Preview
The 165th Year of the Aurelian Reign
Even though the grand gala was ostensibly held to honor the Princess Katarina, word had reached Kat that an elite mercenary army had arrived to join the festivities. Rumor held that these mercenaries were led by some Mercenary Prince, and the order was reputed across the continent for its lethal valor.
Kat was keen to meet this Mercenary Prince herself. If his men were half as capable as the rumors suggested, she meant to explore purchasing their services. She needed blades she could trust.
On the night of the ball, she dressed for political theater in her now-customary fashion: heavy, midnight-dark fabric accented by intricate, woven braids of black and brown leather. The gown was impeccably form-fitting, yet tailored to give her a distinctly military air—sharp, severe, and reminiscent of a leather whip. It was a deliberate, armored choice, designed to instantly unnerve any moony-eyed suitors.
When she arrived at the great hall with her sister Princess Celesta at her side, she was warmly welcomed by Lady Cecilia Vance, who happily possessed none of the grating vanity of her husband and son. It is useful to have such a spouse for diplomatic purposes, Kat thought coldly. That way, even if you ruin your own reputation, the guilelessness of your partner can lend you some cover.
Stepping out onto the stone balcony with Celesta to catch her breath away from the suffocating heat of the ballroom, Kat watched the elite mercenaries ride into the courtyard below. Their leader was mounted on an impressive, deep-brown stallion, his heavy helmet completely obscuring his features.
“Is this ball for you, or for him?” Celesta asked, her brows furrowed as she peered over the balustrade.
“Vance is clever,” Kat murmured, watching the disciplined movement in the courtyard below. “He probably means to kill two birds with one stone.”
When they stepped back inside, the great hall had erupted into a dizzying bustle of noise as the new arrivals filed into the warmth. But the brief moment of peace was shattered as Lord Cyprian Vance, her host's son and heir, parted the crowd and approached them.
“My Princesses,” he said, offering a low, performative bow.
For a fraction of a second, the instinct to smile twisted toward a savage snarl on Kat’s face, but she instantly mastered her features, conjuring a saccharine mask.
“My Lord,” Kat said, her voice dropping to a freezing, crystalline register. “How nice it is to see you again.”
“I do not know, Princess—you did not seem too pleased to see me the last time we met,” he said, smirking.
“How would you know? Your eyes never left the ground,” Kat said with mock curiosity.
Vance bristled. “Look up from the mud to observe what? People stained with mud and blood? It is unsightly.”
“Indeed—for a powdered little lordling who needs forty men to guard him against peasants and a muddied Princess, only the colorful pastries of a lord’s keep would be sightly,” Kat retorted, her words cutting through the air like a blade. “Is all this prolonged standing not hard on your legs, my Lord? Shall we have someone fetch a cushioned chair?”
“It does not behoove a Princess to be so unladylike,” Vance muttered venomously under his breath.
“Rest assured, my Lord: to a better man, a woman who can successfully resist unwelcome advances is entirely ladylike.”
Cyprian’s face flushed a violent, fuming red before his mother quickly stepped in to usher her wayward spawn away.
Smiling coldly, Kat turned her head, her gaze drifting across the whispering onlookers before sweeping naturally across the rest of the grand room. Her eyes briefly brushed past the broad-shouldered silhouette of the Mercenary Prince, who had just removed his helmet, before her gaze continued its fluid motion away from him.
He was looking directly at her. He had clearly witnessed her entire joust with the arrogant young lord, and a mischievous little smile was playing on his face.
As Kat’s eyes drifted off his face, what she had seen registered in her mind.
She froze. Her breath caught violently in her throat, and she felt a terrifying sensation as if her stomach had fallen straight through the floor.
Slowly, mechanically, she forced her eyes back across the crowded room.
There, clad in heavy steel and dark armor, stood the foreign warlord. But it was his face that stole the remaining breath from Kat’s lungs. Looking back at her were those painfully familiar, mischievous brown eyes, and carved into his cheek was that devastating, unforgettable dimple.
“Scriptor’s breeches…” she heard Celesta murmur beside her, her sister’s hand clamping down hard on her arm.
Standing across the room, smiling back at her, was the face of a ghost Kat had spent five agonizing years searching for.
