Chapter 2

• Madness
• This was madness.
• All of it.
• The cool silence of the bedchamber wrapped around Myriella, a stark contrast to the heat of humiliation still burning beneath her skin. She sat rigidly in her chair, fingers digging into the velvet upholstery until her knuckles turned white against her pale skin.
• She stared at the empty space before her, at the intricate carvings on the opposite wall.
• But all she could see was his hand wrapped around that woman’s waist.
• All she could hear was his voice—cold, detached, issuing orders as though she were nothing more than a servant.
• Her lips pressed into a thin line.
• She was a princess. His cousin. The next in line to the throne after him.
• And he had dared to treat her as though she were nothing more than a common servant.
• For years, their marriage had been something unquestionable.
• Inevitable.
• A perfect dynastic union, meant to unite the two branches of the Imperial House.
• A guarantee of peace for generations to come. Their children would never have to fight one another, because they would share the same blood.
• That was how Myriella had always thought of it.
• No one could have imagined that the stern, rational Corvo—the man who had always placed the crown above everything else—would risk sacrificing such a union.
• And for what?
• For a northern savage dressed in skins.
• Myriella's nails dug into her palms.
• Being humiliated as a princess was one thing. Being humiliated as a woman was something else entirely.
• She was the jewel of the Empire. The pride of the Imperial House.
• And she had lost to a savage in furs.
• It was a slap in the face.
• Myriella tore the pearl net from her hair and let it fall carelessly to the floor.
• She could no longer see its worth.
• She could no longer see the value in her beauty, her education, her refined manners.
• All of it had been trampled beneath the filthy little boots of a savage.
• The scent of wormwood and something sweet that clung to Ankreta seemed to have seeped into the very air of the corridors, creeping beneath the door and settling in Myriella's chambers.
• She drew a deep breath, trying to find the familiar scents of beeswax, old books, and her own perfume.
• But they were gone.
• There was only that foreign, intrusive smell.
• Her ears rang with the strain.
• Slowly, she unclenched her fingers, feeling the numbness recede as a faint tingling spread through her palms. Her heart beat steadily—too steadily. It was a rhythm perfected through years of courtly games and veiled threats.
• But inside, everything had been torn to shreds.
• She rose from the chair and crossed to the tall window.
• Below, servants hurried through the inner courtyard, carrying out the emperor's orders.
• Preparing the finest chambers.
• Servants rushed about, carrying silk cushions and copper washbasins for the woman who had arrived wearing unwashed animal hides.
• Absurd.
• Even the servants could see it. Their faces were anxious and bewildered.
• The order that had been maintained within the palace for centuries had been shaken by a half-naked northern savage.
• Order. Honor. Civilization.
• Everything they had upheld for centuries. Everything they believed in.
• Had none of it ever meant anything?
• Miriella dug her nails into her palm.
• She couldn't bear to watch it any longer.
• Myriella approached the mirror and stared at her pale reflection.
• Did Corvo really think he could simply drag her name through the mud and walk away?
• She had her own people.
• Her own network.
• Her own means of exerting influence.
• And, most importantly, she had a claim of her own.
• She reached for the little bell with trembling fingers and rang it softly.
• Jenny entered moments later.
• Jenny was trembling slightly, her eyes red and swollen. She had clearly been crying after what had happened in the courtyard.
• Myriella's eyes were already dry.
• She had no strength left for tears.
• Jenny hesitated, unsure of what to say or how to comfort her mistress.
• “Your Highness? Is there anything you need? I could bring you some of your favorite lemon cake…”
• Myriella sighed wearily.
• Jenny meant well.
• But lemon cake could not mend this particular wound.
• “Jenny, find Malok. I want to know how the soldiers reacted to… Ankreta.”
• Malok was her man within the Imperial Guard. More importantly, he was loyal to her personally, rather than merely to the crown.
• Myriella knew that the soldiers who had only recently fought the northern barbarians would not accept one of their own so easily. Neither would the nobility.
• Her very presence was an insult to everything their system stood for.
• The lords might force themselves to smile, but through the Imperial Guard, she would learn what they truly thought.
• Myriella looked at her reflection again.
• A cold glint had appeared in her eyes.
• The childish betrothal. The vows exchanged beneath the shade of the garden trees.
• All of it had turned to dust in a single day.
• With a single return.
• “Madness,” she whispered soundlessly, pressing her forehead against the cold glass.
• But even in the midst of madness, she had to find something to hold on to.
• A weakness.
• A crack.
• A way in.