Glint (The Plated Prisoner 2)

Sir Dorrie hesitates. He looks back, but no one in the congregation says a word. Not a single one of these simpering nobles joins him to defend Tyndall’s position and my blatant move for control.

“Ah, I beg your forgiveness, Your Majesty. I would be honored if you would hear my concerns,” Sir Dorrie finally says.

And just like that, I’ve collared them. Victory, not boredom, is what has me tapping my finger against the armrest. I’ll make my own divots now.

The crowd doesn’t raise a word of argument. Not even the guards behind me shift on the feet of uncertainty. Because when you’ve been raised your entire life to be royal, that’s what you are. It doesn’t matter that I have no magic flowing in my veins, because I have a different power, one passed down from generations.

Ruling Sixth Kingdom is in my blood.

After today, news will spread like snow across the white plains of our wintry land, drifting and covering every inch. I can almost hear the gossip, the whispers, the news drenching the kingdom like sleet.

Accounts of my opal crown will be explained as a beacon amidst the tawdry room, the bell of the castle will ring out the start of a new monarch, and the genuflection for the Golden King will end.

I’m going to freeze him out, ice him over. I’m going to make Tyndall regret ever marrying me.

A rare smile curves the pale edges of my lips.

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

Chapter 12

AUREN

Being made to ride alone in a carriage all day might be some kind of punishment—a silent reminder of my outsider status. But I guess there’s something to be said for solitude.

There’s safety in loneliness, but there’s a lurking danger too. One that doesn’t come from anything other than yourself.

The danger for me, of course, is the memories.

The long hours offer me a lot of time to think. Without anyone else around, no distractions, no words besides my inner voice. There’s nowhere for those memories to be shoved away while I’m exposed, stagnant in my own festering company.

And so, I remember. Even though I don’t really want to.

“How many coins, girl?”

My six-year-old hands are sweaty, hidden behind my back, fingers curled tight.

The man looks me over, impatient, tired, a pipe stuck in the corner of his mouth that breathes out smoke of blue.

He snaps his fingers. Zakir doesn’t like to linger with me beneath the red striped overhang in the market square. If he’s caught peddling beggar kids, he’d be in a world of trouble.

Rain drips off the awning cloth like strings of drool hanging from snarling lips of the wild dogs that run rampant through the city. The sky hasn’t let up from its drizzle all day.

My hair is wet, making it look darker than it is, no shine to hide the matted knots. At least the burlap fabric of my dress helps sluice some of the water off, though I still feel like a drowned rat.

When Zakir’s glare grows dark, I quickly pull my hand out from behind my back, begrudgingly unfurling my fingers.

He looks down at the offering in my palm, pipe bitten between his back teeth. “Two coppers? All you’ve gotten all day is two bloody coppers?” he growls.

I tremble at his tone. I don’t like making him mad.

He snatches the coins and shoves them into his pocket. Taking the pipe out of his mouth, he spits at my feet, though I’m used to it enough that I don’t grimace anymore.

“All you gotta do is stand there,” he snaps, shaking his head as he looks down on me in disappointment.

His accent is harsh to my ears still, even after all these months I’ve been with him. Some of the other kids call him Toad behind his back, because he’s always making this croaking sound when he first gets up in the morning to clear his throat.

“Stand at your corner and smile, and these numps will practically toss money at ya!” he says, spitting the words like an accusation, like I’m not doing everything he’s told me to do.