A Fate of Wrath & Flame (Fate & Flame 1)

“Oh yes.” Dagny’s head bobs. “We wouldn’t want Her Highness poking herself needlessly.”

I shimmy out of the gown and into a sleeveless peach dress from my closet, returning as Dagny is gathering the last of her things.

She scowls at the scars on my shoulder, as if they somehow harmed her personally.

Ignoring her pity, I slide on the capelet she brought with her—a creamy gossamer material trimmed with gold embroidery and scalloped to look strangely like wings, though not at all silly. It ties with gold ribbon in the front and covers the scars on my shoulder impeccably. “Thank you for this.”

“If Her Highness finds it pleasing, I will surely make a dozen more, in every color imaginable.”

“Please, Dagny.” It would make something as simple as getting dressed in the morning far less difficult. “If I ever have to wear another dress like the one I wore yesterday, I might die.”

Corrin rolls her eyes.

“Oh goodness, Your Highness, don’t say such things.” Dagny curtsies and then bows, and then curtsies again, as if she can’t decide which is more appropriate. “Before I forget, I brought ya some things to draw with.” She nods toward the graphite pencil and sheets of paper sitting on the table and then lowers her voice conspiratorially. “I was thinking, if Her Highness has any ideas for more gowns she may wish me to sew, I would be delighted.”

I steal a wary glance at Corrin, expecting her to bluster about my jam-packed schedule not allowing for frivolous things such as art, but she doesn’t seem at all concerned by Dagny’s kindness.

“I might have a few. Thank you, Dagny. That was thoughtful of you.”

Her eyes twinkle. “’Specially one for next Hudem. Something the king might fancy. We should get started on that soon. Those gowns always require much labor. All the stitchwork and the detail.”

She means a wedding dress for my marriage to Zander. I feel a flicker of guilt that this woman might slog over something I’ll never wear. “I guess a replica of my last one would be in poor taste?”

She titters, though her nervous gaze flips to Corrin. “It would be too revealing, surely, Your Highness.”

“Right.” I sigh. The scars.

“There’s a ship comin’ in from Seacadore any day now, in time for the fair. It promises bolts of the finest fabrics we’ve ever seen. I’ve demanded the port master inform me the moment it arrives, so that I may secure the nicest of the lot. No one should be privy to them before they are offered to the future queen. Until then …” She holds up the dress, beaming. “I’ll get finished with this one straightaway, Your Highness.”

When she leaves, Corrin taps the paper. “I’ve already counted. There are five sheets of equal shape and size.” She gives me a look.

“So, no secret messages to my accomplices who I can’t remember? Is that what you’re saying?”

“Not unless you’d like to earn the king’s mistrust,” she retorts, ignoring my sarcasm.

“I have that.” And I’m guessing it’s worse after yesterday. I haven’t seen him since. I shake my head. “Who am I going to send messages to? Honestly, Corrin, you could have been conspiring with me, and I’d have no idea.”

A startled—and horrified—look flashes across her face. “Enjoy your afternoon, Your Highness.” She spins and marches out.

I sigh. I need to learn to keep my mouth shut.

If someone had told me that listening to deadly blades clashing would be soothing, I would have thought them crazy. And yet here I am as the sun wanes and the air cools, settled in my makeshift patio furniture—a chair and table I dragged from my bedroom—discomforted by the silence that blooms below me after hours of melees and shouted instruction.

I set the dulled graphite pencil down and stand to stretch my legs. An array of people have occupied the square all afternoon—noblemen and a few women, royal guards, their skills varying greatly, and soldiers dressed like Abarrane who fight with incomparable speed and grace.

Now a group of ten children line up in the square, gripping wooden staffs in two hands, waiting eagerly as their instructor approaches. They can’t be more than seven years old.

Abarrane is rigid and purposeful as she strolls toward the weapons rack to collect her staff. She has bathed since I saw her in the throne room and swapped her brown leather outfit for a similar one in all black. Her blond hair is freshly plaited in three thick braids.

She looks no less fierce standing before these children. Are they her elite soldiers of tomorrow? Her future Legion, here for their training?

“Stance!” she barks, and her pupils jump, repositioning their feet and their grips, holding their staves in the air before them.

“One!” she commands, jabbing with a measured thrust, the muscle in her arms honed to perfection, her form taut.

The children mimic her, though less gracefully.

“Two!” She spins and stabs the air. “Three!” She continues counting and working through thrusts and spins and pivots by rote, and the students follow, some clumsily, others with surprising skill for ones so young, all with potent enthusiasm.