Page 3 of Rise of the Vicious Princess

What you must be.

Charis met Mother’s icy smile with one of her own. She knew this lesson well. It had been drilled into her from her earliest memory.

Be smarter. Strike harder. Never falter, never waver, never break.

Every interaction was a chess move, and only the most ruthless person on the board survived to win the game.

Charis had been born to win the game.

Stepping past the queen, she offered her hand to the ambassador from Verace, a slight woman with olive skin, striking features, and bold eyebrows. “Ambassador Gemanotti, welcome to Arborlay, the jewel of Calera. We are pleased to continue our kingdoms’ friendship through you.”

“Your capital city is beautiful, Your Highness, and the generosity of your family lives up to its reputation.” The woman’s voice was firm, her eye contact steady. She took the princess’s fingertips in her own and bowed.

Charis then turned to the ambassador from Rullenvor, a man with a smattering of dark freckles on his pale beige skin and close-cut red hair that was turning silver at the temples. Extending her hand, she said, “Ambassador Shyrn, we welcome you to Arborlay and look forward to continuing our kingdoms’ goodwill toward each other.”

He bowed and pressed a kiss to the back of her hand. Straightening, he said in a deep, gravelly voice, “Your Highness, Rullenvor is most keen to further our kingdoms’ mutual interests.”

“We will set aside time to discuss those interests and our friendship soon,” the queen said, including both ambassadors in her smile. “Now the princess will open the ball with a speech in your honor.”

Charis bowed to her mother, turned to the center of the dais, and assessed the crowd with a measured look. Nobility in brilliant gowns or elegant dress coats were scattered around the room. The mix of skin tones and hair colors was a testament to Calera’s long history of healthy trade relationships and generous immigration policies with the other sea kingdoms. In fact, many of Calera’s families could trace their heritage back to both ancient Caleran families and ancestors across the water. When Charis had met the gazes of many of the onlookers, holding them silent in anticipation, she finally looked at the speech Darold had given her and began to speak.

Two hours later, as the bell to signal the second intermission sounded, Charis stepped back from yet another dance partner—she’d lost count of how many times she’d twirled around the ballroom floor, dispensing smiles and tiny political barbs designed to open pocketbooks for the war effort or silence the gathering opposition to the conflict, and by extension, to the royal family. Her cheeks ached, her feet throbbed, and she’d willingly give away her best tiara for an hour of absolute silence.

Her eyes sought Mother’s and held—a quick, unspoken communication that Charis was doing her job and would have details to report in the morning. Queen Letha’s lips curved slightly, and then she stepped away from the dais and toward the ladies’ parlor. Charis’s partner bowed, and she pivoted toward the windows before another could take the man’s place and use up her precious ten minutes of intermission with conversation.

“Your Highness!” a woman’s strident voice called from behind Charis, but she kept moving forward. A drink. That’s all she wanted. Just one drink and a few minutes in front of the open windows so she could collect herself and be ready to face the room once more.

Snatching a fluted glass from a waiter’s tray, Charis made for the windows where the blue light from the two sister moons spilled over the ledge like liquid sapphire. The music at her back fell silent as the orchestra set down their instruments and reached for a drink instead, and Charis ignored yet another call of “Your Highness.”

Reaching the windows, she turned her flushed face into the breeze and took a long sip of the sparkling plumberry cocktail she held. The curtain closest to her fluttered, and behind it she caught a glimpse of a tall boy with sleek black hair, golden skin, and wide brown eyes.

“What are you doing, Holland?” Charis asked, bemused as he made a shushing motion.

“Shh, you’ll give me away.” In absolute disregard for the colorful silk finery the rest of the nobility wore, her first cousin was in his usual long black duster—he claimed it counted as ballroom finery because black was always in fashion—a plain white shirt without a cravat, and a sword strapped to his hip in a utilitarian leather sheath that looked like it had already been to war and back. Twice.

“Are you hiding?”

“I was avoiding Nalani.” He craned his neck to look past Charis and groaned. “Not that it did me any good, because here she comes.”

Charis laughed. “Afraid of your twin?”

“This is your fault. You summoned her just by being near me.”

“There you are!” Nalani Farragin said brightly as she came up to Charis and slipped an arm through the crook of her elbow. Her black hair was twisted into a chignon adorned with festive green ribbons that matched her dress, and sea emeralds glittered in her ears. Candlelight gleamed in her narrow dark eyes and shone against her high cheekbones. Both she and Holland looked so much like their father, whose grandparents were originally from the kingdom of Solvang, that their mother, Queen Letha’s half sister, often said if she hadn’t given birth to them herself, she might wonder if the twins were truly hers.

“What a night. I’ve had to fend off pompous old Lord Comferoy’s advances at least three times, I was unsuccessful at getting stingy Lady Shawling to donate to my idea for a refugee rehabilitation center, and don’t even get me started on the pain of listening to sweet Lady Delaire try to flirt with my brother.” She paused long enough to give Charis a look from head to toe. “Love the dress, but seers preserve us, what have you done to your hair?”

Charis patted the jewel-flecked tower atop her head. “Don’t you like it?”

“It looks like you shoved a beehive in there and spackled it in place with— Is that Holland hiding behind the curtain?” Nalani’s tone sharpened.

Holland sighed.

“What are you doing over here?” Nalani twitched the curtain aside to reveal her twin.

“I don’t want to dance.” Holland sounded grumpy, but then he usually did.

“And why should you?” Charis grinned as Nalani shot her cousin a look that clearly begged the princess not to encourage him. The knot of tension around her chest eased for the first time since she’d entered the ballroom. She took another sip of plumberry cocktail and wisely stayed out of the ensuing fray.

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