Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 64872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 324(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 324(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
“Your mother told you?”
“She said at first it was instinct, from years of training with her father, the give and take of steps, the sliding and clashing of metal . . . and when she got hold of herself, she tried to get wounded by him—just enough to appear ultimately unskilled in this dance, too. But he thwarted all her attempts, checked himself, used magic to quietly spin her out of the way, making their dance look all the more beautiful. She finally decided to inflict self harm and—there, that moment. She swings too hard, her blade . . .”
It looks for a moment like Casimiria must have cut her arm. Yngvarr straightens sharply, along with the king and queen, but Anastasius throws his blade, making hers shoot out of her grip, and clamps his hand down on her arm, whisking her into a dance of close combat. She twists and turns and he is in control of it all, until finally he lets go, and there’s no evidence of blood on her sleeve.
“He used a vitalian spell to heal her, to keep her performance exceptional.”
To keep her from being eliminated as she wished.
Music comes to an abrupt stop and Casimiria finishes with one final spin, prompted by the crown prince. She stares angrily into his eyes and his eyebrow quirks, daring her to be so bold as to try such a thing again.
She turns stiffly and finishes with a respectful bow to the king and queen. Prins Yngvarr sidles through spectators and follows her stomping footsteps over the estate and once more into the black forest.
“Did she mention this, too?” I ask, unable to stop myself as we trail after him. Quin’s expression tightens. He glances briefly my way before returning his focus to the prins. “No,” he says after a pause, voice low. “But perhaps some memories, maybe even the best ones, are harder to share.”
They make you feel more. Wish more. Hurt more.
Casimiria keeps glancing over her shoulder at Prins Yngvarr as she ploughs her way to the cabin. There, in the glade, she finally stops.
He pads over damp grass until he’s right behind her, eyes trained on her sleeve, where he spies the slice. He reaches towards it and drops his hand again. “Did it hurt? The cut?”
She sighs irritably. “It hurt more that he used a spell to fix it.”
“He wants you to stay in the selection.”
She twists around with a laugh of disgust. “He only did it to spite me. For yesterday.”
“You really don’t want to be chosen?”
She scoffs. “I’d rather choose who I . . .”
“Why participate in the first place?”
“My father was compelled to send me here, as were all ministers their eligible daughters. This marriage is business after all. You’re a hostage, you should understand it well.”
He grimaces behind his mask.
After a shared frustrated pause, Casimiria takes Prins Yngvarr by the arm and uses magical winds to lift them onto the cabin roof. “The stars will be coming out soon.”
Quin flies me up too and I perch myself on one of the corners. He pauses, staring at the space where I’d hurriedly ripped myself out of his arms, and quietly glides across to the opposite corner. The distance between us may be mere yards, but it feels vast. I hate it and need it.
I swivel inwards towards the pair. They’re speaking but I don’t hear the words. As if in King Yngvarr’s memory, he recalls shared conversation but no longer its content—it doesn’t matter, what matters is they’re here together, talking with ease, taking in the darkened sky and the stars beginning to glint through it.
“Wait for it.” Casimiria’s words reach my ears, and Quin and I—and Prins Yngvarr—follow her pointed finger to the east. “The luminarium runs a night service.”
Suddenly the sky blooms with swirls of light rising into the sky, twirling and twisting in a beautiful display of magic. There’s a sharp flutter in my stomach and my mind fills with a memory. Quin and I perched on a rooftop, sharing his cloak to keep warm, the lights of lovers dancing around the city while I slap the violet oak flutette against his chest, my nervous breath stuck in my throat.
My breath sticks similarly now, and I glance over at Quin whose silver hair is fluttering with a breeze, his expression pensive as he stares towards the sky.
As if he senses me, he starts to look my way. I dart my eyes back to the prins and Casimiria, and untangle the silver ribbon I’ve absently wound around my finger.
Quin’s gaze is a hot shiver over my profile; I drop my freed fingers to my side, the side hidden from his view, and squeeze my cloak.
Prins Yngvarr’s voice drops in the space between him and Casimiria. “You said you’d rather choose . . . What type of person would they be?”