CHAPTER 35: THIRTY FIVE

Valka

The sound of hounds baying and armored soldiers crashing through the underbrush chase me. Arrows flies, edges dusted with silver aconite. Already, one sticks through my knee, forcing me into a hobbling run, the poison spreading through me quick as death, slowing my speed, blurring my vision.

Wet tears roll down my cheeks.

Lucien.

Oh gods, how could I have forgotten? How could I have spent so long retrieving my memories, dabbling with the mortals, living with them, dining with them, loving them, that I’d forgotten why I made a deal with the devil himself? That I’d forgotten what they stole from us? From me?

An arrow slams into my shoulder, taking me down with it and I cry out as I stumble, face and knees scraping against stones. Still, I rise, forcing myself forward.

Father warned me. He’d begged me to stay. Begged me to pretend to be what I wasn’t, to go ahead with the marriage with the mortal I’d fancied myself loving. I could live he normal life, he’d promised. I didn’t have to go back. Malachy loved me. He would take care of me.

But he didn’t understand that I had no future here in the Silver Kingdom. I could never be whole without Lucien. I would forever wander, looking for the missing piece in the puzzle until I reconnected with my Prince. Gods only know how long he’s waited for me. How long it’s been.

I have to find him. But even I knew the truth as I stumbled, the guards closing in on me, lead by no one other than the man who had professed love for me, promised to lay his life down for me and give me a life of pure happiness.

Malachy would never let me go. His affection was no love. It was a poison. A monster, he named me, but he wouldn’t let me leave or live.

The forest breaks open. The cliff yawns before me, jagged and merciless. I come to a chilling halt at the very edge. Stones fall overhead and trepidation sets my heart racing even faster as I stare at the black sea churning below, its wave crashing like a dirge. I whirl, a small so catching in my throat at the snarling guards in royal armour, the hounds frothing at the mouth.

Malachy pulls on the reins of his horse, his green gaze I used to get lost in now cold and merciless. His fingers clench tight on a spear. "Lyra," he calls, voice deceptively soft. "You have nowhere left to run. Surrender, come back with me to the dungeons and I will spare your life. Keep fleeing," I hear the twang of another bowstring, the hiss of another arrow slicing past my ear. "--and I cannot save you."

"Save me?" I cry. "YOU turned me in. I trusted you with my life, my secret and you sold me out for coin, for a seat at their table!"

His eyes flick to the cliff’s edge behind me, calculating. "You won’t make the fall. You must return back with us or you will die, Lyra."

My lips pull back from my teeth. "Then let me die."

Anything was better than returning.

So, I whirl and take the leap. But just as I step off, agony bursts through my my back, tearing through my chest with the thrown spear. My cry is broken up by my gurgling, blood filling my mouth. My legs give.

And I fall.

The wind howls, snatching the scream from my throat. My blood trails behind me in a glittering arc, painting the day. The sea rushes up fast, furious, endless.

And just before the water takes me, I see her.

I expect to see the face I’ve grown familiar with, the hair of flaming red and eyes like emeralds. But instead, I see a different face. Paler. Striking. Full lips streaked with blood. High cheekbones. The blush tinged hair of gold, richer than I’d ever seen it. Pain flickering in depths of rich amber.

And with horror, I realize I’m staring at my own face.

****

I wake up screaming, thrashing in the sheets and gasping for air as I remain in the hold of the sea that breaks and drowns me. I scramble through the sheets, sobbing, feeling for my face, my lips. "Oh gods," I cry, even if I don’t know why.

A door swings open and only then do I take full stock of my surroundings. Light pink sheets caress my skin. A Queen sized bed post looms above me with light drapes. A fully stocked armoire filled with hideous monstrosities of corsets and gossamer stares back at me. Beneath are shoes. Heeled, glittery slippers. Pink, shiny, girly things. The entire room is pink. I’m in a man’s nightmare.

And barging into the room is a face I’m not excited to see.

"Good," Margot says. "You’re awake. We feared Wyatt might have given you a concussion." She inclines her head towards the horde of women trailing behind her with bowed heads. "Get her out of bed. There is much to do."

"Hey!" I yell, scrambling back as hands reach for me. "Stop--Don’t touch--hey!"

I am dragged off the bed, Margot’s instructions louder than my protests as I am brought into the largest bath chamber I have ever been into and thrown into a green, luxury porcelain bathtub so hard, I nearly crack my spine.

"What the hell is happening?!" I squeal as a bowl of steaming water is dumped over my head. I hiss, hugging my naked chest, but my hand is pulled back by a different maid, a harsh brush scrubbing at my skin like I haven’t drawn a bath in years and stink worse than a horse.

Margot stands in the doorway of the bath chamber, already dressed and prepped for court, even if it’s only the crack of dawn outside. Her lips, forever in that red lip colour, rises into a sharp smile that reminds me of a shark. "Breakfast."

"I can damn well eat breakfast in my room--oow!" I yelp as a tuft of hair is plucked from my skin. "Are you trying to kill me?!"

Margot sighs. "Your mouth. We’ll need to tame that next. A lady doesn’t speak such filth."

"Like what? Dick? Cunt? Damned? Fuck?"

She pinches the bridge of her nose in frustration, shaking her head. "Did your mother teach you nothing?"

I grimace as something foul that feels like goo is dumped atop my head. "She tried."

Margot’s hands rest lightly on her dress, pulling up her skirts as she crosses the threshold. The maids move around to make way for her and she stops at the very edge of the tub, reaching out to take a lock of my bleached, ruined hair. "There are many things taken into consideration before a King picks his bride. Most think the initial presentation matter, and while I do admit that first impressions do last an awful bit of time, I’ve witnessed and participated in enough Selections to know it hardly makes a dent in the final decision. The little meetings on the side carry more weight. This breakfast is important. Trust that you won’t be the only maiden there vying for the King’s attention."

"I told you last night--"

"You think blades and spears are the only weapons in this world," she says softly, her fingers drifting from my hair to run her nails along the scar on my cheek. "But they are useless here, surrounded by beings more powerful and crueler than you can imagine. Beauty, however, is an even better tool. Once honed, it can conquer steel before it is ever drawn. And you, child, have it in abundance. Have you really never considered what you could achieve with a man like Lucien wrapped around your fingers?"

"I’ve never cared for that kind of power," I say. "I’ve never wanted my worth to be measured by the number of pups I can give, or the status of the man I succeed in seducing."

She smiles fondly. "Naive, just like your father. But you see, power isn’t optional, Valka. It’s survival. If you wish to protect that which you hold dear, you will take heed. I only wish to help you. This world of ours is cruel, more so to women. To own the world, you must first rule men, and to do that, you must use what they find most appealing?"

"My brains?"

Margot chuckles deeply. "Oh, don’t be silly, girl. Men are simple creatures. Stupid, if you ask me. They either want to be worship or want to give worship. Whichever end of the stick you wound up on, you’d still need to play the role of a dame. With a highly sought after cunt."

I think about King Lucien and the rumors I’d heard during the Selection. Shivers travel down my spine. "They say he’s killed two of his previous brides," I whisper, though, the maids might as well be made of stone.

Margot seems to chew on the words for a bit. Then she shrugs. "A bit of a boundary issue. He rather likes his personal space."

Are we talking about the same person? Because the man, my current tormentor, has literally no sense of personal space. But I don’t point that out. That won’t be a problem because I don’t plan to do a single thing through out the Selection.

For the next hour, I am primed, plucked, scrubbed, and repeat. Until my body feels raw and sensitive, until my skin squeaks when Margot runs her fingers along it, until the dye is completely gone from my hair and the colour is back to what it used to be.

That rose gold I absolutely hated.

Clutching my robe tight around my body as the maids scurry around, pressing fabric after fabric against my skin to decide which might be best for breakfast with the King, Margot closes in, pressing a thumb against my scar again. "How did you get this?"

"I thought it’d take attention away from my face."

She nods. "Clever, but this won’t do." Before I can stop her, something warm tingles against my skin and I gasp as I watch the scar fade through the mirror. Until it’s completely gone. I stare in absolute terror at my face, back to what it used to be, if a little tan and hard, after everything I’ve been through.

I look... I look like a woman. Not like the girl who had taken her father’s armor and stolen away at night. No, I look like a woman. I’d never taken the time to even look in the mirror at the army camp. There weren’t a lot of those. And as such, I never quite noticed that under the thick layer of baggy clothes I’d doned day after day that my curves had fully developed.

My legs and abs are toned, my hips flared wide and my waist line barely existent. My skin has a healthy tan to it, adding colour to me in the most subtle, most beautiful way, and with everything out of her way, I almost don’t recognise myself.

I’m stunning. Stunning enough to fit in with the flourish here, if I wanted.

But that was the thing. I didn’t want to. I loved that scar because it made me avoid looking at me, and now, I feel more naked than I have ever been in a while. More vulnerable.

"Why are you helping me?" I ask Margot, unable to keep the anger off my face.

"I could tell you I was doing a favour to Eldric, for saving my life but we’re way past the lies at this point." She takes in a deep breath. "You will be introduced to Court as Lyra Nythorn. A distant relative of mine."

I stiffen at the name. "L-lyra? Why Lyra?"

Her eyes go distant in a faraway look. "I thought it might be fitting that you bore the name we planned to name her if I hadn’t lost her."

My breath catches. "Who?"

"My daughter."

I swear I’m losing my mind. Lyra. Ilya. What the hell have I been dreaming about? And more importantly, why?