Page 11 of To Dance with Death

“Guards, please escort our new guests to the northern wing, where they will be shown their accommodations.”

Mr. Perov leads Sundar, Copelan, and me through the fortress—a taxing journey that’s about as bleak as the weather. Every hall looks the same, a monotony of shadows and old gray stone. Windows are sparse, as is the sun, and the sullenness befits my mood.

Upon entering the northern tower, Copelan and Sundar are shown rooms on the bottom floor, while I am led up a stairwell thatspirals to the very top of the tower itself, the pressure on my joints compounding with each step.

There the landing reveals three rooms. One for an attendant, and another for a lady’s maid, both of whom will be assigned to me within the hour. The largest room is mine.

When I enter, Mr. Perov directs two of the guards to remain outside my door.

Indefinitely.

I knew I would be a prisoner here, that my leash would be nearly as tight as a noose even before I taunted my father. I half expected my room to be little more than a cell, devoid of any comforts, so I am surprised when the floors are covered with layers of fur rugs, and the bed is plush and soft with velvet damask. The walls are a mix of wood and stone, and immediately Mr. Perov sets to lighting the hearth. The glow of it reflects onto the panes of the three narrow windows, though a chill still seeps through.

“You need not leave your room,” Mr. Perov tells me bluntly. “Dinner will be brought to you at six.”

“I’m surprised you’re feeding me at all,” I mutter.

“We all heard the Syndicate’s orders, Your Highness.”

Despite the honorific he’s forced to bestow upon me, the dull appraisal he rakes over me speaks of his derision.

“And if I need anything else? Who shall I ask?”

His only response is his departure halfway through my question, and the resounding click of a lock.

A prisoner indeed.

I throw off my cloak and examine the bruises left on my arm by my father’s grip. I wonder how many more he will inflict on me, knowing that they will heal before a month is out.

Now that I’m alone, weariness sinks into me, my bones growing heavy with it. Until now, I haven’t let myself sit with just how sick I feel, opting to brush it off if only to keep a good face in front of Copelan and Sundar, then the Syndicate. Or perhaps I fear that if I let how I’m really feeling show—how tired I really am, how I canbarely stomach my meals—no one will trust me to be useful. They will decide for me what I can and can’t do. The choice will no longer be mine.

I swipe a lock of damp hair from my forehead, breathing through the nausea that’s now in full swing. Except it only grows worse with worry. I can only pray Copelan and Sundar stay safe here, trapped as we are.

We just have to survive,I tell myself.

But that isn’t all, is it? Our hope rests on Anton’s return, and we have no way to bring him back yet. Gustav can’t possibly let him speak before the Syndicate as he is now.

I had promised I would find a way to save him. And despite having no way of doing that, I feel like I’ve failed him by leaving. And everyone else, too.

Once again, I am a prisoner. Useless. Helpless.

No,I correct myself, shaking my head. This is temporary. Queen Sadira was right, and I cling to her words with all my remaining strength.

I am not a victim. I am athreat.

Chapter Three

Anton

“Little king.”

The voice echoes, soft as it is. Like a ringing in his ears. An itch gone ignored, and not for the first time. If he turns, he knows what he will see framed within the mirror’s gilded arch. Or rather,who.

He ignores her all the same.

He’s quite good at that.

He’s quite good at a lot of things, including being an absolute pest, which he has put extra effort into these days, going as far as to demand every luxury he entertained previously in Ansa and more. Hot baths with imported oils from the Karithian Islands; fresh linens delivered daily, scented with eucalyptus; a wardrobe made only from the finest of silks; a selection of fresh fruit topped off every hour. And wine.