6

BRYONY

THE SERVANTS BUSTLE through the palace gardens, arranging the decorations for my wedding. Dozens of tables are scattered around the central pavilion, covered in cloth stitched with gilt thread. Crystal goblets glint from each place setting. Each bears our family crest—a serpent eating its own heart.

How fitting.

I trail my fingertips over the centerpieces. Nobles from every kingdom in Vartena have flocked here to witness the Lucinian emperor’s niece finally shackle herself to the marriage bed. The tables all pay homage to each country, their trade and culture honored with each item.

The Brevig tables feature vases overflowing with blue flowers draped in pearls and shells. Ollestad’s winter is captured in frosted evergreen boughs and blown glass sculptures resembling snowflakes. And Havenridge, with its nightshade berries and raven feathers, is a study in gothic elegance. Polished amber gleams between each centerpiece, glowing in the light like—

Like the Wolf’s eyes.

My hand jerks back so fast that I nearly knock over a vase. I can’t help seeing his face every time I blink. It’s been two years, but I still recall everything with perfect clarity. The exact shade of his irises, the sunlight glinting across his wings, his mocking smile. The way he stared right through me.

Chasing my targets is irritating.

Digging my nails into my palm, I focus on the last centerpiece—a dedication to Ostavika. Burnished apples are heaped in bowls alongside sheaves of wheat tied with crimson ribbons, a reminder of the fields and hills of my betrothed’s homeland.

I wonder how Markus von Reding would respond if he knew about my mark. What do they say about oathbreakers in Ostavika? That we’re lower than dirt and fouler than shit? That our shadows blight the earth and spoil the crops?

Probably. That hatred runs deep in every corner of Vartena. I’d be disappointed if his people lacked the creativity to put their own spin on it.

A burst of laughter draws my attention. A group of children darts between the servants, playing some game. The oldest, a boy with a wild tangle of dark curls, leans toward his captive audience. He can’t be more than seven, all skinned knees and missing teeth.

“They say the Dark King gobbles up the souls of wicked little children. He’ll snatch you out of your bed and crunch your bones between his teeth if you don’t behave!”

The younger ones gasp. One girl looks like she’s about to cry.

Oh, for the love of—

Apparently, adult supervision has fucked off to get sloshed on wine.

I sigh. “That’s enough,” I call out as I approach. “Let’s not scare your friends with made-up tales.”

“But it’s true, Princess Bryony!” the boy insists. “My father says so!”

Great. This is what happens when nobles have too much time on their hands and start making up wild tales to keep their rebellious children in line.

I drop into a crouch, meeting the boy’s gaze. “Oh really? And I bet the Dark King loves pickled children’s toes, too, right?”

He blinks at me. “Umm. I don’t think so? Maybe?”

“Well, who am I to question a god’s taste?” I shrug with a hint of a smile to let him know I’m playing along. “But I have it on good authority that the Dark King prefers his wicked children braised, not pickled. Something about the marrow going all gelatinous.” That startles a giggle out of one of the younger girls, and I flash her a quick grin before sobering. “Jokes aside, the Dark King may be an Eternal, but the Accords bind him like the rest of us. Do you remember what that means?”

“It means…” His brow furrows in thought. “It means he won’t snatch us out of our beds. Not unless we break the rules first.”

“That’s right.” I tap the eye on his wrist. “You have Alexios’ Claim. He gave us this after Amalthea’s sacrifice to keep us safe from the other gods. That was the deal to end the war. So long as we pay our tithes and spill our blood for the Shroud, you have his protection. And I promise you, the Dark King won’t challenge Alexios. He has no interest in snacking on children. Not their bones, not their toes, and certainly not their hearts.”

I omit the part of my speech where Alexios revoked my protection for imagined slights. No need to shatter the boy’s illusions.

The uncertainty fades from his face. “Swear it? Cross your heart, the Dark King won’t drag me from my bed and gnaw on my toes?”

“Cross my heart.” I make an exaggerated X over my chest. “Now go find a better game to play. I don’t want to hear about you scaring your cousins with stories about the Dark King, okay?”

He flashes me that gap-toothed grin again and scampers off, his little band trailing after him.

I envy them, to be honest. Even when I was that age, I wasn’t that… innocent. You grow up so quickly when you’re a ritual sacrifice. We’re vessels first, Devaliants second, and people a very distant third. And now I’m just tarnished goods.

“Good gods, those children are getting more morbid with each year.” I look over to see Theodora picking her way across the path, wiping sculpting clay off her hands with a cloth. “Should I speak with the nobles about not traumatizing them before bedtime?”

“Please do,” I say. “Last week, I caught Lady Umber’s daughter building salt circles in her bedroom. Apparently, she’s convinced Nyholmian wraiths are living under her bed.” I nod at the residual clay on her fingers. “Sculpt anything worth seeing today?”

“I haven’t sculpted anything worth seeing in years,” she says, shoving the cloth into her frock pocket. “Why do you think I stopped inviting you into my studio? It’s full of garbage.”

“You’ve always been your harshest critic.”

Theodora snorts. There’s a tightness around her eyes as she surveys the staff and all the decorations coloring the garden.

“How are you holding up?” she asks quietly.

I shrug. “I thought I might appreciate the finer things in life. Like wondering: is it better to marry a nobleman who can’t even tie his own boots or have an Enforcer separate my head from my shoulders?”

“Nice. Nothing screams ‘living life to the fullest’ like picturing gruesome deaths and disastrous marriages.”

“Maybe I should get drunk before the consummation.”

“Don’t do that. Passing out in a puddle of your own vomit before Markus pounds you into the mattress is no way to begin a marriage.”

I stare down at my cuff, fidgeting with the clasp. “I just don’t want to think about it. Is that terrible of me? To spend what might be my last hours pretending none of this is happening? That tonight I won’t be shackled to Markus for the remainder of my likely short, miserable life?”

“I’m working on it.” She gives me a tight smile. “Uncle’s looking for you.”

“Lovely. Can’t wait for the lecture on smiling as I’m shoved onto my husband’s co—”

“Bryony. Theodora.”

I turn to face the emperor, steeling myself. He looks like our father, I think. The same features, the same blond hair and blue eyes. But where Father had a gentleness to him, Idris is nothing but edges.

As he draws closer, his scent hits me. He reeks of soap and wine, with that unmistakable after-sex smell. The same overindulgence that once drove him into seclusion after his daughter and my father took their lives. Theodora ruled for ten months while Uncle tried to drink and fuck away his grief.

Idris crosses his arms, and I’m struck by how the famous Devaliant skin—that pearlescent, glittering sheen—highlights the harsh angles of his face.

“Uncle,” Theodora says.

He ignores her, fixing that icy stare on me. “I heard there was an incident at the temple yesterday.”

I should have known better than to trust in my guard’s discretion. Silas probably ran straight to Idris this morning.