Chapter 3: Scarred: Chapter 1

“You’ll leave in the morning.”

My uncle sips on his wine, his dark eyes like arrows soaring across the table and filleting the flesh of my chest. He’s never been an affectionate man, but he’s my family all the same, and we have the same goal.

To seek vengeance on the Faasa family for the murder of my father.

We have slotted many moving pieces carefully into place, ensuring that when the crowned prince was in need, I would be the one there to accept his hand. It’s only been one year since the death of my father, and two since that of the king, but finally, we’ve received word.

It’s time.

Arranged betrothals, while not uncommon, have gone slightly out of fashion in recent years. After all, it’s 1910, no longer the 1800s, and in all the storybooks, and even here in the poverty-ridden streets of Silva, people marry for love.

Or their idea of it, anyway.

But I’ve never been one with ideas of grandeur, thinking some white knight will ride in on his steed and save me like some helpless damsel in distress.

There may be distress, but I’m no helpless damsel.

Besides, sometimes the only way to enact genuine change is by becoming part of the machine and ripping out the broken pieces yourself. So, if I have to smile, flirt, and seduce my way into the new king’s good graces, that’s what I intend to do.

It’s my duty, after all.

To both my family and my people.

Silva, which was once known for its abundant lands and groundbreaking industrialization, has now become barren and lame. Cast to the side like an ugly redheaded stepchild, unworthy of the crown’s time or attention. Now we’re not known at all; drought and famine mixing with the despair that runs through the city streets like cracks in the pavement.

I suppose that’s what happens when you’re situated deep within a forest nestled high in the clouds. You become hard to see and easy to forget.

“You understand what’s at stake?” Uncle Raf asks, bringing me out of my reverie.

Nodding, I wipe my mouth with a white cloth napkin, placing it back in my lap. “Yes, of course.”

He grins, his skin crinkling as he taps his fingers on the bulbous top of his wood cane. “You’ll bring honor to our name.”

The heady sense of his approval lights me up like a cannon and I sit a little straighter in my chair, smiling back at him.

“And you’ll trust no one except your cousin,” he adds.

He glances at my mother, ever docile and quiet as she eats her meal, taking small bites, her unruly black hair so like mine creating a curtain around her face. She rarely makes eye contact, always choosing to keep her head down and her fingers busy with needlework and dusty books, rather than forge a relationship with the daughter who’s taken over everything since my father left her a widow.

I suspect she never wanted to be a mother, and that she wanted to marry even less. She’s never said the words, but there’s no need when her actions speak so loudly. But my father wanted her, and that’s all that mattered.

And when she grew with child, they expected it to be the next male heir to the Beatreaux line.

Instead, they got a wild raven-haired female with a sense of adventure and a mouth that speaks out of turn. And my father loved me all the same, even if my mother never showed a lick of affection.

The day I lost him, a piece of me was lost too; curdled like sour milk and left in the center of my chest to fester and rot.

He went to plead with the monarchy for aid. Took it upon himself to travel through our forests and over the plains until he made it to the Saxum castle. But the crown didn’t listen to his plight, and my cousin Alexander sent word that they had him hung for treason. Because he dared to speak out and say they needed to do more.

Alexander tried to save him, but there’s only so much he can do when he’s head adviser to the king.

My uncle Raf has been indispensable ever since, and while he’s done nothing but support me, I still ache to be held in the arms of my father. Instead, all that’s left is a family pendant that I wear around my neck like an oath; one that reminds me every single day of what I’ve lost.

And who’s to blame for my sorrow.

So now, while other girls my age spend their time daydreaming about falling in love, I spend mine learning how to play into political warfare while still portraying the etiquette of nobility.

If you want to burn down hell, you must learn to play the devil’s game.

The metaphorical crown being placed on my head is almost as heavy as the knowledge that everyone depends on me to see things through.

And the Faasa family’s reign has been allowed to go on too long, their power and influence having decayed with time, becoming less about people and country and more about overindulgence and greed.

So, I’ll go to court. And I’ll do what needs to be done to save my people and seek justice for those we’ve lost.

Still, it isn’t until hours later when full realization hits.

Tonight is my last night in Silva.

My heart beats a staccato rhythm as I shove my feet into thick black boots and wrap my cloak around my shoulders, pinning my frizzy hair back until it’s in a tight bun at the nape of my neck. Pulling the hood over my head, I look in the mirror, ensuring it’s hiding my features. Glancing at the door to my bedroom, I eye the lock, making sure it’s in place, before spinning back around and heading to my window.

My room is on the second floor, but I’m no stranger to the height, having made my way down the jagged stone wall dozens of times before. My lungs cramp from my shallow breaths, and adrenaline whips through my veins as I make my descent, my feet plopping onto the grass.

It’s always a risk sneaking out, but one that I’d take a thousand times over.

I stand stock-still for a few moments, making sure no one heard me leave before I head around the side of our run-down estate, keeping to the shadowed areas until I reach the cobblestone drive and stare up at the rusted ten-foot gate. My fingers ache as they press into the metal and my muscles burn as I hoist myself up, climbing the jagged iron until I swing my leg over and hop down to the other side.

My chest heaves once my foot meets solid ground, and then I’m off, dashing down the pavement, pulling my hooded cloak tighter, hoping I don’t run into anyone on my way.

I take twenty minutes to make it to the orphanage on the outskirts of town. It’s a small, dilapidated building with zero funding and not enough beds, but Daria, the woman who runs it, is one of my key contacts, and I know that anything I slip her way will make it into the right hands.

“There should be enough here to get you by until I can send more.” I press my fingers into the back of Daria’s as she holds the bundle of money and the small basket of bread that I’ve thrust into her palms.

She sniffles, the glossy sheen of her eyes sparkling against the dim candlelight of the small kitchen. “Thank you, Sara. I can’t—” Her whisper cuts off as a sound from outside the room slices through the air.

My heart spasms in my chest and I suck in a breath, my eyes snapping to the darkened hallway, hoping it’s not a child loitering outside of their bed.

No one can know I’m here.

“I have to leave,” I say, withdrawing my hands and lifting my hood. “I’ll try to get word to you when I’m able; make sure things are safe.”

Daria shakes her head. “You’ve done so much already.”

“Please,” I scoff. “I’ve hardly done enough.”

The clock chimes and I note the time. Soon the sun will press against the horizon, until its light bathes the ground, erasing the darkness and with it, my cover.

“I have to go,” I repeat in a hushed tone, reaching out to drag her in for a hug. My stomach flips as her arms wind around me, squeezing tight. “Don’t forget me, Daria.”

“Never.” She laughs, although it’s a hollow sound.

Pulling away, I make my way to the door off the side of the kitchen, my hand wrapping around the cool brass handle.

“Be safe, my queen,” Daria whispers to my back.

My heart stutters. “I’m no one’s queen. I’m just the one who will burn the crown.”