Page 55 of The Raven Queen

Del

Istood concealed by shadows in the doorway to the balcony and watched the throne room fill. My lungs strained against the constriction of my bodice, and the blood seemed to hum in my veins. My stomach had been tied in a perpetual knot for days. I didn’t want this. I didn’t want to be queen.

Liam stood with Hills and Pythia Salma on the dais at the front of the throne room, Nyx perched on his shoulder. The head of the Oracle Class had always been the highest religious authority in the Seven Kingdoms. As such, Pythia Salma was the one who would guide the coronation ceremony.

Ada, Fin, Lyra, and Callon stood in the front row of the growing audience, the latter three dressed as members of my personal guard. Dozens more castle guards cut an aisle through the center of the crowd, lining my pathway to the Corvo crown, the wreath of delicate silver branches and black diamonds resting on the seat of the throne. A gleaming silver raven stand stood to the right of the throne, and a polished black granite pillar was placed to the left, proudly displaying the multicolored vernal votive.

Everything was in place.

I smoothed down the front of my coronation gown. Tiny black feathers covered the entire dress, soft against my fingertips.

Sid rustled his wings on my shoulder, his talons clacking against the silver filigree decorating the black leather pauldrons.

Ada had helped me tame my curls into an intricately braided knot at the base of my skull, leaving room for the Corvo crown atop my head. My fingers itched to yank out the pins and free my hair. Now that the coronation was imminent, I wanted nothing more than to tear off this gown and run. To take Liam from this place that had only ever offered either of us lies and torment disguised as luxury and power.

“It’s time,” Garath said, his voice a hushed rumble in the dark corridor behind me.

I stepped back from the doorway and turned to face him, wringing my hands. “Is this a mistake?” I asked, my brows bunching together as I studied his stony features, the angles of his face sharpened by the deep shadows.

Garath’s expression softened. “You already know what I think,” he said, hesitating for a moment before adding, “I pledged my life toyou, Del, not your position, so stay or go, rule or run, I will be at your side.”

I swallowed the rising emotion swelling up from my chest and nodded mutely. And then I stepped past him and started down the corridor, making my way toward the stairs that led to the arched doorway of the throne room.

At least I could be certain no Empaths could sense my unsteady emotions, my wavering resolve. Fin and Ada were just two of the many Gauges stationed strategically throughout the castle to ensure a seamless nulling field suppressed the gifts of every attendee, regardless of Class or strength.

I felt as though I were floating through a dream as I glided toward the entrance to the throne room. Copper light from the setting sun poured in through the huge stained-glass window filling the top half of the wall behind the throne’s dais.

I stopped in the doorway, and a hush fell over the buzzing crowd. All eyes were on me. There was no turning back now.

With a caw, Sid launched himself from my shoulder and swooped under the vaulted ceiling toward the empty raven stand awaiting him on the dais.

As I took my first step into the room, a lone drumbeat began. By my fourth step, a second drum joined in. By my eighth, two more merged seamlessly into the processional beat, forming a primal rhythm. As I approached the dais, more drummers joined in, filling the throne room with their pulsing tempo. And as I ascended the three steps to the throne, the chorus of drums reached a crescendo.

And then the drummers stopped, silence ringing throughout the room.

Breaths were held. Anticipation filled the space, the crowd generating palpable energy. My people. Their expectation, excitement, and hope all rested on my shoulders.

I stood in front of Pythia Salma, my heart hammering, my knees unsteady.

Pythia Salma reached out her hands, palms up. When I didn’t move, she offered me a slight but encouraging smile.

Taking a shaky breath, I placed my hands in hers. Her grip was cool and steady, reassuring, and her trained mind was a vault, sealed shut against me.

“Princess Delphinia,” she said, her resonant voice echoing through the cavernous space. “You have come to ask the Patrons’ blessing on your claim to the Corvo throne. Do you truly believe you are worthy to wear the crown?”

Despite the verbiage being tradition, her question cut deep, and I hesitated before answering.

A faint crease appeared between the Pythia’s brows, and she squeezed my hands gently.

I cleared my throat and straightened my spine. “I do.”

“I donot,” a familiar, weaselly voice said from the far end of the throne room.

The crowd gasped, and there was a rustle of clothing and shuffling feet as everyone, myself included, turned to see the man who had interrupted the ceremony.

Maylar stood in the doorway to the throne room, his pinched features more heavily lined than they had been when I last saw him a little over nine years ago, but the cruel glint in his eyes was exactly the same.

“Princess Delphinia is unfit to sit on the Corvo throne,” Maylar said, his heels clicking on the granite floor as he strode up the aisle.

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