Glint (The Plated Prisoner 2)

He wants Deadwell.

But why does he want Deadwell? I rack my mind, trying to recollect what’s there, but I’m not as familiar with Fifth Kingdom as I am Sixth. Still...I’m fairly certain that it’s just a strip of land between his kingdom and this one, with nothing there except ice.

He’d rather have that than his weight in gold? I can’t make heads or tails of it, because I know there’s a catch. There must be.

It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask him why he wants it, but that’s not how these games are played. We say what we want, without saying what we actually want.

“Deadwell,” I repeat, an edge of question in my tone.

Ravinger inclines his head again. “Sign Deadwell over to me, King Midas, and my army leaves.”

I narrow my eyes. “Just like that?”

He gives me a benign look. “My army has been traveling for weeks. Surely, you’ll extend an invitation to me and my soldiers in your newly acquired city so that they may rest and celebrate the avoidance of a war.”

My mouth presses into a firm line. Like hell do I want them in Ranhold. “I do not think—”

He cuts me off. “Of course, you’ll already be hosting another kingdom in a few weeks’ time, won’t you? I’m sure you can see the advantages of having not just one kingdom, but two, to join in your celebrations.”

I go still.

Behind me, I feel my advisors tense, no further scratch of quill against paper.

How the hell did he find out about Third Kingdom’s traveling party?

I grin through gritted teeth. “Of course. You and your army are more than welcome to rest and replenish yourselves.”

Ravinger grins, the polished teeth of an animal used to chewing on those he defeats.

The chill down my spine is all the confirmation I need. I may have prevented his army from attacking Ranhold, but while I bent to his whim to get them to stay out, I think I may have invited the true threat in.

Chapter 40

AUREN

Gold.

Such a heavy, heavy word.

Some people hear it and think of wealth. Others, a color. Someone else, perfection.

But for me, gold is my identity. Has been, ever since I took my first breath.

I remember my parents saying I shone with the warmth of light. I remember them calling me their little sun.

I wonder what they would think of me now—locked in a windowless room and surrounded by ice, stuck in a world that seems determined to keep me from rising.

As I pace in the room, I keep seeing the statue from the corner of my eye—the woman who’s now stuck in an agonized wince. Her mouth doesn’t need to emit any sound for me to hear her screaming.

Will that be me one day? Will the gold consume me, suffocate me, just as it did in my dream?

My eyes prickle, like the barbed edge of a leaf. I wonder how different things would’ve been, only if.

If my body had never glimmered with the shine of a little sun.

If gold-touch magic had never dripped from my hands.

If ribbons had never sprouted from my back.