Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 64872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 324(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 324(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
She turns towards him with a laugh, the roof groaning under her. She plucks the mask from his face and sets it against her own. “Someone who’ll love me even if I look like this. Someone who recognises my soul—”
Quin shifts on his corner of the roof, the creak of wood beneath his weight making me glance at him. His silver hair catches the luminarium’s faint glow.
There’s something in his look . . . like wistfulness or regret. Both stir an ache in my chest, and I force my gaze back to the pair. Then it happens. One moment they’re staring at one another, the next there’s a deafening snap, and the roof caves in, and they drop sharply out of sight.
Quin and I scurry to peer down into the cabin, where Casimiria and the prins have been caught by the bed, him sprawled atop her. There’s a moment of silence and then Casimiria laughs and laughs beneath the mask. The prins scurries away, yanking back the palm that has landed on her breast. He apologises profusely, putting quick distance between them. “I’ll . . . I’ll do right by you. I’ll take responsibility.”
Casimiria pulls herself off the bed and shakes her clothes free of dust and debris. “Shush. It was an accident. No one saw us. No one has to know.”
Prins Yngvarr bows deeply and flees the cabin in a rush, and Casimiria calls once more after him before the memory, and the surroundings, once more begin to fade. “You forgot your mask.”
Yngvarr’s third rune door takes us inside the house, to the room that would later be the dining area but is here a lavishly decorated hall. The king sits playing chess with one of his ministers.
Quin tells me quietly this is his maternal grandfather. Casimiria’s father, the then god of war.
His two grandfathers, side by side. I can pick out features in each of them that resemble Quin. But of the two, it’s the handsome and hardened War God that Quin most obviously takes after.
We follow Prins Yngvarr, who is being escorted in by a redcloak. The prins immediately bows and the king rises from his game and straightens him with a gentle smile. “Enough with the formalities.”
Yngvarr inclines his head. “Your majesty.”
The God of War rises and bows. “I’ll take my leave.”
The king offers Yngvarr his seat at the game. They trade a few quiet moves, sharing conversation that is once more muted, forgotten, until the king is one step from having his black vitalian take out the white prince.
“Our kingdoms have always been on edge. Only with the exchange of my daughter and yourself has there been some stability at the border. But according to our agreement, you’ll both return at the end of the summer.”
Prins Yngvarr is listening intently, his gaze on the vitalian that is poised to take his prince.
The king continues, “Your father has suggested a marriage alliance between our kingdoms, and has proposed Frederica marry your younger brother. She has written to me pleading to be spared this duty, and I wish to indulge my only daughter.” Finger pinched atop his black vitalian, the king rocks it back and forth on its square. “I can do so with a counterproposal.” His gaze meets Prins Yngvarr’s directly. “You will marry into one of Lumin’s most influential families.”
Yngvarr snaps his head up.
“That’s correct,” the king says. “One of those participating in the selection.”
“What of the Crown Prince?”
“There are ten noble daughters remaining. Enough for both of you to choose from.”
Prins Yngvarr looks right back at the king. “Then I shall accept on one condition. I want the daughter of your God of War.”
A shadow flickers at the other end of the room and the prins stares tightly in its direction. I shiver; the way the memory lingers here, how sharp the shadow is against the wall behind the partially open door. I look over at Quin, who has noticed it too. His lips curl into a grimace.
When this memory finally fades, Quin and I silently make our way out.
I drag my heavy limbs over soulblooms and over the next threshold. It’s night in this memory; there’s a chill to the wind, but it’s not the reason I’m shivering.
Under strings of warmly lit lanterns, finely dressed nobles are seated around an outdoor feast. The two Lumin princes have their own tables, closest to the king and queen, with Prins Yngvarr’s just behind theirs. Surrounding the royal brothers in an arc of tables are the ten still left in the selection. And in the space between them, one of those young ladies is making a toast.
Quin speaks quietly beside me. “Nicostratus’s mother.”
She’s pretty, with a smooth tongue that quickly earns a laugh from the queen. She lifts her cup and drinks. The royal family indulge her and gesture for all the girls in the selection to drink along.