Chapter One - Tidings
[Leigh’s POV]
Almost two days in and the incessant clopping of hooves beating into the ground had caused more than just a headache.
“Sit up straight, Leigh,” Aunt Hilda snapped, perfectly poised as she always was where she sat.
Leigh’s spine was already ramrod-straight; after years of training, she wasn’t sure her body knew ‘how’ to slouch. Still, she made a show of rolling her shoulders back to appease her aunt.
Beside Aunt Hilda sat Uncle Radcliff, his face set into what Leigh had come to learn as a permanent scowl. She knew Uncle Radcliff despised carriages, and after nearly two days of travel, he looked as impressed as Leigh felt.
Which she was not.
Turning her attention back to the landscape slowly rolling past, she allowed her mind to drift, remembering to plaster an emotionless mask on her face.
It wasn’t that hard. There was nothing about her current situation that warranted anything but disinterest, maybe disdain if she cared enough.
And, like clockwork, her uncle clicked his tongue and shuffled for what must have been the eighth time in the last hour.
“How much longer do I have to sit here in this stifling carriage?” he grumbled, much like a child.
Leigh kept her eyes on the mountains that rose and fell along the horizon, knowing that it was not a question meant for her.
She was very young when she learned that she was to be seen and never heard. Too young.
“As long as it takes, dear,” Aunt Hilda replied airily, her voice turning to sugar for her husband. It made Leigh’s skin crawl, but she remained impassive. “The Wilkinsone Kingdom isn’t the easiest of our neighbors to visit.”
Leigh heard her uncle huff as he shifted again.
“I know how difficult it is to get there,” he said, his words losing their edge. Leigh could have rolled her eyes at them. If it meant she could keep her eyes after that.
“Then be still,” Aunt Hilda almost cooed. “A few more hours and we’ll arrive.”
“It would have taken just a day if we’d taken my stallions,” Uncle Radcliff complained, and Leigh tuned out the rest.
She wasn’t interested in her aunt and uncle’s backhanded display of affection. She let her eyes wander across the horizon, climbing the mountains in the distance where the sun warmed their peaks.
The Kingdom of Wilkinsone was well known for its terrain; mountainous and unyielding, it was almost impenetrable.
It was nothing like her home.
The Kingdom of Hillame was synonymous with wealth in every sense of the word. Sprawling, lush green lands stretched out as far as the eye could see, and in the very center stood the glittering towers of Hillame Castle.
The Kingdom of Wilkinsone, in comparison, had just one thing that Hillame did not: a geographical advantage. The “high ground” in battle.
Leigh could see why this kingdom, smaller and much poorer than Hillame, had caught her uncle’s keen eye.
There were hundreds of vantage points that her skilled eyes could find, high above the road they traveled. There was no way anyone or anything could approach the kingdom in secret.
As usual, her uncle’s hunger for power had found yet another gem, ready to be polished.
“You remember your etiquette.” A statement rather than a question, but Leigh inclined her head in answer anyway. She knew what her aunt would do if Leigh ignored her. The raised scars that crisscrossed her back were a constant reminder.
“Good,” Aunt Hilda hummed. She lifted perfectly manicured fingers to her perfectly styled hair. “I won’t have any mistakes, not this time.”
Leigh’s eyes met Aunt Hilda’s, crystal green meeting hazel. All her life, Leigh had never seen a shade as cold as the molten gold in her aunt’s eyes.
“Of course, Aunt Hilda,” she assured. “I know my mission and I will not fail.”
“Failure means more than just a week in the stables, girl,” Uncle Radcliff cut in, his lip curled in distaste. “Failure will be the difference between finding your parents and remaining the little orphan you are forever.”
She nodded once, dropping her gaze to his feet.
She already knew that failing this mission would very likely be the last thing she ever did.
As an orphan abandoned to the care of her aunt and uncle, Leigh knew nothing of her parents. She’d grown up under the harsh mistreatment from the people she’d been left with, a pawn in their games.
This would be her last chance to find out what really happened to her parents twenty-three years ago before she’d been left on her aunt’s doorstep in the dead of night as a newborn.
She was distracted by a shooting pain that lanced through her jaw and managed not to wince. As subtly as she could, she clenched and unclenched her jaw, trying to stretch it out without her aunt and uncle noticing.
It must have been the stress.
She’d never been restricted to a carriage this long before and, much like her uncle, preferred the freedom she found on horseback.
With a quiet sigh, she smoothed out the heavy fabric of her dress.
No princess should ever ride on horseback, least of all Princess Dahlia of Hillame, whose name Leigh would be assuming for the foreseeable future.
The real Princess Dahlia of Hillame was leagues behind them, confined to her bed while her cousin, Leigh, took her place.
Which wasn’t new. Leigh had been raised as a public stand-in for her sickly cousin, who often couldn’t make it out of bed without catching every illness possible.
Leigh wanted to resent her for it, for being the reason Leigh had wasted precious time playing politics rather than hunt down her next target on her aunt and uncle’s orders. It would be wasted energy, however, and she needed all of her strength to get through the next few months.
“I hope you’ll remember how to smile once we arrive,” Aunt Hilda sneered, rolling those cold hazel eyes and staring out the window. “Our dear Dahlia has the loveliest smile, and yours is passable at best. The Wilkinsone Royals certainly won’t be impressed.”
“Yes, Aunt Hilda,” Leigh said quietly. “I will not disappoint you.”
Her aunt snorted dismissively, and perhaps if she was still that fragile little girl, desperate for love, it would have hurt. Years of merciless training with Hamish, a cruel man, and crueler trainer, had stomped every bit of innocence and naivety out of that little girl.
Until a hardened assassin stood in her place, on her way to steal a kingdom for her tyrannical uncle.
~
[Dante’s POV]
A thunderous boom echoed off the walls, the glass on the table tinkling under the force of Dante’s fist.
“An ‘arranged marriage’?” he growled dangerously, far too angry to raise his voice. All that had slipped from his usually calm façade was a fist slammed on the table before he remembered himself. “With a human? I refuse!”
A sigh was all that followed in the ringing silence. It came from his father, who sat at the head of the table.
“There have been one too many outbursts in this room,” King Oswin mused. Dante narrowed his eyes at his father, who returned his glare with a gentle smile. “Many of the kingdom’s finest strategists argued and fought, adamant that they knew the solution for war. Do you know?”
“Do I know what?” Dante scowled, taking a breath to remind himself he was still addressing the king.
His father’s smile widened.
“War, son,” he said solemnly. “In all my years upon this throne, with countless advisors and strategists, I have never found a solution. Only acceptable compromises and sacrifices I could justify.”
Brows pulled together in confusion, Dante stared at his father, waiting for him to explain what in the Three Goddesses he meant.
“Don’t look so confused, son,” he chuckled.
“Father, what do you mean by ‘acceptable compromises’?” he asked, pinching the bridge of his nose.
His father got to his feet and Dante followed suit with a bowed head, old habits and ancient traditions pulling him to his feet the moment the Alpha stood.
He watched his father walk around the table; hands clasped behind his back. The picture of nobility where Dante fought to settle his own breathing despite being trained for years to be his father’s heir.
“In battle,” his father began, coming to a stop in front of a massive tapestry depicting their kingdom and those surrounding it.
“We are faced with many choices. When the enemy advances, we choose whether to defend or retreat. When we attack, we choose whether to exploit the enemy’s weakness or capitalize on our own strength.”
“Don’t tell me,” Dante sighed, knowing enough about his father to know where this particular lecture was headed. “As in battle, so in life?”
His father turned from the tapestry and sent him a rueful smile.
“You’re too old to heed the advice of a grizzled old wolf,” he chuckled, turning back to the tapestry. “Yes, Dante. We are given choices every day, but the most important decisions are made when we are uncomfortable, uneasy, or…”
He glanced over his shoulder at Dante’s frown before continuing.
“Angry.”
“Life is far more complicated than battle,” Dante countered, feeling the fight leave his body. He knew what his father wanted.
“Life is a battle,” his father corrected. “And it takes more from us than war, if we allow it.”
Dante sank back into his seat, the reality of his situation setting in.
His father turned to face him fully, mouth pulled down at the corners.
“I wanted more for you,” he said sadly, and Dante glanced away. “I wanted you to find your mate and be happy. But you are my sole heir, and I don’t need to remind you that our kingdom needs you.”
“I ‘have’ found her,” Dante insisted, his conviction pulling his chest up in defiance. “I was going to propose.”
King Oswin’s eyes held depths of sorrow, the lines of his face pulled down into a frown.
His father was right; Dante needed no reminder that their kingdom was suffering.
Their kingdom was desperately impoverished. Traders and merchants were hesitant to bring valuable goods into the treacherous mountains, and the kingdom suffered.
As the prince and next in line for the throne, he knew the answer: marry into a wealthy kingdom to strengthen his own.
A small part of him, childish and reckless, forced the words from his mouth before he could stop them.
“I was going to propose to Alvina.”
He watched the dent between his father’s silver brows deepen and hated himself for it. He knew that his father would have exhausted every other alternative before bringing this to Dante.
And, if he was honest with himself, he’d always known that an arranged marriage might have been the only way to save his kingdom. He’d hoped, like a fool, that the day would never come.
He looks back at the table, at the envelope his father had brought in.
“Is that a painting of the human?” he asked.
“It is.”
Dante hesitated for a moment before snatching the envelope and tearing it open. He pulled a thick sheet of paper out and dropped the envelope, staring curiously at the painting of three people.
His lip curled. The king was the picture of arrogance: scowling and haughty, his chin lifted in disinterest. Beside sat the queen, dressed head to toe in silks. Dante fought a smirk, picturing a preened peacock sitting in her place.
Drawing in a long, calming breath, he focused instead on the third person; a young woman, her hands folded gracefully in her lap, soft waves of dark hair framing her face.
He blinked.
Tracing the soft curve of her lips, her doe eyes bright and inviting where they stared back at him, only one word swam to the front of his mind: alluring.
No, he thought, resisting the flex in his fingers and threatening to crumple the painting. He squashed the sudden attraction that fluttered in his stomach, adamant that he would hold onto his disdain.
The tilt of her lips drew him back, the painting shaking slightly in his grasp.
Brows furrowed, his heart lurched in his chest, and he felt the weight of his father’s eyes.
“She’s not Alvina,” Dante huffed, dropping the painting and hoping his father wouldn’t notice his intrigue. The human was striking, but he would not yield.
His father said nothing. Dante imagined that he had a hundred things to say, but he stayed quiet, and Dante wasn’t sure how he felt about that.
His father spoke one last time as Dante got up to leave, the King’s words making his body turn cold.
“The wedding is tomorrow.”
Icy panic slid into the pit of his stomach, the wind stolen from his lungs, and his feet frozen to the tiles beneath him.
Time slipped through his fingers like sand, the image of his future with Alvina fading into nothing.
No.
Hands curled into fists at his sides, he said nothing as he wrenched the door open and left, swearing to every deity that might have been listening that he would make things right.
