A Queen of Thieves & Chaos (Fate & Flame, #3)

As if a stump wouldn’t remind everyone all the same.

In the end, I’m thankful for her cruel interference. If they’d cut off his hand, Priestess Wendeline would have had nothing to fix when we visited her that day. She took his pain away and gave him full use of it again.

Another traitor to the realm, according to rumor. What has become of the caster, I do not know. Some say she was burned in a fiery ball the night of the royal repast. Others insist she was executed along with the rest of Cirilea’s casters. And yet a few swear she remains locked in the dungeon beneath the castle.

“Thank the fates for that.” Corrin’s focus is on the looming doors of the throne room ahead, her face grim.

I lower my voice from prying ears. “Please tell me, once we walk through those doors, what should I expect?” Of anyone in the household, Corrin will speak truth without rolling it in sugar first.

She worries her lips. “A show of power and of new rule.”

That’s what I’m afraid of. “At my family’s expense?” We are a baker and three small children. We are no one. But perhaps that is the whole point. Our mortal lives mean nothing, and yet trading them will earn a lord’s loyalty. If Danthrin has a loyal bone in his body.

“It’s always at someone’s expense, isn’t it?”

That does not alleviate my surging panic. “And this king? Is he like the last one?” Not that I ever met King Zander, but it’s general knowledge throughout the castle that he was sympathetic to his mortal subjects and their plights.

Corrin’s attention flitters to the guard, who is ahead and likely out of easy listening. Still, she slows her pace and drops her voice to a whisper. “He is young and brash, and much prefers his sword to diplomacy. Soldiers revere him and will follow him anywhere, including to seize his brother’s crown.”

“Is he kind?” Sabrina complains about the infrequent visits, wishing things would return to normal, which tells me he can’t be cruel. I never wished for more evenings with Lord Danthrin, or any of the Islorians he passed me along to. I dreaded those nights and still wake in a cold sweat every time I relive them in my sleep.

Corrin’s lips purse. The night of the mutiny, she stormed into our room and told us to bolt the door. The next day, she returned and calmly announced that there was a new ruler. Beyond that, she has never outwardly taken sides and has warned me to follow suit, for my own good. “King Atticus has an easy charm, but do not mistake that for kindness. Mortals are being hanged every day now, by his command. Some in the streets, without trial. He does not share the same soft spot for our kind that his brother does.” She sighs. “I cannot say for certain how this will end, Gracen.”

“You and I both know how this will end.” With my family stuffed into a wagon and dragged back to Freywich. “Please, Corrin, we cannot go back there. I would rather we all—”

“Hush now!” she hisses, before I can utter such horrendous words out loud. “You will survive this, as you’ve survived everything else. But you must keep your head up and your brave face on. For their sake”—she nods toward Mika—“and for yours.”

“Even if I’m terrified?” Even if I’d rather jump into the river with my family than return to our old life?

“Especially then.” Her eyes flash to mine. “But whatever you do, do not lie to him.”

The two guards manning the enormous doors draw them open with ease, revealing the immense room and crowd beyond.

Nausea churns in my stomach. “Mika, stay by my side at all times, and do not say a single word,” I whisper.

Countless heads swivel, and my stomach tenses under the rapt attention of Islor’s lords and ladies, at least the ones who did not run home to safeguard their lands at the first signs of this poison. Most discount us immediately, but there are those who watch my little family tread along the marble aisle toward the steps, their keen interest on my children. I can guess what they see—the same thing Lord Danthrin hoped for when he acquired me: a high return on investment.

Even Mika senses the weight of the situation and falls back to cling to my leg as we walk forward, toward the stairs and the form seated above.

I take Corrin’s advice and channel the same courage I dug up when Princess Romeria offered me a position within the castle, knowing that if I said yes and then she changed her mind, if I somehow ended up back in Freywich, we would pay dearly for my disloyalty.

“Your Highness. The baker and her family, as requested,” Corrin calls out when we reach the bottom of the steps, followed by a deep curtsy.

I follow suit a split second later—a poor attempt, given the baby in my arms—and then right myself, keeping my focus on the swirls in the marble floor.

“Does the baker have a name?” a fluid but deep male voice asks.

After a moment’s pause and an elbow to the ribs from Corrin, I realize I’m supposed to answer.

“Gracen,” I croak and then clear the gruffness from my voice. “Your Highness.”

“You seem more interested in the pattern on the throne room floor than in your king, Gracen.” Humor laces his tone.

“I …” I falter at how to respond. How else am I supposed to behave?

“Look at him,” Corrin hisses.

My head snaps up as commanded until I meet the gaze boring down on me from above.

So this is the new king of Islor.

His muscular frame is partially slouched on the throne, his thighs splayed, a finger tracing his angular jaw, looking utterly bored by this event. But I imagine that’s by design. My father once said lords and ladies are more apt to dance like court jesters before an uninterested king when they want to win his favor.

He is even more handsome than Sabrina claimed. His golden-blond hair is cropped short, but the ends wisp up around his crown, as if begging for the chance to grow long enough to form plump curls. I heard he led the king’s army before and is said to be a proficient swordsman. His frame certainly suggests that. Corrin claimed he is young and brash. He’s young-looking, yes, but he could be a mortal thirty or an elven three hundred.

And his piercing blue eyes dissect me.

“How long have you been under my employ, Gracen?”

I don’t dare look away. “Since the Cirilean fair, Your Highness.” The best weeks of my children’s lives. I suppose all must come to an end.

“Since Princess Romeria stumbled upon you in the market and demanded you join the royal household?”

“She never demanded,” I manage around a hard swallow. Corrin told me not to lie.

His eyebrow arches. “No?”

I shake my head. “She asked if I’d like to come here, and I said I would. Your Highness.”

“Surrounded by soldiers carrying swords, with her children by her side, what else was my subject supposed to say?”