I am as sober as ice water thrown on a dying flame, smothering every last spark at the end of this throat-squeezing carriage ride.
She never once looks at me or speaks, her gaze fixed on the streets, watching humans scurry around like ants. I glare at her in silence, mirroring the wordless tension that's held us captive for the past week. I don't know if she wants me to admit I almost killed Xavier or if she's waiting for me to apologize. She doesn't even comment on my outfit—too informal, too insolent for an audience with royalty.
I'm in a loose white shirt and leather pants with chains, my hair tied back in a simple knot. When Marla offered me an Emberthorn-crested coat, I hadn't bothered to protest, though Jeremy, ever the faithful knight, draped it over my shoulders anyway. His silent disapproval simmers alongside my own irritation. He's more annoyed at me for losing my only weapon than he is with the demon who stole it. After all, I'm usually so safety-conscious.
As we walk, Mother nods at every noble we pass, effortlessly gracious—a duchess who owns the world. I follow her lead, though my eyes stay sharp, wary of each calculating gaze. We climb the palace's golden staircase, flanked by towering flags snapping in the wind, each step an ascent into the heart of Highspire's power. Around us, knights march in perfect formation, their boots crashing against the marble in unison, like thunder restrained. Occasionally, a maid's laughter drifts through the air, only to be swallowed by silence as an "authorized giant of perfection" strides by.
A few servants—those who used to sneak sweets to me, Xavier, and Christina—give me quick, discreet waves. Nostalgia bites at me, but I push it away. If I looked back, I'd see the whole city sprawled below, transforming from riches to rubble, from the glint of airships docked at ports to the curling black smoke rising from the undercity. A beautiful decay, like a painting by Ash. But I don't look back.
Today, I can't afford mistakes and roll down the stairs as I always did. I smile at the nobles, and nod at their greetings, imagining what they'd do if they knew. "Traitor!" they'd shout. Stones and iron bars flying at my face. "Kill the traitor."
I swallow hard. I am officially scared.
"Rosentine!"
I snap back to reality to find my mother standing at an open door, glaring at me. I hold back a scowl and step past her into the room, only for my pulse to falter at the sight before me. Xaden, the Crown Prince, lounges behind a desk piled with papers, a glass of whiskey in hand. The small hope I'd clung to—that I'd be meeting the king—vanishes instantly.
I thought we'd see the sick king first, as we always do. I'd play the dutiful daughter, the good-for-nothing noble who spends her nights with whore boys in Redlight City and never spares a thought for her father.
But no—Xaden sits there, the smile of a cat with a mouse to toy with. My mother's mouth tightens at his easy demeanor, though she offers a graceful bow. I follow her lead, careful to keep my resentment from showing.
"Greetings, Duchess," Xaden says, ignoring me entirely as he inclines his head toward her. His tone is far too warm, and I can see my mother bristle at his familiarity. The prince's aide signals for refreshments, and Xaden leads us to a sitting area with the languid ease of a man who knows he holds all the cards.
I sit down across from him, discomfort pooling in my stomach. Another figure slips into the room—a man in a maroon uniform, hair slicked back with too much oil. Officer Aldric.
"You look as beautiful as ever, my lady," Aldric says, giving my mother a courtly smile that borders on simpering. He kisses her hand, then turns to me with a gleam in his eye I don't care to decipher.
"That won't be necessary," my mother says, bursting his bubble. Aldric's face falters, but he recovers quickly, pressing a hand to his chest in a half-hearted bow. I incline my head politely, biting back a smirk.
"Such fine weather we're having—"
"I'd prefer to get to the point, my prince," Mother interrupts, cutting Aldric off with thinly veiled disdain. "We are both very busy."
"And whose fault is that?" Xaden asks smoothly, his gaze sliding over to me, mischief flickering in his eyes. He chuckles, taking a sip from his teacup after his aide tastes it for poison.
Mother's lips press into a thin line. "My daughter's," she says, her voice as hard as ice. The words sting more than I'd expected.
"Indeed," Xaden agrees, his smile widening with satisfaction.
A tense silence settles over the room. Aldric, oblivious to the ritual tension, tries to fill the void with a bright, forced smile. "What's happened has happened. It's neither your fault nor the lady's. I'll be—"
"Finding the culprit, chaining him, and bringing him to his knees?" Mother's voice is sharp, cutting Aldric down mid-sentence. "As you've always promised? Yet here we are, with Gloam still in flames."
Aldric blanches. "I—I apologize, my lady."
"Now, now," Xaden intervenes, his voice calm. "The situation has been handled—discreetly. The media and rumors have been contained. For now, the incident remains a secret." He places his teacup on its saucer with a faint clink.
"Good," Mother replies, though I can sense the simmering disdain behind her cold approval.
I want nothing more than to leave. The tea is bitter on my tongue, and I resist the urge to reach for the sugar. Every fiber of my being itches to flee this sterile room, with its fake courtesies and backhanded threats.
"Well, Gloam shouldn't be exploding," Xaden continues, voice silky. "According to the peace treaty, they're bound to Highspire, yet they breach it openly. But if I start tossing blame, the stench will only cling to me."
"And," he continues. "Our efforts to gather information have been... disappointing. But Sir Aldric here has proposed an idea." He looks at Aldric, whose face twitches between pride and discomfort. "A lame one, but an idea."
"Yes, Duchess," Aldric says, his voice strained. "It appears the undercity is preparing for rebellion. They're goading us into war. But if we're careful, we can nip the bud before it blooms to poison us."
"Your plan," Mother says. "And who is this gardener?"
"Well, we have a few in mind, but—"
"Not to kill," Xaden cuts Aldric off again. "Not yet." He carries on, ignoring the officer's frown. "We need to listen first. A rebellion isn't always wrong. Perhaps we should listen to them," he says, as if guessing the next twist of a bedtime story.
"Your Highness!" Aldric snaps, barely containing his anger. "We don't listen to the words of worms."
"I am not my father," Xaden says coolly, his smile gone as he looks Aldric dead in the eyes. "And look where his approach has brought us. You should be grateful Xavi is still alive."
Aldric falls silent, horrified.
Xaden resumes his relaxed demeanor. "We will send someone. But not for bloodshed. For information. To identify their leaders, to understand the landscape—since our informants are so useful and alive. We barely know the people festering in our own backyard, and that ignorance has bred infection."
Until now, the king and my mother's advisors handled matters of the undercity personally. Xaden knows how much this power shift irritates her, and he's provoking her with every word.
"I have spoken to someone... I am waiting for their answer."
Mother's eyes narrow. "This isn't an order?"
"No, not yet."
I force myself to sit still, my discomfort a smoldering ache. I cling to a quiet reassurance, practiced and familiar. Xaden isn't the first one to ask this from my mother, and most who have tried are long dead. After Rhys's disappearance, why do you think the undercity has fireworks exploding on every doorstep?
My mother may be cold, calculating, never hugging and hard, but she's never reckless. Not with her own blood.
"I won't do it," I say, my voice sharper than I intended. Aldric's jaw drops, just now realizing who the agent in question is. "I'm the heir to the dukedom. You can't order me around."
Xaden's gaze turns sly. "You have no say in this, my Rosé."
"I'm not your fucking Rosé." The words leap from my mouth before I can stop them.
His eyes flick to my mother, still seated, as calm as ever, sipping her tea. He smiles, enjoying the show. "I might need your permission, Duchess," he says, with a mocking tilt of his head.
The audacity!
"She will go," Mother replies, her voice as steady as steel. My eyes snap to her, the faintest tremor running through me, like something inside is crumbling, something not well built from the very beginning.
"Mom!" I am on my feet and I don't know how.
She turns back to Xaden, speaking as if I'm no longer in the room. "I know my heir," she says, each word weighted with finality. "She will go."