Total pages in book: 210
Estimated words: 200096 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1000(@200wpm)___ 800(@250wpm)___ 667(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 200096 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1000(@200wpm)___ 800(@250wpm)___ 667(@300wpm)
Sparing a furtive glance toward the entrance, she steps in close and drops her voice to a whisper. “There are ways out of the palace.”
“Is that so.” Why is she telling me this?
“With the right guide, you could find your way out beyond the city wall.” Her cool hands graze my flesh as she fumbles with the buttons at the collar, her eyes darting back and forth between her task and my face. She has freckles across the bridge of her nose that remind me of Gracen.
“And let me guess, you are the right guide?”
She doesn’t answer, but the look on her face says as much. I imagine part of the bargain would be that I take her with me. This servant is not what I expected.
Movement in the doorway catches my attention. The guard, shifting position. Or trying to eavesdrop. “And what happens to you if you get caught helping me?” I whisper.
“It is worth the risk.”
“Is it really that bad here?”
She bites her lip in thought. “I wish to see other lands. I could serve you.”
Or she could run at the first chance. “I am not sure I would like your death on my conscience, if we got caught.” She’d not likely end up in a cell. Disloyal servants aren’t worth keeping alive.
A throat clears near the entrance.
“There.” She smooths her hands over my tunic, over my chest, and then steps back. “You are now ready to see the king.”
“Thank you for your help, Satoria.” I offer her a heated smile, pushing aside my guilt for my shameless flirting. Finding allies here is critical and, even if I don’t use her for an escape plan, she could prove a valuable source of information if I nurture this interest she clearly has in me.
Her cheeks flush as she rushes away and the guards return, spears out and ready.
“A ten-guard escort. My reputation precedes me,” I drawl as King Cheral’s soldiers lead me along palace corridors that are open to the outside. Where Cirilea has welcomed a seasonal chill, a pleasant, humid warmth clings to the brine-coated air in Ostros.
The blunt end of a sword against my wound buckles my knees, and they hit the ground with a jarring thud. My vision blurs as I breathe through the agony.
“Your reputation tells a different story than the disappointment we faced on that grassy knoll,” the brute declares with a laugh.
That voice … It is the same man from the ship. The one who defeated me with his ax.
I grit my teeth against the urge to groan as I stand. “I will have to remedy that.” Soon.
But for now, I shut my mouth—because that fucking hurt—and learn what I can about my surroundings.
At one time, long ago, Islor and Kier were amicable, trade between Cirilea and Ostros flowing steadily. That was until my father made the mistake of visiting at the king’s invitation. When the third wife of the king entered his chambers to present her vein and herself that night, he accepted. How was he to know she didn’t have the king’s blessing?
Islor has not concerned itself with Kier for centuries, which is the main reason I know little of it. It is a hostile mortal realm divided from us by mountains, the city of Ostros banked by staggering cliffs. The only viable way here is by sea, and they guard their waters with systems designed to burst ships who don’t carry a trading invitation from King Cheral himself.
That weasel Adley garnered such an invitation for Kettling, while Islor’s crown family remained enemies. My father permitted it. A tactical truce, he once called it. An olive branch that might root and grow to benefit all of us one day.
One of many mistakes he made that ended up costing him his life.
I see now that turning a blind eye to Kier might have been a mistake. The soldiers have proven themselves formidable, even as mortals. There is fortune to be had here, if the palace is any evidence of that. It is more splendid than Cirilea’s castle, I hate to admit, the many spire-topped towers and buildings clustered together around pools of turquoise water and cascading fountains. And I presume they’ve built this without the aid of casters.
Giddy laughter echoes from behind grand doors, and when the guards open them, I’m overwhelmed by children. At least two dozen dressed in white run barefoot around the lengthy room.
The space is mostly empty of furniture, save for the center of the room, where a circle of oversized chairs are stationed. King Cheral occupies the largest as he watches me.
The doors slam behind us and the children freeze, a mix of wariness and interest in their eyes. They range in age—one still wobbly on his legs while the oldest girl is filling out with feminine curves. How often are prisoners paraded before them?