Heir of Ashes

Prologue

The Castle is always most honest before dawn.

No servants, no courtiers, no tutors correcting my posture.

Just shadows and marble and the quiet truth of a place built on centuries of lies.

My footsteps barely whisper as I walk through the west corridor, violin case pressed against my ribs. The marble is cold under my bare feet, so cold it almost feels like it could climb into my bones and freeze me solid. Maybe that’s why Father likes it. Cold things don’t talk back.

I pass the portraits like I always do—tight smile for the previous queens, a nod to previous kings, and then—

I stop beneath his.

King Dominiq.

Beloved ruler.

Devoted husband.

Perfect father.

Perfect monster.

His painted eyes follow me down the hall, judgment carved into every brushstroke. It feels ridiculous, being watched by a thing that isn’t alive, and yet somehow it sees me more clearly than anyone in this place.

A princess is valuable.

A princess is obedient.

A princess is an alliance.

I grew up hearing those words so often I’m not sure where they end and I begin.

A door opens behind me—soft, but not soft enough. I turn, and there she is.

My mother.

She looks like she’s been torn out of sleep. Her hair is messy, her nightgown slipped off one shoulder. And there are bruises—new ones—dark fingerprints blooming on her arms.

My stomach drops so fast I feel dizzy.

“Meira,” she whispers. She tries to straighten herself, to bring back that perfect queen composure she always wears like armor. But she can’t quite manage it. Not tonight. “You should be in bed.”

“So should you.” My voice comes out too small. “Did Father—

“Don’t.” She steps closer and touches my face. Her hands shake. “Not here.”

I swallowed hard. “I heard shouting.”

“It’s nothing you need to worry about.”

But I already know.

I’ve always known.

Her eyes dart over her shoulder toward the royal chambers. Her breath catches, barely noticeable unless you grew up listening for every tiny sound that tells you how bad the night has been.

“Go back to bed,” she murmurs. “Please.” Then footsteps echo through the corridor.

Slow. Heavy. Familiar.

Dominiq.

My mother’s hand drops from my face. Her entire body goes still, like prey trying not to be seen.

“Go,” she whispers, urgent now. “Meira—go.” For one heartbeat, I don’t move.

I don’t want to leave her. Not again. But the footsteps grow louder. And her eyes—gods, her eyes—beg me in a way her voice never will.

So I slip into a side hall, pressing into the shadows, just as my father’s voice cuts through the corridor like thunder.