Ciera swears, realizing Vlari may be right.
“There may have been more than one traitor under the dome,” Vlari muses.
Unlike her mother, she doesn’t sound upset or shaken by the notion. As if she thought so all along.
She turns away from us to stare at her reflection in the mirror on top of the mantel. Vlari twirls one of the short strands the assassin trimmed around her fingers."I never was allowed to cut my hair, did you know?"
I’m guessing she’s asking me—her mother would have known that. “I hadn’t. Why?”
She shrugs, feigning indifference, when I feel something entirely different boiling underneath. “One of the many ways the queen liked to make me understand my life wasn't mine, I suppose.”
She gathers all of her hair in one twist at the back of her head, and slices the sharp dagger through it, cutting feet of silver and purple off.
I watch the tips of her squared locks darken, as if dipped in purple ink. Then she turns back to me, beaming. “Much better, don't you think?”
And it is.
She's always been the most beautiful thing in the world to me, but the long locks had given her an air of cold elegance, like that of a proper princess. A stench of court pageantry that had never suited her.
The woman in front of me looks playful, mischievous. Free. In her long pale dress, splashed with her would-be murderer's blood—or mine—she's also fierce.
I could tell her she was always the most glorious thing in Tenebris. Instead, I tease her. “Is it? I had a thing for long hair.”
I'm not capable of holding a serious conversation about what she means to me. Not with her. If I ever do, she'll run screaming the other way, when she understands the depth of my obsession. Or she'll play with my heart and tear me to pieces, as is the way of the folk.
Love is the sharpest of weapons, and each of its wounds can be fatal. I need to earn hers before I reveal mine.
The queen takes her leave of us after embracing her daughter, tight and for a long moment. She places her palm on my heart, in a gesture that feels old and somewhat warm—a greeting long out of use, yet timeless. I understand it as well as words. It communicates thanks and acceptance, and something along the lines of a goodbye. Perhaps a little too formal, considering the fact that we’ll see her in mere minutes.
We walk side by side through the halls. The guards must have spread the news, because none of the knights and soldiers we pass are surprised. The pairs posted at the first turn rap the hilts of their blades against their shields, hitting in sync with the beating of their hearts. And the next pair, either side of the hall, do the same, till the sound of steel crashing like a drumbeat makes the windows tremble.
As we near the entrance, my gaze wanders past the buildings, past the lines of trees, to the horizon. I see the night, dark and full of secrets. I see the stars. The dome of light that has been a constant for the last decade is no more. I never realized how much I hated it, how I missed the night.
A crowd has gathered at the entrance of the hall, their expressions full of fear and uncertainty.
They accost me first. “Drusk! The walls—”
“It’s gone!”
“Is the princess—”
I suppose I dwarf Vlari. I smile, and look down at the woman next to me, inviting them to do the same.
A collective gasp cuts through their chatters, and then there’s nothing but silence. They’re shocked to the core.
I half expect more terror, a thousand questions, perhaps even accusations that would have me reaching for a sword. Vlari’s presence here with us means the loss of her protection. But the folk erupt in a victory cry so loud all of Tenebris must have heard it—even the usurper all the way in the east.
They chant her name, bow, and beg to touch her.
Vlari has gone cold, unmoving. What some would mistake as indifference, I interpret as confusion. I remember she’s not been raised for this. Never has she had any cause to believe she’d be important in Tenebris. Let alone be the savior to these thousands of folk. She has no clue how to endure adulation.
I extend my hand, inviting her to take it. She’s quick to do so, crushing it in a tight grasp, as though I’m offering her a lifeline. When she does, I tug her closer, and bend down to lift her up, seating her on my shoulder. A chuckle escapes her throat as I stand up, lifting her so the growing crowd can see her.
I start to make my way through the folk so she can greet them, let them see their hope. Unprompted, she reaches out, touching the extended hands of her people.
Her mother wears the crown, but there was no denying who was queen for me, even before this. Now, it’s clear the people feel the same way.
By the time we’ve reached the closest of the seven halls—the hall of Storm, the court headed by the Frosts—musicians are in place in front of it.
