by Emily Inskip
“Much better,” Amara drawled, flexing her wrists before her.
Moonlight caught on her slim, pallid fingers; the calluses that she wore like fine jewellery. Proud of every one.
“Now, tell me more about this plan of yours, brother.”
Amara tossed the mass of her dark curls over one shoulder before rising to her feet. Her spine ached from however long she had been sat on that measly chair, but at least the pounding in her temples had lessened. Barely.
She made a point to kick the oak chair behind her before strolling towards her brother. Amara smiled sweetly as the sound of it shattering rang through the room. To his credit, Fenn didn’t dare scold her for it or offer her a disapproving look that she knew all too well.
She joined him near the window, pressing her back into the gauzy curtains that drifted around her.
“Like I said, the carriage will arrive soon, and you should hopefully be at the castle by morning,” he began, casting his gaze down the derelict street. “The royals will be expecting you . . . well, Lady Lynessa Scarlett, I mean.”
Amara nodded slowly, her own eyes catching on the twin swords fixed to his back, their silver pommels glinting as he shifted against the wall.
“And am I allowed to bring weapons?” she mused, already knowing the answer before he replied.
No. Of course not. A Lady wouldn’t be seen with a blade, especially one from the Southern Isles, where battle of any sorts was unheard of.
She frowned. “I’m starting to believe that this week will drag on more than the last two centuries.”
Fenn laughed, his dark, cropped hair shifting with the movement.
“Just behave, Amara. Do you think you can do that?” he raised a brow, a small smile playing on his lips. It made him look younger, somehow. Reminding her of the boy she had protected all her life. And would do so until her last breath. If she could breathe, that is.
She rolled her eyes. “I can try, but I’m not promising a thing.”
For her brother, she would do this. Even if it did mean leaving him alone for a week.
She leant her head against the window, allowing the cool air to whip her face as she gazed over the rooftops of Valmont. In the distance, the darkness of night had begun to slip away. Above the horizon, the sky was awash with hues of red and pink. Plumes of dark smoke marred the sky as people began to awaken, lighting fires within their small townhouses.
The amber pendant began to thrum against her chest as the night slowly ebbed away, pushed back by the spreading glow before her. It was a night she had always known, became accustomed to.
She had lived her life in the shadows for too long, believing all this time that she would eventually become one herself. After all these years, she’d never once expected to see the light again. Never once believed that she deserved the chance to do so at all.
But something sparked anew in her blood as she gazed at the golden light leaking from the horizon. Day. She was going to see the day.
Amara smiled silently to herself as the sound of hooves rattled down the street below and a sleek black carriage appeared around the corner.
It took all her strength to finally wrench her gaze away from the crimson skies above. She turned back, only to find Fenn’s eyes on her. He couldn’t stop the grin that tugged his lips. And to her surprise, it was a grin that matched her own.
“Enjoy the sun, Amara,” he breathed. “And may you always find your way back to the light.”
7
Dew glazed the foothills as Amara’s carriage made its treacherous journey up the narrow mountain tracks towards the castle. It was a shimmering beacon of gold and marble in the crisp morning light. Above, birds flittered about the skies, their harmonious tune catching on the breeze as Amara leant her head against the side of the carriage. She watched as nature blurred past, a blend of colour and light. The overpowering scent of wild mountain flowers hit her almost instantly through the open window. It was an effort not to smile as she took in the crocuses that flooded over the grassy plateaus in bands of deep purple and indigo.
Amara had tried to sleep during the ride, but the gleams of sunlight that warmed her face, her skin, were enough to make her never want to close her eyes again.
She hadn’t seen it before. The cusp of light and darkness. But now, it was a song in her blood.
Amara had barely believed it as she walked out towards the carriage earlier that morning, her face lit with a new life she hadn’t known before . . . even as a human.
But even the glorious sunlight couldn’t fill the void that now tore a hole through her chest. Or the pang of guilt that twisted in her gut.
She had stared up at her brother’s window as the carriage pulled away, even with the curtains drawn; she pictured him leaning there with that half smile. Safe. He was going to be safe.
She had kept her gaze fixed on that window until the carriage rounded the corner. Until she had reached the outskirts of Valmont and began the ascent towards the palace.
Amara hadn’t wanted to let go of her brother in the last minutes they had together, clinging to him until he was forced to peel her away. Even his string of reassuring comments that followed her down the stairs of the inn were not enough to stop her from wanting to stay. To remain with Fenn—no matter what. But . . . a week.
She could do that.
Now, as the beautiful black stallions galloped the last stretch of the journey uphill, Amara rearranged the skirts of her lavender gown, which Fenn had insisted upon her wearing. She sneered at the light material that clung to her body, its bodice embroidered with pearls and silver silk.
Amara hadn’t worn a dress in years. They were highly impractical and utterly stupid, even if she did think this one was slightly prettier than she had imagined.
She sighed, inspecting the lilac pleats and folds. One week, she reminded herself again before gazing up at the approaching palace.
Her eyes widened as it appeared around the corner of a rocky outcrop.
It was beautiful.
The palace was a sight she could have never prepared herself for. A gilded fortress, flanked by turrets and towers adorned with delicate crystal spires and silver filigree. Nearly every side was braceleted by marble-carved balconies and verandas overlooking the entirety of Valmont and the sea that stretched far further towards the horizon.
In all her years of living in the city, she had never come so near to the castle. She had never felt the need to.
But being so close now, Amara blinked at the sheer size of it and felt like a fly in comparison. A fleck of insignificance surrounded by golden archways and pristine gardens that snaked down the mountainside.
She was so wonder-struck that any thought of the Valkrane or her brother were wiped away, vanishing as she took in the pure splendour and brilliance of the palace. Winvaris, people called it. Stronghold of the gods, it meant in the old language.
Amara now knew why.
It was an effort to keep from gaping as her carriage passed under the arching main gates of the fortress. Guards in golden-plated armour patrolled the walls and gateways, spears of sharpened iron in their hands.
Amara gulped, shrinking back into the shadows of her carriage. She knew these guards. Had killed many like them, more than she could count in her days on the backstreets of Valmont. But now she was to live among them. Not as a killer. But as a Lady. A friend.
Only her centuries of honed coolness allowed Amara to suppress a cringe as one of the guards caught her eye, bowing his head as she passed by. She averted her gaze quickly, suddenly finding the pleats in her skirts much more interesting.
But just because she had to live with them, didn’t mean she would suddenly feel guilty for what she did. Who she was.
Her curse was forced upon her in the same way she was forced to kill the living. Nature had a dark sense of humour in that way.
The crunch of ironclad boots on gravel filled the air as patrols of sentries marched in tight unison around the grounds, many of t
hem not bothering to glance towards Amara’s carriage. Instead, their gaze was solely fixed upon the castle, monitoring the walls and courtyards for any sign of intruders or mischief.
Amara’s throat tightened. It was going to be extremely difficult to work her… dietary needs around the strict security measures. There were eyes on nearly every corner of the premises. But she’d find a way to make it work. She hoped.
The carriage stopped just before the sweeping marble steps towards the main entrance of the castle. She blinked at the guards stationed either side of the stairs, at the beautiful ivy snaking up the grey stone walls, and the wisteria curling around each of the delicate lattice windows.
Amara trained her face into neutrality, a mask of undisturbed coolness over her features, as one of the sentries opened the door for her.
Amara smiled sweetly as she gathered up her skirts and stepped out onto the gravel, her velvet slippers scraping on the stones. She raised her chin, casting her gaze towards the great wooden doors at the top of the stairs. At the royals waiting for her.
She smiled again. The portrait of perfect pleasantness as she took her first steps towards the palace.
Now, it was time to play.
8
Amara was met at the top of the stairs by a rather pompous man who went by the name of Lord Bastion.
He bowed low as she approached, creasing the fabric of his bright crimson waistcoat that she quickly realised was two sizes too small for him.
She forced brightness into her eyes as she approached the lord, a glow to her face she hadn’t seen for centuries. Longer.
Amara halted before him, the skirts of her dress settling around her like a pool of lilac. She had barely time to blink before he gripped her hand tightly, tugging it towards his crusted lips. Disgust flashed in her eyes but it was gone a moment later, replaced by a glorious calm.
Be pleasant, be pleasant, she chanted to herself. But it was an effort not to strike him as his mouth lingered on her skin. Amara gulped, pulling her hand back a bit too quickly. But she played it off with a small smile, curtsying in a way she’d seen the ladies in the Northside do many a time.
She would kill Fenn for this.
A growl rumbled in her throat, but she forced it down, coughing a little as she did.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Lynessa,” he said, his face glistening with sweat in the morning sun. “You are just as stunning as I imagined.”
Amara wasn’t sure how to respond, already repulsed by the odorous stench that radiated off him. There were times where she cursed her heightened senses.
This was one of them.
There was a beat of silence before Amara realised she hadn’t replied. “It is a beautiful day out,” was all she said, making a point to gaze up at the sky, a canvas of crisp, unmarred blue.
“Indeed it is,” he nodded, “Yet it’s nothing compared to the weather you must be used to in the south, I am sure.”
Right. The south, she thought, remembering the role she had to play. Maybe it would be harder than first thought.
“Alas, enough chitchat for now. The Queen will be waiting for you,” Lord Bastion said, holding out an arm for her. She took it, that sweet smile still playing on her lips.
Gods, her face was already aching from the strain of the action. Frankly, she couldn’t wait to be alone in her chambers. Where she could finally drop the mask she was already becoming tired of. But something told her that wasn’t going to happen any time soon.
Lord Bastion wasted no time before quickly guiding her through the double doors. Two sentries, clad in gold, silently fell into step behind them as they glided down the marble halls.
Inside, the castle was almost as stunning as its exterior, with bright ivory pillars flanking the main corridor and beautiful blue roses twining around each one. Above, large dome windows allowed the morning light to stream through, flooding the room, splitting and sparking off the polished granite surfaces.
Amara attempted to take in every detail of her surroundings. Her new home.
But the lord by her side was making it extremely difficult. He was busy rambling on about god-knows-what, she didn’t bother to listen. Amara only offered him the occasional nod, whilst mentally mapping every turn they took, each corridor they wandered down, the guards they passed. She noted the servants hurrying about the palace, slipping in and out of doorways without so much as an acknowledgement by the surrounding courtiers.
Her chest hollowed as she watched the servants work. She knew their actions well. . . too well. But Amara pushed that fleeting emotion from her mind. Later. She would dwell on that later.
“How was the journey, Milady?” Lord Bastion said from beside her, his mouth drifting dangerously close to her face.
Amara frowned. “Rather dull.”
He laughed at that, his rough voice cleaving the air. She hadn’t meant to be funny.
“I have a feeling that we will get on well, you and I.” He squeezed her arm with his before steering them down a narrow corridor lined by marble sculptures of all shapes and sizes. “They call this the Alley of Eyes,” he mused, “No matter where you stand along here, these statues are always watching.”
Indeed, as Amara passed by a large figure of a great bear, she could have sworn its small beady eyes followed her along. Every one of the sculptures seemed to silently observe her, unblinking but . . . alive. She shuddered. Amara noted never to come along this corridor during the week.
Again, a loud laugh escaped Lord Bastion as he took in her wan face, at the way she stared down the statues as though they would attack at any moment. “Don’t worry; they’re not actually going to kill you. It’s only trickery, some residual magic left within the castle.”
She nodded, although her attention was still pinned upon the display of sculptures. This place was already getting on her nerves.
As they rounded the corner, Amara’s shoulders practically sagged with relief, glad to see the end of the damned figurines. But that relief was short-lived.
Ahead, a pair of large crystal doors shimmered in the distance. The throne room.
Amara hadn’t prepared what she was going to say to the Queen of Esteria. That might have been a slight mistake. One wrong move, one hole in her façade, it could be deadly. Especially if the Queen discovered who she was. What she was. Amara couldn’t bear thinking about the consequences. But she willed ice into her veins nonetheless, using her spare hand to flip her hair behind a shoulder.
Her name was Amara Vanderlore.
She had survived two hundred years of being hunted by the most dangerous vampires in the kingdom.
And she was not afraid.
They were perhaps ten yards away from the entrance of the throne room when Amara’s instincts told her to stop mid-stride. Lord Bastion’s reactions, however, weren’t as fast.
Without warning, a young male servant tripped in front of them, skidding to his knees. He was barely down for a second before Lord Bastion hissed, “Get out of the way, you fool!” The poison in his voice was enough to make the boy’s face blanch.
“Get up!”
Amara watched as the servant trembled, getting to his feet. He couldn’t bring himself to meet her eye before scurrying away, like a wounded stag.
She stared after the boy, something cold and dark twisting in her gut. The way he was spoken to, the tone . . .
“My apologies, Lady,” Lord Bastion smoothed, shaking his head. “I’ll ensure he is rightly punished for his foolishness.”
Anger roared in her blood as she glared at the lord, an ire no doubt burning in her eyes. He flinched away, loosening the grip on her arm.
“There’s no need for any punishment, Lord Bastion. It was a mistake. And one I am sure he will regret,” she forced a smile, fixing her gaze forwards once more.
Amara had been on the other end of that punishment too many times before. And had the scars on her back to prove it.
“I—of course, Milady.”
They contin
ued walking towards the throne room, however, the Lord kept his distance now, his eyes nervously flicking between herself and the guards stationed beside the door. She grinned at that. And for the first time, it wasn’t fake.
The lord paused in front of the closed crystal doors, his brow sweating even more than before. She grinned at that as well.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to leave you now,” he began, straightening out the new creases his jacket. “Her majesty is waiting just inside for you.”
Amara bowed her chin, just as the double doors blew open on a phantom wind.
So much for preparing herself.
Amara blinked, barely able to take it all in as she stepped towards the cavernous room. She was sure if she still possessed a human heart, it would have stopped beating at the mere sight on the throne room.
Pillars of chiselled ebony rose up towards the arching ceiling. So dark compared to the castle’s glistening exterior. Amara continued to advance up the centre aisle, eyes trained on the crimson dais, on the Queen sat upon the throne. A throne crafted of pure gold.
She forced her gait into an easy, elegant stroll, trying not to notice the guards lurking in the corner of her eye. One wrong move . . .
Amara’s throat went dry as she walked through the silence of the magnificent room. A silence hewn only by the scratching of her skirts as they grazed along the onyx marble.
The Queen of Esteria wordlessly watched her as she lounged upon the throne, a crown of dark shards of glass settled upon her head, her hair a sheet of shimmering silver.
Amara barely remembered to blink as she met the eyes of the Queen. Such beauty and age and wisdom was held in her stare. Such power.
Only when Amara halted at the foot of the dais, did the Queen speak. “Greetings, Lady Lynessa Scarlett of Breensbrae. It is a pleasure to finally meet.” Her voice was soft but had a strength Amara couldn’t put a finger on.
Amara willed the words into her mouth as she dipped her chin slightly, “It is an honour, Your Majesty.”
