Page 68 of Captive of the Stolen Empire

It took everything to keep my brows from rising. The woman who spoke was not the one I’d grown accustomed to. She was stronger somehow. More confident. This was the heiress of Sorrena standing before me with her raised chin, clear eyes, and squared shoulders, not our emperor’s honored guest.

Basilla’s gaze floated across the yard, taking in the members of the guard within the walls of her home. When they reached me, the woman’s brows scrunched, her head tilting ever so slightly to the side.

I stiffened. She couldn’t recognize me. I’d never been here without my armor.

“Will we be meeting with your husband?” Tiber asked, drawing her attention.

Magic tingled under my skin, raising the fine hairs on my arms as I took the opportunity to weave a small illusion over myself—enough to alter the color of my hair and eyes and add a sharper slant to my nose. The effect of my magic should be slight enough not to cause Basilla to question it—or anyone else, for that matter. It’d be an effort to keep it up all day, but worth it, just in case.

“Yes, he’s waiting for you all inside,” she recovered smoothly. “Please, come with me.”

Ilya glanced at me sideways as we followed my double up the stairs. Her eyes asked a silent question, one I interpreted easily.

I shrugged. Whatever the woman saw, or thought she saw, I couldn’t say, but my magic would ensure no one else saw the same thing.

Chapter30

Ilya

Lord Stefan Laril waited for us in a narrow reception hall. Light spilled in from tall windows behind his chair, the sun adding its light to oil lamps flickering along the walls. Long, woven tapestries told tales of old battles and the surrounding forest itself. It was so different from my home in Sorrena with its light-colored stone and open, breezy rooms. We might as well have stood within the deep woods that the artwork depicted.

Two lines of wooden chairs—with carved, straight backs whose ridges and swirls would ensure no one rested comfortably—sat facing Stefan’s high seat. He’d hold court for his people here, listen to their needs, resolve petty disputes.

The man himself frowned as we filed into the room. The movement pulled at the heavily grey beard that coated the lower portion of his face and grew into a point below his chin. He resembled his brother, Gabriel, in the shape of his face. But the color of his eyes was unique—grey as the stones of his manor.

“Lady Ilya. The spitting image of your mother in her youth.” He rose from his chair with a grunt and crossed to greet me before the rest of them. A limp pulled at his left leg. A cane may have helped, but it appeared he refused to use one, at least today. He should have greeted the captain first. It would be a slight not to, but I kept my features neutral as he approached.

“Lord Stefan.” I curtsied where I stood next to the fake Captain, Lucien a half-step behind to my other side. As a trio, we presented an intimidating front. The men likely intended it that way.

The emperor’s appointed governor stood off to the side of the room, his prominent nose wrinkling as he stared us down. Lord Stefan played as much of a role as ruler of Trale as I did as the emperor’s guest. His decisions were not his own anymore, his actions watched at every turn.

“I come on behalf of Emperor Ryszard to deliver a message,” I said.

He nodded. “On with it. Let’s hear what he has to say.”

“Your brother Gabriel is my friend,” I began, pausing to swallow the knot of unease that stuck in my throat. He needed to know I was still on their side, despite my role today. “He is alright. However, he was punished by Emperor Ryszard through his Captain Lucien here”—I tilted my head to the left—“for breaking his rules and attempting to undermine his reign.”

Stefan’s impassive features gave nothing away. He grunted. “And he sent you all the way here just to tell me that?”

“And to ask you to keep his peace,” I replied. “He realizes the actions of one may not reflect all of your city-state. Even so, he imposes a one-time tax to remind you that treason does not come without a cost.” I stretched out the scroll with the crimson wax seal face up.

“Treason, eh?” Stefan took the scroll and broke the seal.

Tentatively, I looked between Lucien and his double from the corner of my eye as Stefan read Ryszard’s words, which would echo the information I’d just presented, if not in so nice a tone.

Lucien bobbed his head ever so slightly to me, keeping his attention focused on the man as well. With them near face-to-face, I couldn’t help but notice the resemblance between them. The dark locks of hair on Stefan’s head, at least the parts that had not turned grey, matched Lucien’s. The men had similar builds. Lucien stood only half a hand higher than the man who might be his father. And then there were the eyes… My breath had hitched when Stefan approached from his throne. I’d know those steely-grey eyes anywhere.

How did no one notice? Especially when they stood so close together?

Stefan waved over one of his household guards and passed off the scroll to him. The older man took it promptly to the governor. He’d ensure the tax was collected—I had no doubt of that.

“Well,” Stefan began, “if his imperial highness wants us to suffer during the resting season this year, he’ll certainly get his wish. This tax would spell starvation for my people if the harvests weren’t promising. Even so, we’ll have hungry bellies come mid-resting, mark my word.”

I fought down the lump sticking in my throat. I hadn’t seen the amount, though it didn’t surprise me he’d ask for more than necessary—enough to make sure every person in this city-state felt the consequences of Gabriel’s actions.

One step out of line would mean the same for Sorrena. Seeing the flicker of anger and pain across Lord Stefan’s features, the true impact of my attempts to aid the rebels sunk home. I didn’t just risk myself. I risked everyone I’d been raised to lead and protect.

Yet doing nothing meant leaving them in bondage—an impossible choice.

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