“Do you enjoy your cell, girl?” Tiberias says, his kingly voice filling the room. The threat in his words is plain as day, but still I stand. He cocks his head, staring at me like I’m an experiment to puzzle over.
“What do you want with me?” I manage to force out.
The queen leans down next to him. “I told you, she’s Red through and through—” But the king waves her off like he would a fly. She purses her lips and draws back, hands clasped tightly together. Serves her right.
“What I want concerning you is impossible,” Tiberias snaps. His glare smolders, like he’s trying to burn me up.
I remember the queen’s words. “Well, I’m not sorry you can’t kill me.”
The king chuckles. “They didn’t say you were quick.”
Relief floods through me like a cool wind through trees. Death does not wait for me here. Not yet.
The king throws down a stack of papers, all of them covered in writing. The top sheet has the usual information, including my name, birth date, parents, and the little brown smear that is my blood. My picture is there too, the one on my identification card. I stare down at myself, into bored eyes sick of waiting in line to have my picture taken. How I wish I could jump into the photo, into the girl whose only problems were conscription and a hungry belly.
“Mare Molly Barrow, born November seventeenth, 302 of the New Era, to Daniel and Ruth Barrow,” Tiberias recites from memory, laying my life bare. “You have no occupation and are scheduled for conscription on your next birthday. You attend school sparingly, your academic test scores are low, and you have a list of offenses that would land you in prison in most cities. Thievery, smuggling, resisting arrest, to name but a few. All together you are poor, rude, immoral, unintelligent, impoverished, bitter, stubborn, and a blight upon your village and my kingdom.”
The shock of his blunt words takes a moment to sink in, but when it does, I don’t argue. He’s entirely right.
“And yet,” he continues, rising to his feet. This close, I can see his crown is deathly sharp. The points can kill. “You are also something else. Something I cannot fathom. You are Red and Silver both, a peculiarity with deadly consequences you cannot understand. So what am I to do with you?”
Is he asking me? “You could let me go. I wouldn’t say a word.”
The queen’s sharp laughter cuts me off. “And what about the High Houses? Will they keep silent as well? Will they forget the little lightning girl in a red uniform?”
No. No one will.
“You know my advice, Tiberias,” the queen adds, her eyes on the king. “And it will solve both our problems.”
It must be bad advice, bad for me, because Cal clenches a fist. The movement draws my eye and I finally look at him fully. He remains still, stoic and quiet, as I’m sure he’s been trained to do, but fire burns behind his eyes. For a moment, he meets my gaze but I look away before I can call out and ask him to save me.
“Yes, Elara,” the king says, nodding at his wife. “We cannot kill you, Mare Barrow.” Not yet hangs in the air. “So we are going to hide you in plain sight where we can watch you, protect you, and attempt to understand you.”
The way his eyes gleam makes me feel like a meal about to be devoured.
“Father!” the word bursts from Cal, but his brother—the paler, leaner prince—grabs him by the arm, holding him back from protesting further. He has a calming effect and Cal steps back in line.
Tiberias goes on, ignoring his son. “You are no longer Mare Barrow, a Red daughter of the Stilts.”
“Then who am I?” I ask, my voice shaking with dread, thinking of all the awful things they can do to me.
“Your father was Ethan Titanos, general of the Iron Legion, killed when you were an infant. A soldier, a Red man, took you for his own and raised you in the dirt, never telling you your true parentage. You grew up believing you were nothing, and now, thanks to chance, you are made whole again. You are Silver, a lady of a lost High House, a noble with great power, and one day, a princess of Norta.”
Try as I might, I can’t hold back a surprised yelp. “A Silver—a princess?”
My eyes betray me, flying to Cal. A princess must marry a prince.
“You will marry my son Maven and you’ll do it without putting a toe out of line.”
I swear I hear my jaw hit the floor. A wretched, embarrassing sound escapes my mouth as I search for something to say, but I’m honestly speechless. In front of me, the younger prince looks equally confused, sputtering just as loudly as I want to. This time, it’s Cal’s turn to restrain him, though his eyes are on me.
The young prince manages to find his voice. “I don’t understand,” he blurts out, shrugging off Cal. He takes quick steps toward his father. “She’s—why—?” Usually I’d be offended, but I have to agree with the prince’s reservations.
“Quiet,” his mother snaps. “You will obey.”
He glares at her, every inch the young son rebelling against his parents. But his mother hardens and the prince backs down, knowing her wrath and power as well as I do.
My voice is faint, barely audible. “This seems a bit . . . much.” There’s simply no other way to describe it. “You don’t want to make me a lady, much less a princess.”
Tiberias’s face cracks into a grim smile. Like the queen, his teeth are blindingly white. “Oh but I do, my dear. For the first time in your rudimentary little life, you have a purpose.” The jab feels like a slap across the face. “Here we are, in the early stages of a badly timed rebellion, with terrorist groups or freedom fighters, or whatever the hell these idiotic Red fools call themselves, blowing things up in the name of equality.”