ChapterOne
This is the wrong bed.
Apprehension builds in my throat as I reach for my dagger, the one that is always sheathed by my side, but it’s not there. My heart races, slamming against my ribs as I open my eyes, taking in the green bedcovers draping my body.Silk.I brush my fingertips against the fabric and resist the overwhelming urge to sigh. I have never touched silk before. Women like me aren't meant to wear silk. Women born to a rebel grandfather, who only thinks of conquering and not comfort.
The bedcovers fall to the floor as I rise to my feet and jerk my gaze around the opulent bedchamber.
This must be a dream.
I close my eyes, but the images are still engraved in my mind. The luxurious furniture. The marble fireplace. The sofa piled high with pillows. The large windows, allowing an unseemly amount of light to parade across the granite floor.
My long nightdress skims a fur rug as I rotate in a wide circle and try to remember the events leading to this point. Automatically, my hand moves to my arm, to where a thick bandage should be. Instead, I touch the soft fabric of my nightdress.
A gasp escapes me as I stare down at the material encasing my body. I pat my arm again, needing to feel the reassurance, the reminder that a terrible infection has been making me very ill.
Nothing.
In quick, jerky movements, I loosen the ribbons binding my bodice and allow the nightdress to drop to my feet. My arm trembles as I hold it out, expecting to see a wound or at least a scar, but there is no evidence that I was ever injured.
My mind screams for an explanation—anything that will make sense of this place and my lack of injury.
Think, Annora.
Think.
What is the last thing I remember?
I was weak from an infection and Asha, my older sister, had sent for a healer. Of that, I’m certain.
The rest…
I kneel and brush my fingers against the floor, as if grounding myself to this reality. The cool stone is a reassuring contrast to the strangeness of my situation.
My mind races, attempting to piece together the events that led me here. Yet, everything seems foggy, like the remnants of a dream upon waking. The more I try to focus on those remnants, the more they slip through my fingers, leaving me grasping at fragments.
“Asha,” I cry out, needing my sister to show up, to tell me this is all a nightmare.
But she doesn’t appear.
Nobody does.
Maybe if I scream her name loud enough, she’ll hear me. She’ll come running and explain this all away. Again and again, I call for Asha, but she doesn’t answer me.
As I scream my sister’s name again, the door finally creaks open, and a tall, dark-haired man fills the doorway. His impressive height and wide shoulders dominate the frame. If it wasn’t for his distinctive attire—a black surcoat adorned with a crimson phoenix engraved in the center, in place of traditional armor—I might have mistaken him for a guard.
“If you keep yelling, everyone will think someone is trying to murder you,” he says, his voice deep, smooth, and infused with subtle vexation.
“Where is Asha?” I demand. “And why are you wearing a crimson phoenix and not silver?” I sweep my eyes over him again, needing to see silver, proof he’s one of us.
“Who is Asha?” His stare drops to my chemise and lingers on the thin material that reveals far too much.
Heat flares across my cheeks as I grab my nightdress, yank it over my head, and jerk the ribbons into place.
“Where am I?” I ask when I’m finished.
He arches a dark eyebrow. “In the Darhavva palace. Where else would you be?”
The Darhavva palace?
