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

Clouds promising rain obscure the sun by the time I emerge from the darkness of the tavern. I peer up at the window Bexley bathed in front of. Her harsh words claw at my mind. I was a commander, leading an army of soldiers, loyal to me because of my swift action. These last few weeks have been suffocating as I navigate the politics that come with the throne, trying to behave as a king would. And yet lords—even pathetic ones like Danthrin—plot right under my nose. That should be my first sign that I’m failing miserably.

The only advantage I have right now is that they think I’m blind to what’s happening in the east. But will I be able to play the ignorant king through tonight’s assembly?

“At least your brother had the decency to wait until dark to lurk in squalor,” Boaz hisses, suddenly behind me.

Fuck, he’s like a homing pigeon.

I pull my cowl forward to hide deeper. “I’m not in the mood.” My voice carries enough bite to warn Boaz.

“Yes, Your Highness.” He dips his head, his words curt. “I’ve dispatched your message with the taillok, and Prince Tyree has been moved to new quarters.”

“Thank you.” I take in Port Street in the afternoon. Plenty of people mill about—some visiting the shops, others lingering outside the brothels, while the rest share quiet words within small groups. It’s as busy as usual, though the air is thick with apprehension. That likely has to do with the Cirilean soldiers roaming the streets. That, or the rotting corpse hanging from a light post on the corner. The Silver Mage arrived this morning, and the Seacadorians who arrived with it can’t seem to look away.

Zander’s letter said the Ybarisans used the trade routes that led here, and that there was too much poison to control. How many of these mortals have come across it already? How many already have tainted blood? Several of them could be carrying poison within their pockets as I stand here, or they could have hidden it beneath a rock. There are too many rocks in this city to look under them all.

If I were to corner each one, I’m sure their pulses would race. But how much would that be from guilt rather than fear of being questioned by the king?

At least they fear me.

Bexley is right, I’ve wasted too much time playing by the rules when no one else seems to be.

“I need you to seal the gates and port immediately, but quietly. Stall anyone trying to leave and let no one in. No messengers are to leave unless their letters bear my seal. Any letters that arrive are to be seized and brought to me. And if anyone attempts to wield their positions to contradict these orders, punish them accordingly.”

“But Islorians arrive every day ahead of the wedding and Hudem—”

“No one enters. No one leaves.”

Boaz dips his head. “Your Highness.”

“Also, gather your thirty most trustworthy and skilled of the guard—discreetly—and have them meet in the main stables in an hour. I must pay a visit to the soldiers outside the gate.” Fates, I wish I had the Legion at my disposal. Their skill was like no other.

Boaz bows. “As you wish, Your Highness. But may I ask what this is about?”

“Reminding everyone that I am king, and this is my family’s realm.” I march for my horse.



It always smells of piss and shit down here.

My nose curls as I march along the narrow hall of the dungeon, rodents scurrying from my steady pace. Normally, a wave of pity hits me for the guards stationed in this hole, but now I feel only determination as we stop before the solid door.

“Open it and leave us,” I command of the guard. “And bring a light in for her.”

“Your Highness.” He rattles the key in the lock and then pushes the door. It swings open with a creak. Peering in first and, I assume, satisfied by what he sees, he hangs a lantern on a hook before moving out of the way.

His heavy footfalls echo down the hall.

Wendeline sits in the corner, on her pallet. Her white-and-gold garb is gone, replaced by a torn and soiled shift. She’s lost weight, her exposed arms and legs spindly. Gray-threaded hair that was normally combed neatly now hangs oily and limp. In the opposite corner, where a plate of bread and broth sit, two mice dine.

They make me think of Mika and his pocket of treasure for the castle cat.

“Was it worth it?” The weeks in the dungeon have not been kind, that much anyone can see.

Wendeline peers up at me with vacant eyes. I remember when news first reached us, of a caster arriving by ship, a baby in her arms. My father sent the guards at once to fetch them and bring them before him. He wanted to assess her intentions.

We learned of her plight—to save the elemental baby with an affinity to Malachi. A death sentence in Ybaris. My parents welcomed them both, offered them safe haven, and positions of importance within the kingdom.

How could she knowingly lead my parents to their deaths?

My anger roils with just the thought. “Would you do it again?”

“Would you like the truth or a lie?” Her voice is raspy, weak.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Burn marks mar the bottoms of her feet, and a stained bandage wraps where her pinky finger is missing. Boaz said his men had only begun their work when I ordered them to stop, betting time might serve me better than dismemberment. “You did not heal yourself.”

“That is not possible.”

I sigh, wandering farther in. “Are you willing to talk now?”

“As I have already told your men since the first day, His Highness was innocent of all conspiracy.”

“That’s old news.” I lean against the stone wall. “Tell me about the end of the blood curse.”

Her eyes flare, but she remains quiet.

I slide out the letter, opening it, feigning to read the message already emblazoned in my mind. “Romeria and Zander have found a secret city in the Venhorn Mountains. Zander’s need for blood is all but gone within it.”

“Is that from Romeria?”

“And my brother.” I hesitate. “Do you wish to see for yourself?”

She clears her throat. “Very much so, yes.”

Maybe some goodwill will work better for me than torture. I pass it to her.

Her hands tremble as she reads, her lips moving softly over the words. “Stonekeep … Fates.”

“You did not know about this.”

“No.” She emphasizes that with a headshake. Wendeline was always adept at veiling her feelings behind an impenetrable wall of caster ability. But now that wall is gone, revealing the turmoil within her—of surprise, hope, relief.

Of dread.

“How is it that this elemental caster they are with does?”

“Gesine spent years studying scripture. She knows more about prophecy than anyone, save for perhaps the Master Scribe herself.”

“And is this Gesine working with Queen Neilina?”

Wendeline shakes her head. “She and Ianca escaped Neilina with the help of casters.”

“Gesine and Ianca. There are two casters with them?” Fucking Tyree.

“One caster and one seer, by the time they arrived in Cirilea. I do not know what became of the seer.”