Page 12 of The War Queen's Daughter

Chest tight, rage brewing as understanding wakes, I land on the only choice that makes any sense at all.

“Fuck this shit,” I snarl. Then I spin without another word and stride away.

Chapter 8

I have to find my horse.

It’s all I can think about as I march off in a direction that quickly gets me lost, but I refuse to turn around and go back. That feels far too much like retreat.

The Sarnian girl’s words hang around my neck in an invisible weight, a cruel, mocking echo as lingering as the gasp that escaped the others when I refused to buckle under this gods-awful circumstance.

Twelve other princesses.My mind reels, grappling with the humiliation. I fight for honor, for duty, not for a manchild in a palace. And yet, here I’ve ended up. I am a contestant, a spectacle. The polished marble floor feels unsteady beneath my dusty boots despite their unwavering solidity. It’s me who wavers, who wobbles and warps as I continue to stride, faster and faster, through halls that turn corners into other corridors that lead me deeper into this maze I only long to leave.

My armor, once a symbol of pride, now seems a heavy, absurd costume. Who I’ve been raised to be a detriment to me suddenly, the very flowers I storm past comparing me to the princesses who judge me just as much.

More so. They find me wanting, do they? Lacking in the necessary refinements for the role I thought I’d come to play?

To the fire with all of them, then. And to the flames and furnace with my mother, she most of all.

Fuck. This.Shit.

I’m aware of eyes on me as I carry on in this seemingly pointless search for an exit. There must be a way out and I’ll make one if it comes to that. Panic flutters, as trapped as I feel, fed by my utter need toleave right now. The glittering, curious stares of the court follow me, the disdainful glances of these soft, weak people I can’t stand to ponder. Their silk gowns rustle, their murmurs like a chorus of venomous insects. I would tear their tongues out for their whispering, but I don’t dare stop.

If I stop, I might crumble, and that willnotbe permitted.

Heald blood keeps me moving, refuses to let my knees lock, my momentum slow. I breathe, forcing myself to stand tall with every stride, even as my cheeks burn and burn and that panic beats its wings against my ribcage.

I would set fire to this whole place for the chance to set them free.

He’s turning a corner when I’m barrelling around mine, and the impact would be worse between us except that I’m too well trained to allow anyone to sneak up on me, even in this state if froth and fury. I catch him roughly by the arms before he can harm himself, his startled blue eyes meeting mine, shapely mouth agape. He’s handsome enough, thick, blond hair wavy over his pale complexion, the dusting of freckles across his nose adorable, really. He’s close to my age, no doubt, early twenties, though untried with a baby face like that. But he has enough height and weight on me that when I catch him, he grunts from the effort it takes me to keep the crash from ending in disaster, and I know I likely bruised his biceps in doing so.

I step back, releasing him the moment he’s steady, and nod abruptly, jaw jumping. “Apologies,” I say. “I’m looking for the front door.” Near-hysterical amusement bubbles, a child of the panic, as I speak. How utterly ridiculous all of this is. The front door, indeed.

He rubs at his offended arms while he studies me for a moment. “You’re Remalla of Heald,” he says, not a question.

“I am,” I snap. “Now, I ask you, the door?” Panic can take a flying leap because my patience has run out. Officially.

Someone approaches from behind me, many someones, if the footsteps I count out from habit ring true. A dozen someones, in fact. The princesses have followed me. No, chased me, panting and heaving for breath just to even attempt my pace. Pathetic. He notes them, tightening skin around his eyes a flag of his own before a mask falls over his face.

I watch it settle there, guarded but gregarious, and he’s the more handsome to me for the deception.

“Highnesses,” he says, sweeping a bow. I don’t bother to turn around. I’ve already clocked them and refuse to participate in whatever this is.

“Overprince Altar,” the Sarnian girl’s voice drips sugar that would make Gorgon stamp his foot in demand.

So, this is the Overprince I’m here to seduce? I have nothing to lose and choose to instead throw all caution to the wind as it is abundantly clear that I will not be staying here under these circumstances. Not for any glory or gold or order from my mother.

With the acutely pointed purpose I choose, I step back and look the Overprince up and down. Slowly, drawing out my examination, tilting my head to one side, gaze lingering in personal places. My heavy hair is still bound for my ride, the weight of the braids wrapped into confinement making my scalp ache as I cross my arms over my chest, leather creaking and sniff.

“You’ll do,” I say. “The door, princeling.”

That mask he’s donned for the other princesses slips momentarily as his very blue, very intense eyes hold mine. And then he steps aside and gestures the way I’d been walking.

“Your instincts have served you despite the maze the Citadel can be,” he says with warmth and only the barest touch of humor. Laughing at me or with me? It had better be the former. “Carry on, highness,” he says then, “two more turns, then right. When you finish the end of that hall, turn left and you’ll find the great entry.”

“My thanks,” I growl, already stalk past him before the last word is out of his mouth, hearing the tittering disapproval of the princesses I leave behind.

At least they’re no longer whispering.

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