The Conquering, page 1:

  I watched from the shadows the day they met, for I had been watching her for much longer than that.

  The young maiden Kheovaria was beautiful beyond belief—cursed to become one of the Taken.

  Vincent Varuht was a young man and little more than the local weaponsmith’s talented-but-distractible apprentice.

  He first saw her in the City of Drakonlar’s market square as she danced to a traveling bard’s fiddle with her friends. She’d woven flowers into her hair and her skin glistened gold in the sunlight as she spun and laughed. A true gold, just like the hilt of his master’s sword.

  Varuht fell in love with her then, when she was still free. As did I.

  “May I have this dance?” he asked her, the sack of coal he carried for his master’s forge long forgotten.

  “No,” she said, though she gazed into his eyes and a smile curved her full, supple lips. “I’m gold-marked. I don’t dance with boys.”

  He’d smirked, never one to be deterred. “I’m a warrior, not a boy.”

  “Prove it then.” She laughed and twirled away.

  I am sick the whole way to High Court.

  It’s not until we step out of the carriage and onto palace grounds that I can finally breathe. I lacked the nerve to admit to Clara what I did—and who I saw in the woods—partly because there is little she can do when we cannot afford guards, but mostly because I am a coward.

  I follow Clara and Lilianna into the palace’s grand auditorium, almost lightheaded with my relief. I keep my spine perfectly straight, steps precisely measured, my wyvernfire scars pull taut with the bow of my head. I revel in that tension across my shoulders, grounding me in the present and not back in the woods with those mocking eyes and that dangerous, lithe body.

  All around, the auditorium’s chittering excitement pulses the air alive and hungry, a spark of life I can almost taste the tang of. I want today to be the day so badly my gritted teeth ache. Our estate, the last of Father I have left, won’t make it another winter. I won’t lose that, too. I must enter high society—at this seasons ball, tomorrow night—and find a husband.

  The smooth white of the marble floor glitters with a kaleidoscope of colors cast through the stained-glass dome of the ceiling overhead. I don’t dare look up, but I know from my childhood spent peering through its colored panes with Ray what it depicts: a wyvern’s iridescent scales and a crimson- and gold-clad warrior piercing the beast through the heart with the long, deathly black Wyvernblade gripped in his fist. Even the thought sends a chill up my neck.

  It reminds me of the book I took from the Venons’ library. I started reading it this morning. Given the ominous title, The Conquering, and the dedication, for when the Wyvern’s reign returns again, I didn’t expect it to begin with what seems like a love story. I half wish I were back there now, immersed in the pages like my childhood days. I’ll have to give it to Lilianna when I finish, if it really is a romance.

  A shrill, delicate laugh assaults my ears as we pass a cluster of Founder wives and their closest friends on the way to our pew. Their vulture stares bore into me as I pass, but keep my gaze dutifully pinned down, noting only the rich, flowing fabrics and the wink of silver and gemstones whisking by in my periphery.

  “She’s pretty enough, I suppose,” one whispers. “Getting up there in age, though. Nineteen is barely fashionable for a bride, even these days.”

  “But all covered up like that? Who dresses their daughters like that anymore?”

  “Blood doesn’t get much thinner than that girl’s. She can’t possibly have as much gold as the rumors say.”

  Composure. Commitment. Conviction.

  I refuse to let their words affect my gait or the set of my shoulders. Clara says the women of High Court can spy weakness faster than a wyvern spots gold. Neither will scald me again.

  We take our seats in our designated pew at the back-rightmost side of the auditorium. Lilianna sits on the farthest side, on my right, her dark curls bouncing about her shoulders as she whips her head this way and that, scanning the crowd. No restrictions for her. She hasn’t a speck of gold.

  Clara sits at my other side and smiles down with her public, step-motherly smile. She adjusts the silk scarf at my throat and tucks a strand of hair back to expose the shimmering patch of gold at my temple. It’s a tantalizing taste, she said this morning as my handmaiden buttoned me into a high-collared conservative dress that conceals from chin to toe. Let them wonder. Let them fantasize. Hidden power is the greatest power of all, remember that.

  Clara draws in a breath, as if she relishes the heavy perfumes and sickly sweet wafts from the blood-red flowers lining the walls. “Look at them, all buzzing. Feel that energy. What better time than Spring of the Prince’s twentieth year, days before the Spring Ball? They all expect it. Yes, mark my words, it’ll be today.”

  I dare to hope she’s right.

  A gong reverberates throughout the high, arched walls and all the Founder Lords and Wives and their children file to their seats as the lesser nobles shuffle from the room. The gong sounds again and all whispers, all shuffling of boots and skirts, cease.

  “King Giraldus. Queen Ophelia. Prince Emory,” a guard shouts from the rear of the dais.

  With the final gong strike, steam explodes from the dais’s floor and I narrowly curb a flinch. Two floor panels fold into the dais with a rumbling clunk, clunk, clunk that resonates into the bones of my slippered feet. I’ve never seen anything like it before. I’ve heard rumors of the advancing steam technology, but nothing like this.

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  Through the cloud of steam, three golden thrones rise upon a platform inlaid with intricate gold-woven patterns.

  King Giraldus sits in the largest throne—its back rises into a silhouette of the mountain spire this palace is built against. His white mustache twists into a grimace as his gaze casts over the steam puffing out all around him. As soon as the rising platform clunks into place, level with the dais, he raises the goblet in his fist and a servant hurries through the steam to fill it.

  Across the King’s lap lays the infamous Wyvernblade with its eerie black, lusterless handle protruding from a long golden scabbard inlaid with etched wyvern teeth. I’ve never seen it drawn. I simultaneously wish to and hope I never will. Even the sight raises goosebumps across my skin, as if something horrible exhales an icy breath across the back of my neck.

  Queen Ophelia occupies the middle throne, which is slightly smaller than her husband’s, and the rise behind her shoulders depicts the silhouette of a wyvern’s spiny neck crest. She sits tall, shoulders thrown back, as if the entire palace can crash down around her and she won’t bend or break. Her sleeveless crimson gown allows the web-like gold marking her arms to glisten in the light. She’s everything I dream of being: powerful, elegant, safe.

  A satisfied curl marks her gold-painted lips as she surveys the steam and gawking audience. Maybe this display is her idea, as the King is rumored to be distrustful of the new steam technology.

  The third throne sits suspiciously empty and no sooner do I note it, a door at the back of the dais bangs open and Prince Emory struts out onto the dais, straightening the collar of his scarlet doublet as he flashes a charming, white smile.

  Prince Emory. Who’d asked about me yesterday. Who’d said his father, the King, wants him to marry me. And he hadn’t balked. Surely if his father said something like that, then Prince Emory will seek a bride soon. I want that chance. I will him to shout it now. Free me. Want me. Marry me.

  “Welcome, my High Court.” The King booms, cutting his son a sneer as Emory assumes the third throne. “I will hear the High Court. Who will speak first?”

  “I will speak,” a Lord’s voice rings out. He stands from his bench and sets into long, boring sentiments about his productivity, taxation rates, and concerns for the coming season.

  With every word, my heart sinks. All that excitement… The crowd now only softly murmurs as the lords speak. Every second feels like a growing omen that the announcement isn’t coming. That it won’t be this season after all. That I won’t be going to the ball tomorrow night. That Father’s estate will slip that much closer to ruin. My chances dashed yet again.

  King Giraldus waves away another lord’s complaints and snaps his fingers for more wine. “Lord Rael, you haven’t spoken yet. What grievances do you have?”

  Lord Rael unfolds his long, slender frame. The back of his well-tailored doublet and sleekly tied back dark hair are all I can make out from my seat several rows behind. Nor can I recall ever seeing his face before. He always slips out of High Court immediately after its conclusion.

  “I’ve no grievances, Your Highness,” Lord Rael says, his voice flat, low, and so cold it sends a tingle down my spine. Father once told me the Raels were the wickedest men he knew, more evil than the tyrants of our neighboring kingdom. Unwilling and unavailable, Clara says, even though he is the only unmarried Founder Lord—well, not anymore. But at least he’s one monstrosity I won’t have to curb advances from.

  “Finally.” The King raises his goblet to Lord Rael and lets out a thunderous laugh. “A man with some sense! Now, my queen wishes to speak.” He waves his hand at his wife.

  Queen Ophelia rises from her golden throne, not a strand of hair out of place, and I hold my breath. Her crimson gown pools at her feet in a glistening pile reminiscent of pooling blood. “As our cherished High Court, you all are the first to hear this very grand news.” She pauses and a cool smile spreads across her face. “The Crown Prince, my dear son, shall choose his Bride and our future Queen this harvest season.”

  Trapped air whisks from my lungs as gasps rise all around. The Prince beams at the crowd, his smile creasing his handsome face with all the confidence of a true heir to the throne.

  Skies, I have my chance. This is it.

  This is what Father wanted.

  I will not fail him.

  “A formal announcement shall be made to the public at the Spring Ball. I look forward to seeing you all there.” The Queen floats back onto her throne.

  The Spring Ball I will finally be going to.

  The Queen touches her husband’s shoulder. With eyes as sharp as the dagger at her hip, she looks down her raised nose at the front right bench.

  The King shrugs off his wife and leans forward on his throne, heavy brows descending into a scowl. “Ah, yes, Lord Venon. It is bold of you to attend as if you are in good standing with the Kingdom.”

  Lord Venon stiffens. His back is to me, but I can still glimpse his hands wringing together. “My King, surely my caravan arrived yesterday. It was escorted by six knights. I had confirmation from my sons of its arrival.” His tone carries both a casual and obeisant air, but also a slight waver.

  The corner of the Queen’s mouth twitches. She heard it too.

  The overturned caravan—it had the Venon crest. It must have been delivering Lord Venon’s late taxes. Everyone knows he’s struggled to pay his share for years now, but always scrapes it together at the last minute. How could Lord Venon not have heard about the attack?

  I squint at the two Venon sons sitting on either side of their father and wish I could see more than just the backs of their heads from my vantage point. I wouldn’t put it past them to be so cruel as to withhold news of the attack in order to take the lordship. The youngest, Maurus, cut the finger off another human being, after all. Maybe that’s why he’d been so smug in the library. Maybe he’d even orchestrated this whole thing.

  My cheeks heat at the memory of the woods and that man washing in the stream yards away from the carnage. The way he’d laughed and watched me go rather than putting an arrow into my back. Abel.

  King Giraldus turns lazily to the side and snaps his fingers. A guard leaps forward and bends to his ear. The king nods. “Your caravan has not arrived. Stand before your King.”

  Shuffling skirts and creaking benches echo as the Founder wives ushered their daughters and young children from the auditorium. The pit of my stomach drops in a sick, fluttery way.

  Oh Skies, a Re-Heading?

  “See them send their daughters away? What Prince would choose a future queen who cannot stomach a little bloodshed?” Clara says into my ear. Then she leans across my lap and hisses to Lilianna. “Go. Before you pass out and embarrass me.”

  Lilianna’s mouth opens like she wants to disagree, but her face has already drawn white and no sound comes out.

  I grasp and squeeze Lilianna’s hand, trying to offer some semblance of comfort. Hopefully, no one notices her lack of composure—Lilianna has so few prospects as it is. Unless, of course, I manage an advantageous match with a Founder Heir or the Prince himself—then the upper tier nobles will clamor for her.

  Lilianna yanks her hand away and rises from the bench to follow the other High Court daughters from the auditorium.

  Clara grips my wrist and hisses, “Steel yourself. Do not make a sound and do not look away. They will judge your reaction. A future queen does not flinch at death. If you cannot endure it, then go now before you humiliate yourself. No one will choose you then.”

  I hesitate. My veins hum and my head lightens—already too light from the bloodletting. I’ve never seen a Re-Heading before, but I’ve heard of them. Everyone has. Just the thought of watching a man die makes me sick. Maybe I should go…

  Up on the dais, the Prince lounges on his throne, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. Perfectly calm, even in this moment of impending violence. A confident, powerful man. A man who will be my salvation.

  His gaze sweeps the crowd and lands on me.

  A swooping smile lights Emory’s face and it takes my breath away.

  “I’ll stay,” I whisper.