“It will be gone when we are,” Lancaster growled, stomping ahead.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Mora said, watching us expectantly. When no one answered, she pursed her lips and strolled after her surly brother. Ezalia and the others followed, the chancellor lobbing harsh questions at the female.
But Ophelia and I stood there for a moment, eyes on the structure more extravagant than even the Revered’s palace in the mountains. All gleaming gold as if sunlight lit it from within. It’s frameactually shimmered, a stark contrast to the bloodthirsty queen’s reputation.
Balconies extended out over the cerulean water. Towers were carved into the rock side, and flags flickered in the breeze atop the highest points, the blood red rose and nemaxese’s maned head set against a white backdrop. Lancaster directed ourcourtto a spiral of stairs winding down to the sand.
“This feels…imposing,” Ophelia muttered.
“It feels both out of place and ancient all at once.” Because the rockwasworn beneath the gold embellishments, if yousquinted hard enough to catch it, and ivy twined up the southern facade.
“How could she think this is okay?” Ophelia’s voice was hard. “To simply erect apalacefor this meeting? On warrior land?” She fiddled with the shard of Angelborn strung around her neck, the other emblems tucked safely in her pack.
The entire structure before us glinted like it was crafted of the heart of the sun and something more. Something radiating power akin to Angellight.
“When you spend centuries ruling unchallenged, you forget certain things do not belong to you.”
Ophelia looked at me, teeth digging into her bottom lip, but she nodded. As she stepped forward with my hand tight in hers, I followed, those flags flickering and the nemaxese’s jaw stretched wide.
And I hoped we weren’t walking right into its den.
Within those walls,marble floors and pillars gleamed, stone seemingly crafted from this island’s sand-warmed beaches themselves. A mural of blood red roses was splashed upon the foyer floor, catching the candlelight, and pennants with the royal crest hung between ornately-framed works of art—fae, not warrior.
The paintings glorified the brutalities of the war thousands of years ago. Elongated canines were bared in victorious smiles, weapons pointed toward the heavens. In one, the clouds parted, a heavenly figure looking down upon her subjects.
The Fae Goddess, Aoiflyn.
It was only that one silhouette that kept me from grimacing at the art and the fae lining the bustling balconies watching us. A reminder that we needed this partnership.
A representative stopped Lancaster before we walked much further. He cast a furtive glance over his shoulder at us, though only Ophelia and I were close enough to catch it, and a hint of something akin to protection glinted in his eye.
“I don’t care what she wants,” Lancaster snapped, but with an admonishing look from his sister, he reined in the ire quickly.
The rest of our warrior entourage were muttering quietly to themselves, pretending to observe the gold-framed artwork as they noted all types of threats. My sister and Santorina stood to the side, their backs to the wall and stares sweeping the second story walkways framing the foyer. I followed their gazes. A pair of fae stood in the shadows, observing in high-collared jackets and breeches.
The hair on the back of my neck rose further with every step into this palace. With every eye glued to us.
I locked my hand tighter around Ophelia’s as Lancaster and Mora finished their quiet discussion, and the male stalked off without a word. With a shining smile, the female turned to us. “My brother has business to attend to, but I can show you where you may clean up before the queen’s audience.”
“Clean up?” Ophelia asked, not unkindly. She was curious about Mora after their first meeting in the Wayward Inn—when the fae had been posing as a warrior running from an abusive partnership. We’d never gotten the story on why or how she was there.
Now, she remained some odd combination of powerful threat and potentially friendly ally.
Peering down the hall Lancaster disappeared into, I almost wish he’d been our guide. At least with the male, we knew where we stood.
“We’ll provide proper clothing to meet the queen.” Without waiting for an answer, Mora turned and inclined her head for us to follow.
“Proper clothing?” I whispered to Ophelia.
Jezebel piped up from behind us, “This ought to be fun.” For the first time in days, despite the questionable magic she’d shown Ophelia, she looked truly elated.
“What about you, Ria?” I asked my sister as we passed a set of wide doors, thrown open to reveal plaques and medals. “Ready to indulge in a new gown?”
“Of course,” she drawled, and the flatness in her tone had my attention whipping around, but she strode ahead, not waiting for me to respond.
Ophelia grumbled beneath her breath as we followed Mora—cursing the formal fae fashion to the Spirit Realm if I heard her correctly—and digging her nails into her leather skirt. I stifled a laugh, kissing her temple softly, and she loosed a breath.
The palace’s wide corridors were made entirely of gold-flecked granite. Spirits, was this whole palace made of gold? The floor, the window panes, even the shimmering velvet curtains?
