VALMIRA
Valmira stood before the door that would define her future.
Her pulse hammered against her ribs, her breaths coming in shallow gasps. In. Out.The mantra did little to calm the dizzying fear that she might collapse right there on the polished marble.
This was everything. Every sacrifice, every wilted bloom nursed back to life with bleeding fingers all led to this. The royal wedding. King Leoric's sole heir would be wed in a spectacle for the ages, and if Valmira's arrangements met the court's approval, her name Valmira Therone would be remembered long after the petals had browned.
She raised a trembling hand. Knocked.
The sound echoed through the vaulted hall like a judge's gavel. Above her, the ceiling arched so high it seemed to scrape the heavens, its stone ribs veined with gold. Twelve guards flanked the corridor, their mirrored armor reflecting her wild copper curls and the panic surely etched across her face.
When she'd arrived, she'd been certain her hair was tamed. The climb up the endless staircase had undone that illusion.
Valmira smoothed her frizzing locks, pretending not to study her distorted reflection in the nearest guard's breastplate. He shifted subtly, "had he angled toward her?she thought silently.
"Thank you—"
The door swung open.
A woman with a spine like an iron rod glared down at her. Jet-black hair yanked into a brutal knot sharpened her already severe features, her hooked nose perpetually tilted as if sniffing for weakness.
"Late," the woman spat, the word a lash.
Valmira stiffened. "The summons said noon."
"It's half past."
A lie. She'd arrived early, as always. But correcting royalty's gatekeeper was as wise as kicking a hornet's nest. Heat flared in her cheeks, but she bit back the retort. They needed her flowers. That was leverage enough.
She dipped her head. "My apologies."
The woman jerked her chin toward the interior. "Inside. Now."
Valmira obeyed, though the order prickled. Why was she here? Florists dealt with stewards, not princesses. Yet the guards had marched her straight to the royal wing, past tapestries worth more than her entire shop.
The throne room had been grandeur incarnate, but this....
Where the castle's bones were stern gray, Princess Eliora's chambers were a sunlit dream. Walls of pearlescent marble. A ceiling painted with clouds so lifelike they seemed to drift. A four-poster bed draped in azure silk, its canopy fluttering in the balcony's breeze. The vista beyond stole her breath—the kingdom sprawled below like a toy village, chimney smoke curling above candy-colored roofs.
Then she saw her.
Princess Eliora stood by a gilded mirror, a vision in ivory satin. Honey-gold hair cascaded to her waist, not a strand astray. Delicate pointed ears peeked through the waves, betraying her elven lineage. The dress clung to a waist so narrow Valmira could likely span it with her hands, not that she'd dare. Not with dirt still crusted under her nails.
Those eyes, the exact shade of the painted sky locked onto hers.
"You're stunning," Valmira blurted, then nearly choked on her own tongue. She seized her skirts and dropped into a curtsy.
The princess's laugh was wind chimes in spring. "How refreshingly honest."
No one called Valmira refreshing. Odd, yes. Overbearing, frequently. Her father had hidden her away when guests came, as if her very presence might offend.
Eliora glided closer, her gown whispering across the floor. Up close, the bodice shimmered with embroidered roses, each pearl sewn with impossible precision.
"You're creating my wedding flowers," the princess mused, tilting Valmira's chin up with a jeweled finger. "Tell me, do you enjoy your work?"
"It's an honor, Your Highness."
"An honor." Eliora's smile didn't reach her eyes. She turned to the mirror, watching their reflection. "An honor to decorate my cage. How poetic."
Valmira blinked. "Cage?"
"Did you not hear?" Eliora traced her own collarbone, her voice dripping with venom. "Father is selling me to the trolls. A peace offering."
Valmira's knees buckled. She caught herself on a vanity chair. "Trolls?"
The stories haunted every child's nightmares, hulking brutes who crushed skulls bare-handed, who tunneled beneath homes to drag families screaming into the dark.
"Surely the king wouldn't...."
"Princesses don't choose." Eliora snapped her fingers. Six maids materialized, lining up like soldiers. Their eyes stayed lowered as they fastened sapphires around the princess's throat.
Then Eliora looked back at Valmira, and something flickered in her gaze—something sharp. "You're unmarried, yes?"
The question stabbed like ice. "I—I can't wed. My father's business…"
"Ah. A woman who keeps her own name." Eliora seized Valmira's calloused hands, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. The touch burned with unnatural cold. "We're the same, you and I. Trapped by men's laws."
Valmira tried to pull away. The princess's grip tightened.
"Join my wedding party," Eliora breathed. "Stand beside me when the beasts come."
Valmira's throat closed. "Your Highness, I'm no noble—"
"I insist." The princess's voice sweetened, but her eyes hardened to flint. "Unless you'd prefer my father… persuade you?"
The unspoken threat slithered between them. King Leoric's punishments were legend—artisans who displeased him vanished like morning dew.
Valmira swallowed. "I'd be honored."
Eliora's smile turned victorious. She clapped twice. "A gown for our guest. She'll be my closest companion."
As maids herded Valmira toward a dressing room, one thought screamed in her mind:
Nothing about this is right.