She peeked at August. The only thing that could possibly save her was a pardon from him.
He stared back at her. His gaze was steely, his eyes dark with the evidence of little sleep. He didn’t even look angry, just . . . empty. Like he couldn’t even bring himself to care. He would not help her.
“They were supposed to be our allies,” she said quietly, turning away from August. She cleared her throat so the whole room could hear. “You sent me there to help them, and then you punish me when I do.”
“Your loyalty should always be to us, not to them.” The judge pushed some papers aside. “I’ve heard all I need to hear.”
“No you have not!” A familiar voice rang through the courtroom. Iria turned with a start to find Bethania standing among the seated crowd, fists clenched. She was so angry that her wild dark curls were practically vibrating. Iria knew the stance well. Bethania was always clenching her fists in the year she and Iria had dated—they’d driven each other crazy.
“Quiet, please,” the judge said.
“She served the warriors loyally for years,” Bethania shouted. Iria had been a warrior for only four short years, but Bethania was prone to exaggeration. “You sent her on impossible assignments, ask her to make friends of the Ruined, and then punish her when she does just that? What kind of person would have stood by while their friend was murdered?”
“Will someone escort her from the courtroom, please?” the judge asked, pinching his brow with two fingers.
Two guards grabbed Bethania’s arms and began dragging her to the doors. She struggled against them.
“You’re as bad as Lera if you do this!” she shouted. “You’re cowards!” The guards pulled her out the door, her shouts fading as they dragged her away.
Iria rubbed her wet cheek against her shoulder. Given the stony stares of the rest of the courtroom, there were not many who agreed with Bethania. Even her parents just stood there silently.
“Iria Ubino, I find you guilty on all three charges,” the judge said. “You will serve a lifetime sentence at Central Olso Prison.” He glared at where Bethania had disappeared. “I would just like to point out that if you were charged with this crime in Lera, you would be sentenced to death. You should count yourself lucky to be a citizen of Olso, and I hope you will take this time to reflect on your crimes.”
A few people clapped. The sound rang in Iria’s ears as she ducked her head and closed her eyes.
“Let’s go, prisoner,” a guard barked.
She tried to hide her tears as they led her away.
SIX
CAS SPENT THE weeks after returning to the castle assessing the damage to the building. It wasn’t nearly as bad as it could have been—the warriors must have extinguished the flames not long after he escaped. A lot of cleaning and repainting had to be done, and several rooms needed to be completely refurnished.
The royal suite, his parents’ rooms, were apparently in perfect condition. He hadn’t gone in to confirm for himself.
“The maid staff would like to know if they should start cleaning the rooms,” Cas’s new secretary, Xavier, said. He stood in front of Cas’s desk, holding a paper and pen and looking at Cas like he didn’t know this question sent panic shooting up Cas’s spine.
“Um,” Cas said, and could almost hear his father’s annoyed sigh. He would be so disappointed in Cas in almost every way, but he certainly wouldn’t like his uncommanding tone.
“They have one of the keys, but they weren’t sure if they should go in . . .” Xavier didn’t finish his sentence. He knew Cas had the other key.
“Let’s—” He cut himself off before saying wait. It was dumb to wait. He hoped that eventually Em would return; those rooms were supposed to be for the king and queen. He could at least have the suite cleared out and cleaned. He didn’t have to move in right away.
“Tomorrow,” he said, ignoring the burst of nerves in his stomach. “I will go through the rooms tonight, and the staff can clean them tomorrow. Ask them to box up all my parents’ belongings and put them in storage.”
Xavier nodded and wrote something on his paper.
“That’s all for today,” Cas said. “Have a good evening.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Xavier bowed his head and walked out of the office.
Cas got up from his desk and followed Xavier out. Guards trailed behind him. He still wasn’t used to having guards follow him everywhere, and he hoped Galo would ease up a bit after they got settled.
He dropped by his room for the key, then went directly to one of the doors to the royal suite. “I’m going in by myself,” he said to the guards without turning around. He thought maybe he’d said it so he wouldn’t chicken out again.
He stuck the key in the lock and pushed open the door. He was entering through the sitting room that connected the king’s and queen’s suites, and it was darker and quieter than he’d ever seen before. The curtains were drawn, a tiny sliver of late-afternoon light dancing across the gray rug.
His parents hadn’t used the sitting room much, and it was as pristine as ever, a blanket neatly folded on the couch, the bright red chairs so stiff it appeared as though they were brand-new.
He turned left, in the direction of his father’s rooms. Sometimes the royal couple shared the rooms to the left, leaving the other rooms for special guests or children. But his parents had never shared a bedroom, as far as Cas knew.
He walked through the room that served as his father’s closet and dressing room and pushed open the door to the bedroom.
The curtains had been left open, bathing the room in orange light. Cas’s eyes skipped over the dresser, the wardrobe, the chair in the corner with a book open on top of it. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for. Something to take with him? Something to remember his father by other than this legacy of death and war?
Maybe he shouldn’t take anything at all. Was he allowed to miss someone who had destroyed so many lives? Was he allowed to remember the good things?
He walked to the dresser and pulled open the top drawer. There were cuff links and tie clips and a few other things inside, but nothing special. The second drawer was bigger, and Cas pushed aside some scarves to find a stack of leather-bound notebooks.
He pulled one out. He was almost certain his father wouldn’t have kept journals—deep self-reflection wasn’t his father’s specialty—and he opened to find that he was right. They were sketches—of the castle, people Cas didn’t know, and a younger version of his mother. He’d often seen his father doodling in these notebooks when Cas was younger. He said it relaxed him.
Cas found several sketches of himself, as a baby, then as a toddler, then at about age five. He was chubby-cheeked and smiling in the latter, and though it was just a pencil sketch, he looked very much like he did in the professional paintings they had hanging around the castle.
The pages were blank after that. His father must have given up the hobby at that point.
Cas grabbed all the sketchbooks, five in total, and tucked them under his arm. He didn’t have the strength to search through all of them right now, but maybe he’d find some one day.
He went to his mother’s room next. The scent of her perfume still lingered in the air, and the smell brought such powerful memories with it that he had to stop in the doorway for a moment. He closed his eyes and took in a few shaky breaths.
When the urge to crumple to the floor had passed, he stepped inside. His mother’s room was more cluttered—bottles and creams spread across several surfaces, four different books open and scattered across the room, and various pieces of clothing tossed on chairs.