!”
I lower to my knee, keeping my head low but my eyes watchful.
The courtyard’s metal door opens, revealing first two high guards and then the Architect himself. He strides forward, drawing immediate silence. I shrink into myself, angling behind Saskia’s new servant. Every cell in my body revolts at the sight of this man, this unflinching killer. He’s smaller than he is in my memories. Average height and build, almost dwarfed between his guards. It should make him less terrifying, but it doesn’t.
There’s something lethal in the way he carries himself. Shoulders thrown back, chest out, arms readied at his sides. He is a hunter, always ready for the kill. No, not ready.Eager.
His guards maintain a clear path as they lead him toward the stage. At the door, two more guards appear with Queen Elaria. I force my attention to her, not letting myself spiral into panic. The Architect has taken too much already—I can’t give him my sanity too.
The queen wears a pale scarlet dress and heavy makeup with her braided hair twisted through her crown of shattered stone. Prince Harrick is next, wearing a red suit. I’m too distracted by his face to notice much beyond that. His near-black eyes have haunted my dreams for several nights, but I’ve worked hard to forget him during the day. He could have killed me in that hallway, and instead he’d returned me to my quarters. He’d sent a new mask and shoes to my room. I’d even ended up with an extra biscuit at breakfast, though I can’t prove that was him.
I stood before him without a mask, and I’m still here to tell the tale.
Not that anyone would believe it.
A small part—or maybe a major part—of me was entranced by him in the days that followed. I’d been thinking of him, wondering if perhaps he was good. If perhaps there was more to know about this crowned family than I had assumed.
But then he helped frame Caleah. I’ve replayed the rehearsal night a thousand times, and it only ever becomes clearer. Harrick played the honorable protector, while Malek played the cruel and heartless executor. It was their twisted display to show Harrick’s diplomatic leniency, fit for a king, and Malek’s unflinching brutality, perfect for a military lead.
I glare at him as he approaches the stage. His siblings trail after him, but I don’t look at them, not even Malek. He at least has the decency to be undoubtedly cruel.
The elite woman onstage invites us to rise. I barely get to my feet, half-wobbling, before Viana storms into view. She looks like she did on the day of the royal training. Her face is red, mouth pinched, and her barely-visible eyes are locked on me.
“What did you do to my shoes, wench?” she demands, almost barreling into me. She glances over her shoulder, as if to check that no one is watching, then presses closer. “Tell me.”
“What is wrong with your shoes?” I ask carefully. My voice rasps, so weak I want to cut out my vocal chords. I clear my throat, but my words come out even smaller, “Are they not?—”
“Do not lie to me,” she says.
She fists my collar, tightening it until it hurts to breathe. She looks behind her again, hand still on my coverall, and drags me toward the courtyard’s edge. Stopping in a nook between the iron fence and the stairwell door, Viana lines me against its stone wall. She presses her fist hard against my chest, and a pained gasp sucks from my lungs. Viana’s lips twitch at the sound.
“There’s nightwater on my shoes,” she says. “Did I not ask you to polish them?”
I don’t tell her the shoes were clean when she took them or that her breath reeks of nightwater or that half the court is drinking.
I only say: “You did ask me, my lady. I apologize.”
