{CATELINE}

Seven days.

It took seven days for me to wake three years older, be experimented on like a rat, and then rushed to find a husband.

Faces were familiar enough, but even the maid who had laced my corset so tight it hurt was grayer than I recalled. Some guards were old, some new, but all a foe. None treated me with care, each looked at me as if I had three heads. Two things remained constant despite the noise—this place was my own personal hell, and I was not welcome here.

The air was frigid, gooseflesh creeping beneath the many layers of my gown. I’d been escorted with thrice more guards than I’d been accustomed to, their hands readied over their sword’s handle as if I were a threat.

I remained calm, but my heart wept beneath this mask of indifference. The bridge that connected the western and eastern wings was decorated for festivities that could fool the most cynical of royals, but not me. The windows were ajar, the frigid breeze brushing beyond the thick stone walls. I politely tucked my hands together in front of my torso, the fur cape shielding me from the harsh weather.

Nothing shielded me from the nerves that followed, though. We descended the stone steps into the foyer, where two more dozens of guards stood. The music hummed through the wooden doors that opened as I neared. Beyond the final set of stairs was a grand ballroom fitted with tables, a place to dance, and a dais with a throne for my father and mother—the King and Queen of Axulran. The flickering torches cast dancing shadows across the stone walls, shifting with the beat of the music as men and women from all over the world filled their cups with merriment and celebration.

After all, I’d evaded uncertain death with a rune brandishing me an outcast for all my days. I pulled at the frilly collar of my gown and stepped into the ballroom. The whispers of the courtiers ceased as my presence was announced, the guards’ staff echoing with each resounding thud. My father, King Airen, sat upon his ornate throne, a gleam in his eyes as he watched me walk down the path to my seat. My mother’s gaze was softer. It always was—as was her voice, rarely speaking out against King Airen’s torment.

I forced myself to keep pushing forward. Despite the resounding heartbeat, despite the stares that followed me. The prying eyes of the court were ruthless.

Amidst the grandeur, my eyes searched desperately for a familiar face. The only two faces I hadn’t seen since waking, truly. Then, beyond the crowd, settled off to the side, were my brothers—three years older than I last remembered. Terrance, the eldest with his dirty blond, wavy hair, and our youngest brother, Gawain, standing at his side with that boyish smile. Terrance and Gawain had both gotten taller, but it was my youngest brother who made me pause. I knew I had to go find my seat alongside Father and Mother, that the celebrations had all but halted for my entrance, but the way my heart dropped to the pit of my stomach…the way tears welled in my eyes.

I raced toward them, despite the cries of the guards. Despite my father’s glare that burned into the side of my head. Terrance jumped from his seat, equally ornate as the rest but smaller as not to draw an eye away from the dais. I wrapped my arms around him like it’d be the last time, as if he were off to war…never to return. And, at first, he didn’t do a thing in response. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried not to sob. Eventually, his hand rested on the top of my back.

“Terrance, you have not found me since I woke,” I whispered just over the music, which had lost its rhythm since my outburst. I sniffled and took a quick step back, bowing my head until I was certain the tears had faded. When I lifted my attention up to him fully, he had this closed-lip smile and terrible, glistening look in his eyes.

“Not on my own accord, sister,” he said quietly. “But…have faith. It is good to see you.”

A pang of embarrassment shot through me at the heat of everybody’s stares. Before I could squeak out a response, Gawain rammed into my side in this hard, tight hug. I gasped and immediately welcomed him, ignoring the urge to mess with his curly hair.

My ears were ringing by the time our father stood to make some empty speech that I cared not to listen to. I merely focused in on the way my youngest brother’s hair felt between my fingers as I accepted his tackle of a hug, shutting my eyes so I didn’t absolutely lose it in front of every nobleman willing to travel to our frozen hellscape in celebration.

Eventually, he let me go, and I slowly turned to face the crowd. Three years ago, I would have owned the room even with the relentless pestering of my father, or the careful watch of my mother. Granted, three years ago, I wouldn’t have been so concerned with the prospect of marriage, nor would I fear retribution if the wrong person saw the sort of marking I was brandished with upon my stasis.

I let out a shallow breath, their applause coming into focus as the ringing in my ears faded. My heart was still a resounding thrum beneath my chest, but I was coming back to reality. I was able to face the madness. I approached my seat alongside my parents, falling into place just as the music picked up its tempo. The clapping died down, and people started to dance yet again.

My cup was always full, but my mind was…dull. My father and mother hadn’t greeted me, but they did pay tribute to each noble that approached the dais with an offering. I hated to admit it, but I struggled to focus on their names…titles…the mundane madness of it all was lost to me. However, I did take note of the corners of our world that they traveled from. Many from Starisque, a small kingdom nation across the Emerald Sea, and a smaller handful from their neighbor, Wisers Empire. I wasn’t as well versed in the political landscape as my elder brother, but I was the least bit surprised to not find Yulian noblemen at our doorsteps. Even less, Traburg. They had faced the wrath of my father countless times. I didn’t want to know of the torment they endured during my slumber.

I did not blame them for avoiding this celebration, if they’d even entertain an invitation in the first place. My father was a cruel man, even crueler to those he deemed magical. I reached for my neck at the thought, scratching over the smooth skin I knew was tarnished.

“Prince Perciliphus II, of Starisque,” came a guard who’s voice had grown raspy from the announcements.

I turned my attention ahead of me once more, blinking past the blurred vision and found a brute of a man, his ginger bear twisted into three tight braids, his bald head glimmering from the candlelight chandelier over his head. I couldn’t help but lean forward—not for his undying intellect. Quite the contrary, actually.

His chest heaved up and down with each roaring declaration, a droplet of sweat carving a path down his skin with each spitting word. He was beautifully, inarticulately, lost in his words.

“Princess, I believe this miracle is a sign of worsening times, knowing your pure, unadulterated bloodlines have been tarnished by the blood of magic. It was a beautiful day when the Silver Elf was brought to justice—when he was slain.”

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Whatever humor that had warmed my belly faded into absolute, terrible cold. Frigid nerves overwhelmed my every sense, and my father laughed—as if the life he’d taken was no more worthy of mourning than a dead snake beneath his boot. I settled into the back of my chair, wrapping my fingers around the armrest so tight my knuckles turned white.

“I bestow a cure for your ailment!” he boomed with a bow, outstretching his hand that held a box tied together with a ribbon. My tongue had turned dry by this point, unable to fathom the sort of gift a man would give me in the name of a cure. Nobody knew about the origin of the marking on my neck—only that it materialized when I fell into that terrible sleep. All of the tests…the medicine…it all amounted to nothing. So, what would this Prince Perciliphus—a name that was akin to an illness borne of untoward copulation—offer me?

What could he offer me?

I had to say, I was intrigued. I was more than intrigued. I was disgusted.

The guard at the foot of the dais’ stairs accepted it, untying the ribbon to inspect the gifts as he had the last half-dozen. The walls of the box draped over his hands when the lid was removed, revealing the perfect seat for a…a ring. I was blown away, unable to fathom the words to thank him. To fathom the idea of questioning his logic.

“The ring is made of amethyst stone,” he said as he lifted his head from the bowing position, gesturing to it with both hands. “Poisonous to the wretched souls unworthy of wielding it. Surely, Her Grace would be willing to demonstrate her purity despite the impurity on her neck.”

My hand jolted to my neck. It’d been covered since I got here, and even if my collar had moved, my hair hadn’t. It was all but plastered to the side of my neck with the braid the servants had twisted into my hair, fixated over my right shoulder. Prince Perciliphus grinned, ear-to-ear, but hadn’t acknowledged me. He kept his eyes on my father, who had his jaw half-open and his goblet against his lip.

“Her Grace will entertain the…idea,” my father answered for me. “Princess Cateline, accept the ring he so graciously offered.”

My head whipped toward the king, but as expected, he refused my attention. “Father, I cannot…we do not know—”

“Princess Cateline,” he hissed, setting his goblet down. “Do not embarrass the crown in front of our guests. Accept the gift.”

My mother was a stone next to him, eyes fixated on her lap. When she nodded once, I understood she would not fight for me. Was I to be surprised? She hadn’t fought for me a day in her life. It was the king who was in control. Not her.

I faced the guard who approached me, his eyes wide as he knelt, the ring still settled on its seat inside the deconstructed box. My attention flickered to the prince, clearing the lump from my throat. “What should happen, should I be…deemed unworthy, Your Grace?”

Prince Perciliphus smiled. “Much like the omen on your neck, the amethyst will burn your skin. It will be a sign of the times—either in your favor, or against.”

My lips snapped shut, and I looked at the piece of jewelry. The fine silver had been polished recently, the way it captured the light unlike any piece of accessory I maintained.

“Who knows, Your Grace. If you have survived such misfortune, perhaps you would be worthy of a Starisque crown as my bride.”

My stomach twisted into a knot at the thought, tears welling in my eyes. “Should I be so fortunate, Your Grace,” I mumbled, the words a bitter lie on my tongue. I couldn’t lift my hand to accept the gift, though. It was like a stone burning in my lap, weighted down by the fears of retribution.

“The ring, Princess,” my mother finally spoke. My ears perked, and I blinked away the wetness in my eyes. She hadn’t so much as hugged me since I woke.

But she would command me like any queen would.

It was in that moment that I came to realize King Airen and his fair Queen Emmeline were not my father and mother. They were my monarchs.

My rulers.

I lifted a hand toward the jewelry, the room falling silent. I hadn’t realized the band had stopped playing in anticipation until the clattering silverware of a party-goer captured my attention. Then, it was the faint cough in the back of the room. Lastly, the whispers of those who doubted me.

My fingers trembled. I expected the ring to lunge at my hand as it neared, snaking around it in this grand show that I was, as the Starisque Prince had implied, unworthy. The heat of my brothers’ stares burned into my side, but it was my father’s who awaited my fate with a searing glare. He expected me to fail. I knew what would happen if this night turned to terror—if I was marked a heretic with a mark to prove it. He would make me an example, much like the elf Prince Perciliphus mocked during his speech.

When my skin grazed the cool metal, it did not bite me. It didn’t burn like the fires of the Firstborn Goddess’ hellish underworld. Rumors of what magic did to a sane mind coursed through my veins, and I feared the truth. I feared what it would mean to me as a blade plunged into my back—likely at the hands of my brother who had a name to prove. A crown to earn.

I accepted the ring in my palm and eyed it before picking it up and hovering my right pointer finger through the opening. The purple stone settled in the head was pure, much as Prince Perciliphus had implied. It was unlike any gem I’d gazed upon. The glimmering amethyst cast a royal purple hue that seemed to glow from within. Like delicate lavender in the depths of a storm.

As I slipped my finger through, my skin pricked with the cold air. Startled, I tried to pull it free, but it clung to my skin as if it had a will of its own. Panic clenched around my heart, but I bit my tongue.

Dread swelled in my chest as my finger burned like the three hells the Firstborn had been cast into. I rested my hand on my lap to conceal the tremble, the guard taking a step back as the room eyed me in anticipation. I turned to capture my father’s gaze, his expression impassive. Disappointed, almost.

“Well, Your Grace?” the Starisque prince breathed, only loud enough for us to hear.

I blinked away the terror, swallowing the pain and looked him head-on. “Just a chill,” I lied with a barely-quivering voice. “It is a lovely gift, Your Grace, and a sign of good tidings. Thank you.”

Prince Perciliphus’ smiled, his cheeks warming as he bowed so low, he almost touched his toes. “The honor is mine, Princess.” Then, facing the king once more, he bowed for a second time. “The Starisque Crown makes their intention known, Your Majesty. An offer for arrangement shall be sent by messenger once I return home.”

I knew that meant months. I knew the tides could sway him to a merciful fate that pointed him away from my hand in marriage, but as he turned away, I knew it was the first offer to be made.

And behind every arrangement was coin, and an alliance.

Those were two things my father would not pass up.

“I need fresh air,” I said to nobody in particular as the music hastened its pace and the room broke out in celebration. Singing about the miracle of my pure blood, about the stasis I’d broken free of. Three years ago, I went to sleep as a spoiled princess. Days ago, I woke a should-be heretic who’d defied the odds.

I stood and rushed for the door, ignoring the calls of my guards or the disapproving calls of my father.

This damned ring burned, and so did my eyes.