The Conquering, page 11:

  The day the stewards announced the wyverns’ intent to take four of the gold girls, young Kheovaria stood among the listening crowd, her face stoic and as brave as ever. It wasn’t until far later that Varuht found her crying at the cliff-side, above the crashing waves.

  “I am afraid,” she told him as I watched from afar. Always from afar. “My mother cried last night while she thought I slept. She’s afraid they’ll drain the gold from my body until I am no more. So few are ever seen again. I am afraid, Vincent. I am so afraid.”

  “I won’t let them take you,” Varuht said, as if he could make such a promise. As if they would not kill him for even attempting.

  She laughed, a strangled sound almost like a sob. “You are a foolish boy.”

  “On my honor, I vow to protect you.”

  She smiled, stretching the still-damp lines down her golden cheeks, and leaned across the space between them to press her lips hard and desperate against his. His fingers dove into her hair, holding her like he’d never go.

  The night of the ball arrives with a darkened azure sky scattered with pink and orange clouds underlit by the setting sun. The jagged tip of the Spire mountain protruding from behind the palace pierces that sky like an ominous inky shadow.

  The spring air bites at my exposed skin, even wrapped in my cloak, as I follow Clara and Lilianna up the palace steps. I curl my fingers around my mother’s yellow sapphire pendant at my throat. It shouldn’t give me comfort; I never knew the woman. Even so, the fact that it’s there, a piece left of my blood family, gives me something to hold on to.

  Two guards, faces shrouded by sharp-edged helmets, pull open the ceiling-high black doors inlaid with the sword-pierced head of a wyvern. Both have all their fingers. Neither are Ray. Eight years, but I’ll never stop looking.

  Inside, nobles line the halls, just as they had for High Court. Small groups of them peel away and disappear further down the hall, towards the ballroom.

  “Are we late?” Lilianna whispers. “Look at them all, and not a carriage behind us.”

  “We have arrived at precisely the correct time,” Clara says without a flicker of hesitation and leads us to a door blocked by another guard—he, too, with all ten fingers. Clara presents the documents of my name and birthright. A noble, gold-marked mother. A peasant father exulted to honorary lordship by the King himself.

  I hold my breath as the guard examines both. I am certainly the only half-peasant to step foot upon the palace’s social floors, much less present to the Queen for approval to enter society as an eligible noble bride.

  The guard clears his throat. He steps aside and pulls open the door.

  I let out my breath, hardly believing it’s happening, that he didn’t refuse me.

  “Remember our lessons and our mantra.” Clara pulls the cloak from my shoulders and the rush of chilly air sends a shudder rolling through me. She touches the pins in my hair, nods sharply, and waves me forward.

  I can’t help but hesitate, but there will be no running from this.

  Composure. Commitment. Conviction.

  I lift my chin, set my shoulders, and step across the threshold into a long, narrow sitting room. This is what I want. A chance to earn my freedom.

  Murals of warriors battling wyverns line the walls. Dozens of ornately dressed young women mull about inside while grey-clad servants weave between them, carrying trays of champagne and appetizers. Everywhere is the gentle clinking of glass and dishes and the soft murmur of voices.

  The door clicks shut behind me.

  One of the young women nearest glances in my direction. Her eyes widen as her gaze sweeps over my dress and her face falls. She touches the shoulder of the woman beside her and the whole cluster turns. The same expression spreads from one face to another. Across the room, like a wave, all heads turn to stare.

  I press a hand against the sheer fabric over my waist.

  The other women wear dresses that highlight their gold. One woman’s two-piece gown exposes the splash of gold across her abdomen. Another woman’s dress is an asymmetric periwinkle blue with one long, sparkling sleeve down one arm and the other bare to expose a twisting pattern of gold from elbow to shoulder. Another’s is cut short to expose several patches of gold on her ankles.

  Not one has the amount of gold I do. Not even close.

  I am the only one almost naked.

  I take a small step back. My bare golden arms prickle with goosebumps. Slits up either side of my skirts expose the gold markings on both my legs. The waist of my bodice is entirely sheer, my neckline plunging. The only solid coverage is the high-backed collar concealing my burn scars. Everything but my breasts and pelvis lies exposed.

  Back at the house, Clara assured me everyone else dressed like this, to highlight every inch of gold they possess.

  I have never felt so naked in my life.

  A shrill laugh draws my gaze.

  A young woman, tall and elegant, approaches from the other end of the room with long, cascading auburn hair. If not for her piercing jade-colored eyes and haughty smile, I might’ve found the sight a comfort, as this woman’s dress almost looks like mine. A sheer waist, bare arms, and a plunging neckline reveal dots of gold scattered across her skin like glittering freckles. One large patch marks her wrist and each step reveals another on each ankle. I recognize her immediately from High Court—Lord Graff’s daughter, the Lady Nicoletta.

  Worst of all, she is breathtakingly beautiful. I cannot imagine how any man wouldn’t choose her. She has the lineage—the Graffs are highly respected. She has the gold. She has the looks. And if I fail against her…

  I will not fail. I won’t marry Maurus.

  “Look ladies, Miss Aubrey of Gallant finally graces us with her presence.” Nicoletta’s gaze flicks over me, and I don’t miss that she chose ‘miss’ as my salutation over my proper title.

  Two young women flank her. One is Janine Hoad, Lord Hoad’s niece and rumored fiancée of Heir Vale—though I see no engagement necklace at her neck. The other I don’t recognize.

  Nicoletta frowns and pouts ruby red lips. “Pity, I had somehow expected… more.”

  My stomach contracts. I wish I could wrap myself back up in my cloak. I wish I could run. And I don’t know what to say. Clara had been very specific about not saying a word unless it’s a compliment or a greeting. I force myself into a curtsy. “Good evening, Lady Graff.”

  “Oh!” She raises a lace-gloved hand to that scarlet mouth. The kingdom’s color—we should’ve painted my lips like that. “She speaks, too. How precious. I’d always assumed your stepmother kept you locked away all these years because you were mute—you never speak a word at High Court. It must be for another reason, then. I can’t wait to find out what.”

  Janine bites her lip and glances between us. She’s always smiled politely at High Court, but we’ve never spoken. I’ve never been allowed.

  The other girl snickers.

  My cheeks burn and I open my mouth but no sound comes out. I haven’t the slightest idea of what to say. No thank you? Thank you? Pardon me? Clara warned me Nicoletta would be my biggest competition, as she’s been out in society for years and has thus refused all marriage offers—presumably waiting for the Prince. But, Skies, Clara hasn’t prepared me for this.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  “Oh, dear.” Nicoletta’s face takes on mock sympathy. “Are you just… shy?”

  Every word feels like a trap. To refute feels wrong, to say nothing feels wrong. I am so clearly unprepared I want to scream.

  “Pity,” Nicoletta goes on. “I knew if you were so hidden away, you had to be a disappointment. What Prince wants a shy, poorly socialized half-peasant? None that I know of. And I do know him.” Her tongue glides over her white front teeth. “Intimately.”

  My body is scalding.

  “Aww, look you at you, blushing. You’re like a little fawn who’s only just lost her spots. So bright eyed and innocent. Mmm.” Nicoletta smiles like she savors something sweet, but her eyes soften with a faint flicker of sadness—no, pity. “You don’t even know what to be afraid of yet.”

  Enough. I want this. I want the Prince. I owe it to Father to do this. I make myself suck in a painful breath. I force my mouth into a smile, smooth the muscles in my face. Breathe out. Composure. Commitment. Conviction. “You’re too kind.”

  Nicoletta’s eyes dance like she welcomes the challenge.

  The door at the back of the room opens and the din of laughing chatter, music, and clinking glasses filters in from the ballroom beyond. “The Lady Nicoletta Graff, daughter of Lord Graff,” an announcer beside the door calls out.

  “See you around, little fawn,” Nicoletta says with a sniff and sashays her way to the door and out into the ballroom. She doesn’t look back.

  The door clunks shut behind her, descending us into eerie silence again.

  Janine Hoad grimaces and tugs at one of her tight black curls, stretching it down to shoulder length. “She’s not so bad once you get to know her, but she can be pretty awful if she decides she doesn’t like you.” She has a heart-shaped face with delicate bone structure and warm brown skin.

  “Nicoletta likes me,” the other girl says, tossing her own dark brown hair over her pale shoulder as she smirks at me.

  “Only because you gave her one of your diamond bracelets,” Janine says.

  The other girl flushes.

  “She was really awful to Frannie before that,” Janine says with a conspiratorial tilt of her head. “Oh! My apologies. We never introduced ourselves. I feel as though I already know you since all the, well… Anway, I’m Janine Hoad and this is Francesca Brooks.”

  Francesca dips in a shallow curtsy. I recognize the name and try to remember what Clara said about her. Something about being the daughter of a jewel trader who’s only recently ascended from the bottom of noble society into wealth. New money and it shows with two heavily bejeweled necklaces, rings on every one of her fingers, and several bracelets around each wrist. Clara would call it gaudy.

  I return the curtsy. “Pleasure to meet you both.”

  “The Lady Francesca Brooks,” the announcer at the door calls. No heritage to announce.

  Francesca’s face blanches white. “Oh, that’s me.”

  “Good luck. You’ll do fine.” Janine pats her friend on the arm.

  Francesca doesn’t look like she believes it, but she nods shakily and hurries out the door at the back of the room.

  “Did you know this is how they’d do it?” Janine asks.

  I’m not sure if she means this interaction, or the steps of the introduction process. I haven’t the slightest idea what to say about the former, so I go with the latter. “My stepmother said there would be a waiting room, and then we greet the queen.”

  Janine laughs. “Well, I knew nothing about it until we got the invitation letter yesterday, oh was Mother in a tizzy after that. She hadn’t taken part last time, when it was King Giraldus seeking a bride. She’d been too young to be eligible, missed it by three years. So I really know nothing!”

  I can’t believe Janine can laugh over such a shock. I can’t imagine Clara surprised at anything, but if she were... Clara wouldn’t be laughing, that’s for sure. “You’re blessed to have such a humorous outlook.”

  Janine’s face draws conspiratorial again. “Do you want to know a secret?”

  I startle. A secret? “I—”

  “It’s not that big of a secret. The truth is, I don’t really care about any of this. Mother insists I have to participate because what eligible woman wouldn’t? Every dance with the Prince means even more prestigious marriage opportunities—you know how it is. Anyway, I’m basically already engaged to Arthur Vale, so I don’t see what the fuss is about it.” She touches her throat where no engagement chain hangs, only a delicate Hoad house pendant. Has she removed it, or are the engagement rumors not so true?

  “Oh,” I say. “You’re very blessed.”

  The door opens again. “The Lady Janine Hoad, niece of Lord Hoad.”

  “That’s me.” Janine’s face breaks into a radiant smile. “I’ll see you on the other side.”

  It takes over an hour for the room to empty through the doorway to the ballroom. No one else speaks to me. With every name, my anxiety grows until only I stand alone at the door, my fingers curled around my mother’s necklace, hoping it will open one more time.

  The handle turns, the door clunks. The sound of music and the hum of hushed banter fill the air as the door swings wide.

  An expansive ballroom stretches beyond the doorframe. Women in elegant gowns and men with embellished waistcoats and sharply fitted coats of varying styles.

  “The Lady Aubrey, daughter of Sir William Gallant.”

  The room beyond falls silent as every head turns in my direction.

  My heart catches somewhere in my throat, and my muscles seize. Never have I seen so many people. A hundred carriages must have supplied this many people. More even. So many dressed in rich fabrics in a rainbow of colors, sparkling with jewels and pearls. All staring at me.

  My stepmother stands among the crowd. Her thin, arched eyebrows raise. Smile, Clara mouths with thin, tight lips.

  Fighting every lit nerve in my body, I set my posture and smile.

  Composure, commitment, conviction.

  With one step, I cross the threshold from my quiet prospective life and into the realm of high society.

  The waiting crowd forms a channel and the last suitress to leave our muted chamber is already at the end of that channel where it meets the foot of the throne. Everywhere I glance, eyes stare—there to judge and rank we who deign to pursue the Prince. Clara warned me of this, yet I drown under the scrutiny and roving gazes over my near nakedness. The not-so-subtle gasps behind fans. The rise of male brows and the hum of evaluation.

  No way out, except through. I walk up the channel of ogling leers.

  The young woman ahead of me dips into a deep curtsy at the raised throne and bows her head.

  The Queen looks down upon the woman from her ornate throne made of pale stone and covered with gilt on the arms and back. Her white gown is belted tight around her waist by thick gold plates and the skirt pools down the first two steps to her throne. The Kingdom’s crest, a huge slain wyvern pierced through the skull with a sword, adorns the silken fabric in glistening golden thread.

  The Queen watches the woman at her feet strain to maintain perfect stillness in her deep bend of respect. The Queen lifts her hand from the arm of the throne and extends it for the ring kiss I know is expected—but the girl falters, stumbling slightly. The recovery is quick, but the Queen withdraws her hand, the damage done.

  A guard touches the girl’s shoulder and sends her out into the ballroom, and with her pivot I can see her hands shaking and the slide of a tear down her cheek. She knows. At least she has enough composure to not fall apart completely.

  I keep walking, every step measured. Every step perfect. My heart pounds against my ribs. I will not trip. I calculate every step, careful of my slippered toe catching the hem of my gown. I will not trip.

  Composure. Commitment. Conviction.

  As I draw closer, the Prince comes into view beside the Queen. He sits angled away, smiling and muttering under his breath to Heir Vale. Maybe because of the hush, maybe because of the subtle gasps in response to the girl’s failings, Prince Emory glances over his shoulder. His gaze falls on me and his smile slips away.

  Five more steps.

  My chest twists. Is he disappointed? Horrified? Did he expect more of me? My head grows thick and fuzzy and my vision narrows.

  The Prince’s gaze descends my body.

  Another step. My heart pounds.

  His gaze slides up my body to my face. His lips part with a word I cannot hear. And then he smiles. A broad, boyish grin, almost like the one I used to know so well.

  Fluttering lightness erupts inside me.

  Two more steps.

  With an erratic, poorly stifled gasp for air, I straighten my spine and face the Queen.

  The most powerful woman in the Kingdom sits upon this gilded throne. No one speaks ill of the Queen, at least not outside tightly closed doors. I want to stare at her. I want to drink her in. I want to be her.

  Last step, this one onto the lowest step of the dais.

  There I curtsy so deeply I nearly kneel at the Queen’s feet, a gesture I’ve practiced thousands of times before—to Clara’s screaming, naked in the freezing cold of winter and swaddled in furs in the sweltering heat of late summer, to far worse than this crowd. I bow my head and freeze. My muscles strain, my balance teeters at the very edge of my control. I do not twitch or shake. I am perfect.

  The Queen’s hand passes into my line of sight, nails painted in delicate interwoven flames of gold leaf. A wide gold marriage bangle, sparkling with tiny rubies and diamonds, slides down her wrist to the base of her hand.

  I cannot breathe. I touch my palm to the underside of the Queen’s and gently kiss the dazzling faceted ruby ring on the Queen’s longest finger.

  The Queen’s fingers clamp onto mine.

  A jolt sears through me. I don’t know what to do. This wasn’t in the training. The Queen is supposed to withdraw her hand and I’m supposed to stand and back away with my head bowed. My veins burn with panic—what did I do wrong? I scour every past second and cannot find the moment.

  “Rise and let me see you,” Queen Ophelia says, her voice soft and mellifluous.

  My knees shake as I straighten from my curtsy and I try to keep my arm relaxed enough to prevent any tremble to my fingers clasped in the Queen’s. I raise my face to hers, but keep my gaze respectfully lowered to no higher than the egg-sized ruby at her throat—held there by a golden chainmail engagement choker.

  Queen Ophelia smiles. “Lady Aubrey. Welcome to high society. You look so like your mother.”

  All the air whisks from my lungs. “Thank you, Your Majesty,” I, somehow, force from my chest in a breathy whisper.

  The Queen releases my hand.

  I curtsy deeply and take two steps back. Curtsy again. Then turn into the crowd as a member of high society. A potential bride of the Prince of Kheovaria.

  It’s only then, as I step beside my stepmother and into the parting crowd, that I dare a glance over my shoulder.

  Prince Emory is still watching me, and as our eyes meet, he smiles.

  Next… is the dancing.