Chapter 13
879 Words
Isolde.
My second cousin. My worst cousin.
Hair like spun gold. Cheekbones sharp enough to carve wood. Wrapped in forest-green silk, cinched tight at her impossibly small waist.
She stood outside Romero’s study with a smirk that could curdle holy water.
And maybe she had something to smirk about.
My ears still rang from what I’d heard behind the walls of my room. “She’s unstable.” “Get someone watching her.” “I don’t kill cards I might one day need.”
The moment her eyes landed on me, her smirk twisted into something more sinister.
"Well, well. Look who finally woke up from her beauty nap—though it really isn’t working if you still look like that."
I blew a limp strand of hair off my face with a lazy breath. My heart was still raw, but I let my voice stay dry.
"And here I was thinking they only let actual nobles into the study. Or has Father taken to letting in snakes these days?"
Her father, my uncle Lygan, was a drunk masquerading as a noble. A liability saved only by bloodline and his wife’s endless damage control.
Uncle Lygan once had the trust of the court. He was once a capable and competent part of the pack until one day he was caught betraying the common people by smuggling precious exotic spices. If not for his wife Gert, they'd have no real power at the table except blood rights.
Isolde was what remained of that tattered reputation—pretty, poisonous, and pretending she mattered more than she did.
Isolde's eyes flared.
“Careful, cousin. Hissing doesn’t suit you. Especially when you look like you’ve been sleeping in a broom closet.”
“The bruises faded,” I said mildly. “But it’s cute you noticed.” she was definitely speaking rubbish.
I stepped closer, so close I could see the tiny shimmer of powdered gold across her eyelids.
"Tell me, did you finally convince him to give you the title of a nominal princess while I was unconscious in the hospital, or are you still playing dress-up in the mirror and calling it a court?"
She growled, her eyes struggling to remain blue, barely holding back her shift. And I—gods—I needed her to swing. Just once. Give me an excuse.
But she didn’t. Of course not. She was too smart for that.
I pretend to shake in fear. "Are you planning on doing something stupid in front of my father’s study?"
Instead she let out a cruel laugh and leaned in to whisper right beside my ear. "It’s not like he'd care."
That landed. Right in the softest part of me. The part I was trying not to admit still wanted him to.
We've hated each other since childhood. She wanted everything I had when I had nothing at all. And that made me have the worst self doubt most of the time.
I clenched my fists. I didn’t feel the sting until I smelled blood.
"Seriously," I growled. "What is your obsession with me? Incase you're selectively blind, I'm not exactly looking like my life is rainbows and unicorns right now."
"This." She sneered, "is exactly my problem with you."
She digs her perfectly polished nail into my chest. “You get everything handed to you. Gamma Zulu, for starters. And instead of thanking the Moon, you threw a tantrum.”
I blinked. “Zulu?” I said, like the word tasted sour. “You’re jealous of that?”
“He’s strong. Respected. Feared. If I had what you did, I’d already be married, pregnant, and politically untouchable.”
I grimaced. “That’s a very specific fantasy, cousin. You should journal about it.”
“I would if I had time,” she snapped, “but I’m too busy preparing for the Erevar envoy.”
My pulse stilled.
She smirked. “Oh, did I forget to mention? I’m going.”
Well. f**k.
"I know what's in that devious mind of yours but don’t worry," She almost spat out venom from her eyes.
'Did she now?'
I 'was' on my way to shamelessly beg my father to let me go since I was royal blood after all and best of all Elio's twin.
But now there's an ugly, glaring, upturned button nosed variable staring right at me.
He chose 'her'?
"If you do manage to tag along and follow me like a lost puppy I’m sure they’ll find something useful for you to do. Like fetching blood oranges in Erevar while the rest of us do the actual work."
She walked past me with that infuriating perfume of victory.
I stood there. Hair in my face. Rage and clarity colliding in my chest.
Then I turned...not toward Romero’s doors.
But away.
I didn’t need to beg.
There was more than one way to get aboard that ship.
And Erevar?
It was calling me, not her.
A strange heat curled low in my stomach. Not anger. Not yet triumph.
Just point blank certainty.
The envoy leaves at dawn.
And I’ll be on it.
Even if I have to claw my way onto that deck in blood—I’m going.
Because this cage?
These chains?
They don’t fit me anymore.
- Writer
