Glint (The Plated Prisoner 2)

I stand, and my handmaiden rushes forward to slip shoes over my feet. I cast my reflection one last look before I sweep out of the room, each step surer than the one before.

Guards coalesce around me like smoke, trailing me while I descend the stairwell. I enter the throne room through the back door, the chatter of occupants an indistinct hum that fills my ears.

The moment I enter the room, the nobles and courtiers inside bow and curtsy to fulfill their customary deference to their queen.

It’s not until they straighten up that I feel the ripple of surprise pass over the gold-clothed congregation in a widespread arc.

Keeping my eyes poised on the dais, shoulders back in perfect posture, I walk determinedly forward. At the press of weighted silence that’s fallen over the crowd, a seed of nervousness tries to settle in my stomach, burrowing deeper to set roots, but I yank it out like a weed.

I am Queen Malina Colier Midas, and I was born to rule.

I stop at the pair of thrones on the dais. Both gilded, one larger, one smaller. Tyndall’s throne has a tall back, spires jutting out on either end, six glittering diamonds set into the back to depict Sixth Kingdom.

In comparison, the queen’s throne is much smaller and less imposing. A pretty accompaniment and nothing more. The true power is in the king’s throne, and everyone here knows it.

Including me.

Which is why I walk straight past the queen’s seat and sit in the throne meant for the true ruler of Highbell.

An audible gasp rolls over the congregation, like apples down a hill, too many to catch.

My hands come down on the armrests as I settle onto the throne, fingertips digging into a notch in the gilt where Tyndall often tapped his fingers in boredom.

He was never good at open forums like this. Even holding them only once a month was enough to make his temper flare. He loathed sitting here, listening to the people of his kingdom raise concerns and beg for pardon.

He flourishes at balls, meeting with other royalty, charming guests at dinners. But then, Tyndall has always thrived under attention, adoration, and the secret manipulation that goes on behind closed doors.

But when it comes to this, the grit that collects on the day-to-day wheels of the kingdom’s cogs...it bores him.

Yet this room, this monthly forum, it’s where power in a kingdom can be won. If you can snap the reins over the nobles and courtiers gathered here, you can steer a kingdom.

I stare out at the gathered crowd with an impassive face, letting them look, letting them whisper. They take in every single meticulously planned part of me, notice the complete lack of gold, the old royal colors of Highbell now reborn.

I give them another moment for my silent statement to sink in. I let them take the time to truly realize what I’m saying before I even open my mouth to speak. And I give myself a moment to relish in this, to hold my head up and be who I was raised to be.

I let out a calm breath, gaze skating over the room as the people wait with bated breath to hear

me speak. Me. Not Tyndall.

“People of Highbell, your queen will hear your concerns now.”

For a moment, everyone is quiet, like they don’t know whether or not they should take me seriously. I’m sure most of them thought that Tyndall’s advisors would appear and tell them all to state their concerns. But those written accounts would only gather dust in Tyndall’s meeting room, if he even requested them at all.

Finally, one nobleman, Sir Dorrie, comes forward. He bows once he reaches the bottom steps of the dais. “Your Majesty,” he begins, face red with birthmarks, like a handful of raspberries smashed against his cheeks. “My pardon, but I feel I must point out that you are sitting in the king’s throne.”

My fingers curl around the edge of the armrest. I can see they’re going to need a more direct response.

“On the contrary, Sir Dorrie. I am sitting in the throne of Highbell’s ruler, which is exactly where I belong.”

Whispers hiss like agitated snakes slithering along the golden marble, but I hold my gaze.

“My queen… King Midas—”

“Is not here to rule,” I say, cutting him off. “I am. So speak your concerns, or my guards shall escort you out so that someone else more worthy of my time may come forward.”

My warning travels throughout the entire throne room. A message for them to hear loud and clear. I wait. Small rises of my chest, impassive face, the cold indifference of a monarch who knows how to put her people in their place.

They’re either going to fall in line, or I’ll make them.