Poor Avera, the result of that short coupling. A child who’d suffered the name bastard since Calixte had been unmarried at the time of her birth. Calixte’s fourth and youngest offspring, and also the brightest of the royal children—most likely because of her sly father. Or was Avera’s keen mind the result of having been left so often to her own devices?

A young woman now, full grown, and yet Calixte barely knew Avera. Not by choice. They might live in the same palace, however, politics—among other things—made a close relationship with Avera impossible. The guilt Calixte felt over the neglect gnawed at her daily, but she had no choice. The foretelling so long ago had warned her to remain remote lest Avera’s life end before it began.

A sigh escaped her. Sometimes the weight of her tiara overwhelmed. How she would have loved to flee with Basil. He’d asked her at the beginning of their tryst, but she couldn’t leave her people. Couldn’t leave the kingdom of Daerva to the not-so-tender mercy of her oldest heir, Aldrich. She never understood where her son’s darkness came from. His father, a lord of even temperament, never had that streak of cruelty Aldrich displayed.

Thankfully, he’d never be King. The same vision that warned Calixte to ignore her youngest daughter had also touched upon the end of her reign: Upon thy passing, the crown shall be inherited by one worthier than the First Prince.

Would it be her second daughter, Zironia, the Tiara in Waiting who’d yet to bear a child? Or the Spare Tiara, Merie, who worried more about the curls of her hair than the people of their land? In truth, Avera would have been the best choice, but with so many heirs in line before her, including Aldrich’s own children, she would never sit on the throne.

Or would she?

The foretelling had also claimed that Calixte’s youngest would have a great burden to bear. That the fate of the kingdom would rest upon her slender shoulders and she would face terrible ordeals that would test her strength. Hence why Avera knew how to ride and fight, and was well-learned, taught by the best Calixte could hire. She might not be able to mother her daughter as she wanted, but she’d made damned sure Avera never lacked for anything else.

Despite the sun having yet to crest the horizon, Calixte tucked the locket away with her other treasures and prepared to start her day. As she turned from her cabinet she heard a noise, a scraping sound that raised the hairs on her nape.

She whirled, seeking the source, and gaped as someone stepped out of the secret passage to her room. A hidden entrance no one but she—and her long-gone lover—should have known about.

“Who are you? What are you doing in my chambers?” Calixte exclaimed, noting the intruder wore a hood to mask their features. Their eyes were the only features visible through the cutouts.

“I am death,” a male voice intoned.

Probably meant to frighten, however, Calixte wasn’t the type to get vapors that easily.

“Who sent you?” she asked, her fingers reaching into her pocket for the dagger she’d been carrying around of late. Blame the nightmares plaguing her these past months. Dark dreams of violence and bloodshed that she couldn’t entirely shake when she woke. It turned out her niggling sense of something not right hadn’t been paranoia.

“Someone who needs you gone to clear the path to the throne.”

“Did Aldrich hire you?” she asked. She’d seen how her son, the First Prince, chafed in the wings, waiting to sit on the throne.

“Doubtful seeing as how your first born is being killed as we speak.”

How awful she didn’t feel sorrow but only relief at knowing Aldrich wouldn’t survive her. He’d long been haranguing her about stepping down so he might start his rule. It had been done in the past, but Calixte kept refusing, knowing her son wouldn’t serve the people well.

“Who is the traitor?” she asked as the intruder moved closer, his step stealthy. She could have yelled for her guards—a pair stood outside her door—but she wanted answers.

“Doesn’t really matter, does it? You’ll be dead in a moment.”

“Exactly. So why not tell me? Or do you not know?”

“I don’t need to know who hired me. The guild entered into a contract, and I am here to complete its terms.”

The phrasing made him an assassin, indicating someone had gone through great trouble and expense.

“You do realize I can pay you more than they’re offering,” Calixte bargained.

“I took a vow to not be bribed.”

“Ironic words coming from a man who sees no problem with murder.”

The assassin shrugged. “Have to draw the line somewhere.”

“Which of my daughters are they planning to put in charge if I and my son are to die?”

“None. Your line ends today.” The assassin lunged with his blade and Calixte had little time to react. The dagger emerged from her pocket and barely blocked the blow aimed for her heart.

“Guards, to me!” she yelled as she recoiled to give herself space.

“Yell all you like. By the time they break down the door, you’ll be dead,” the hooded man taunted.

Thump. Thump.

The pounding at the portal had her cursing the fact she kept it locked at night. She’d thought herself safe once within, the secret passages unknown to anyone else, her kingdom at peace her entire reign. How could she have missed the bubbling discontent?

“You’ll die for this,” Calixte spat as she narrowly avoided a slash.

“Only if they catch me, which hasn’t happened yet. The guild sent their best for this job.” He darted forward and she dodged to the side, only she made a mistake in watching the hand gripping the sword. She missed the dagger the assassin pulled with his other hand. It slid into her gut with ease, and she gasped.

“You’ve killed me.” Disbelief marked her words. Of all the ways she expected to die, murder wasn’t one of them.

“It’s not personal,” he remarked, pulling the weapon from her flesh and wiping it on his trousers.

She slumped to the floor, more in shock than pain, her fingers clasped over her midsection as if that would stem the flow of blood.

He crouched in front of her. “You don’t have to suffer. Hold up your head and I’ll finish you quickly.”

“How kind of you to offer,” was her dry reply.

“I’m not a monster.”

“Could have fooled me,” she murmured, ducking her head.

“Just doing my job. Speaking of which, your soldiers are about to enter, meaning I have to leave. Are you sure you don’t want a swift death?”

She lifted her chin, baring her throat. “Yes, but first, might I see the face of the man killing me.”

He hesitated only a moment before tugging off the hood, not that she cared about his appearance. In that moment of inattention, the dagger she still held plunged. Unlike him, she didn’t miss.

The jugular she severed spurted, and he recoiled, his mouth opening and shutting without a sound, his eyes wide with disbelief. The assassin died before her guards burst into the room.

While they ran to fetch a doctor and applied pressure to her wound, Calixte already knew she wouldn’t live to see another dawn. Only the foretelling and the hope it offered kept her barking orders.

“Bring me my daughter!” Calixte kept repeating as they put her to bed and pretended they could fix her.

“They’re dead, Your Majesty,” the flustered Duke Petturi stated. “The Heir, the Tiara in Waiting, the Spare, even the baby.”

Calixte stared at the fat man who’d been her advisor for the past decade. “Where is Avera?”

“Who?”

“My youngest daughter,” she snarled.

“Oh, her.” His lips pulled down in disapproval.

“Yes, her!” she snapped. “Bring her at once.”

“Why?” The man dared to argue despite knowing she had little time.

“Gustav!” She bellowed for her Grand Rook, a man who’d been by her side for decades. A loyal soldier who would obey his queen.

Her grizzled rook arrived, wearing a grim expression framed by short silver hair. “Your Majesty.” He dropped to a knee by her bedside. “My failure to protect is inexcusable. I await your punishment.”

“This isn’t your fault,” she muttered. More like hers for refusing to live like a prisoner in a kingdom known for its peace. She gestured him close and whispered, “You must find Avera. Protect her, Gustav. She is all that matters now.”

“Yes, my queen.” He thumped his chest and left abruptly.

She closed her eyes and prayed. Prayed for her youngest. Prayed for her people. And most of all, prayed those responsible would die horrifically for what they’d wrought this day.

Chapter 2

As dawn began to lighten the sky just outside the marketplace, Avera Voxspira slid from her steed’s back.

Luna nudged Avera, leading her to murmur, “I know you smell some apples. Don’t worry. I’ll get you a few juicy ones before we head back to the castle.” Right after she finished browsing the newly arrives wares.

A shipment had just arrived from the port at Horizon’s End and she really hoped to find a relic from Verlora amidst the new wares. The country, situated a week’s sail from Daerva’s east coast, had fabricated the most wondrous of objects before their continent went dark. The Verlorians used to excel in a craft they called mechanical science, and though the constructs they’d made were rare these days, Avera always kept an eye out for new ones to add to her collection, which now spanned several shelves in a storage room turned workshop. She quite enjoyed opening up the contraptions to study the cogs within, marveling at the intricate work, doing her best to understand how they worked. The tinkering kept her entertained seeing as how she didn’t have much else to do with her time.

Despite being almost thirty, and a princess, Avera didn’t have any assigned duties. Only direct heirs had expectations and tasks. Rather than languish with boredom, Avera spent most of her days playing with Verlorian devices, riding her steed, exploring the marketplace, or reading. Not exactly the most exciting life, but she had little choice. A princess wasn’t allowed to strike out on her own. A princess, even a forgotten and neglected one, was expected to live in the castle with the other royals. To present herself when necessary for special functions. To behave as befitted her role. At least, unlike her older siblings, she’d not been forced to marry to cement an alliance.

As Avera strolled the market, Luna trailed alongside her, used to the early jaunts. After all, they’d been companions for years now. The Volaqu-bred horse, a breed known for their intelligence and temperament, imported from Pequilh, was a surprise gift from her mother, the queen. Ironically, despite the lavish present, Avera felt closer to Luna than her own family. Then again, Luna actually liked her. More than once Avera had wished she could escape the castle where she’d been raised. She’d even asked her mother on more than one occasion about relocating and been firmly refused. A princess, even one far removed from the throne, apparently required constant protection. An explanation that never satisfied since no one had ever attacked the royal family.

For example, at this very moment, she was in alone in the marketplace, not a guard in sight. As she wandered, her gaze locked on a familiar shape on one of the vendor tables. She quickly headed for the item, bending her head to examine and confirm she’d found a Verlorian artifact. It appeared as a simple box of carved wood but when the lid flipped open, a figurine sprang upright and twirled as music played. A fascinating feat that some would call magic, but she could hear the whirring of gears making it a machine.

Before Avera could ask the vendor how much he wanted for it, a strident voice yelled down the main boulevard, “The queen’s been murdered!”

At the impossible statement, her heart stuttered to a stop and she dropped the box back on the table. Surely, she’d misunderstood. Avera turned to see Lord Gendry, his florid face even redder than usual as he hustled into the market square. People stopped and eyed him as he struggled for breath.

The merchant selling meat pies was the one to shout, “What’s that, again, milord?”

Lord Gendry composed himself enough to huff, “There are assassins in the palace. They’ve murdered the queen and the First Prince, as well as his consort and their child. The Tiara in Waiting and Spare Tiara are also said to be dead.”

Dead?

Avera blinked. That simply wasn’t possible. Her family, the royal family, had guards and security that were supposed to prevent incursion at the palace. It should have been impossible for anyone to get close enough to strike one member of the family, let alone all of them. Not to mention, Daerva didn’t have assassins. They were a peaceful country that rarely dealt with crime, let alone murder.

“Who’s responsible for hiring them?” asked a different merchant as he stood in front of his stall full of brightly colored scarves.

Lord Gendry shrugged and mopped his sweaty brow. “I don’t know. Once I heard about the massacre, I left.”

Someone in the listening crowd muttered, “Coward.”

They weren’t entirely wrong. Who ran when strife struck? A man who was more farmer than soldier. The Gendry family was the largest producer of crops in Daerva and rarely visited the capital. Rumor had it the lord preferred the company of his sheep to people. The gossip mill also said other much more disturbing things about Lord Gendry and his love of animals.

“If the queen and all the heirs are dead, who will rule us?” the pie seller lamented, wringing his hands.

“What of the youngest? The bastard? Was she killed too?” a woman wearing an apron asked.

“Didn’t she die of the pox?” someone ruminated.

“I hear she’s hideous which is why the queen keeps her hidden,” another commented.

Kind of hurtful. Avera didn’t consider herself ugly, and the queen didn’t so much hide her as just not involve her in matters of state.

“Oh, I forgot about the girl. What’s her name? Valerie?” the pie seller mused.

“No, you idiot, it’s Valera,” the aproned matron retorted.

Both wrong, something Avera had gotten used to given she was the unneeded fourth child the queen had born. At twenty-nine summers, she was younger by a decade than her sister with fifteen years between her and Aldrich, the First Prince. While her three siblings shared one father, Avera came about while the queen was between consorts. No one knew who’d fathered her. Not even Avera. The queen never said, and Avera had given up asking as her mother always muttered, “Nobody important.”

There was much speculation, however, because with her coloring—dark brown hair, lightly tanned skin, and brilliant mauve eyes—she resembled no one in the capital. The populace tended to have blonde and auburn hair with skin tones ranging from pale white to pink, or red-cheeked, if exposed to the sun.

While her appearance shouldn’t have mattered, nor the method of her conception, Avera never felt like she belonged to her family. She lacked any kind of bond or relationship with her siblings, though not for lack of trying when younger. She’d been rebuffed at every turn because they hated her. Aldrich especially enjoyed torturing her until Gustav put a stop to it. Being outcast by her brother and sisters might have been bearable if her mother would have granted Avera some attention. However, the busy queen never paid her youngest daughter much mind, which made her refusal to let Avera live elsewhere all the more maddening.

While it would sound horrible if spoken aloud, Avera felt no grief at the passing of her siblings. Shock, yes, though a shock that had more to do with possibly being the only heir left and she’d never been interested in ruling. Please let Lord Gendry be wrong.

As Avera debated returning to the castle, a cadre of soldiers came galloping into the marketplace, their tunics of blue and gold layered over their metallic armor identifying them as palace guards. And they’d come for one reason only.

Sir Gustav, the Grand Rook in charge of the Queen’s security—and the only positive influence in Avera’s life—held his stallion in place as he pointed at Avera. “There’s the First Princess. Protect her.”

First Princess? The words turned her blood cold. Gustav always called her by name not by title, and she’d never imagined that she’d be called first anything.

This can’t be happening.

An urge to flee struck Avera, and she eyed possible escape routes.

None existed as the people in the marketplace packed in tightly around her, drawn by the morbid news, although they did part to allow passage to the knights with the Grand Rook at their head.

Sir Gustav eyed her through the holes slotted in his helmet. “First Princess, there’s been an incident.”

Why so formal? Then again, they had an audience.

“Is it true my family is dead?” Avera asked.

“The queen yet lives, however, the assassins were thorough. Everyone else is dead.”

“All of them? Even baby Kona?” A sweet, chubby-cheeked girl who was always smiling.

“It was a massacre,” Sir Gustav rumbled in a low tone. “And very well planned. You’d have been dead too, had you told anyone where you went. The assassins tried your room only to find you gone.”

Because Avera had slipped away just before dawn, dressed in simple clothes because she preferred anonymity.

“You knew where to find me,” Avera pointed out.

The grizzled soldier’s lips twisted beneath the nose guard of his helmet. “Because you are predictable. A new shipment for the market always draws you in search of something interesting.”

A curiosity that saved her life.

“Am I in danger?” Avera asked as the soldiers spread out to form a circle around her and Luna.

“The assassins are still at large.” An answer of sorts. “Quickly now. Mount up and let’s return to the castle.”

Despite her annoying skirts, Avera required no help into her saddle and soon they trotted away from the marketplace, Avera boxed in on all sides by soldiers. She did her best to ignore the stares and whispers of the townsfolk they passed. Not easy since she heard someone exclaim, “That’s the First Princess? Does she not know how to dress?”

More like Avera preferred simple and comfortable garments to the intricate ruffles and layers the other ladies of court tortured themselves with.

The Grand Rook sat stiffly in his saddle as he kept pace with Luna’s quick step. He said nothing and so Avera murmured, “You said my mother lives?”

“For the moment,” Gustav stated. “The wound she took to the belly is a bad one. She only survived because she cut the assassin’s throat before he could stab her again.”

“Mother killed her attacker?” It shouldn’t have surprised. The woman had ice in her veins, but since when did she carry a weapon? Avera had never seen her mother armed and wasn’t even aware she could fight. It has always been odd to Avera that she’d received lessons in combat, but her sisters hadn’t. She could even say without lying that she’d become quite proficient with a blade, probably because she’d spent a lot of time practicing, given she had little else to do.

“Your mother has always been adept with a dagger. Once she killed her assassin, she sounded the alarm, but it was too late. The rest of the royal family had already been slain.”

“What happened to the soldiers guarding them?” The heirs had their own personal cadre of protectors and never went anywhere without them.

“Their guards were slaughtered. The assassins hit just before dawn as everyone slept.”

“I must have just missed them,” Avera mused aloud. She’d risen well before the sun and hit the kitchen for a fresh baked roll with jam as well as some carrots for Luna before heading to the market to be there when it opened.

“The killers were well coordinated. They came in unseen by any, killed everyone, and fled as quickly as they arrived. If it weren’t for your mother taking one down, we’d have never known who was responsible.”

“Who?” Avera asked, expecting him to blame the marauders to the west. The Okkilamian had a thing for attacking their ships, although they’d never been brazen enough to cause trouble in Daerva.

To her surprise, Gustav said, “Judging by the appearance of the one your mother killed, Verlorian.”

“How? They’re all dead.” Verlora and its people had essentially ceased to exist after a catastrophic event. Ships stopped sailing between their lands because those who went to investigate never returned.

“Not all of them perished. A few that weren’t in the country at the time of its demise did survive and, from what I’ve heard, turned to pirating and apparently now murder,” was Gustav’s grim reply. The grizzled soldier had long been in the crown’s service. In his sixties—as old as her mother—and yet still fit and sharp. He could be demanding and quite stern when he gave Avera lessons in swordplay, but at the same time, he’d always been kind to her. She knew when he praised her that she’d earned it. In many respects, he was like a father to her, not that he was ever so bold as to show her actual affection. But the fact he didn’t ignore her helped.

“How did a group of Verlorians manage to get past our port authority without notice?” Avera asked.

“That is a question we’re all asking.”

“Do you think the port inspector was bribed to look the other way?”

“Most likely. The question being, which port?” Gustav mused.

Daerva, a continent that sat high above sea level with dominating cliffs all around, had only two bays where ships could anchor. Horizon’s End was only a day’s ride from the capital city of Velunda, and Seaserpent Bay took a week or more of travel overland. If the killers came through that far port, they could have chosen to save time by crossing the Lake of Tears, but that would have required the assassins hiring—or stealing—a vessel capable of handling the lake’s poisoned waters. Only the most daring ever attempted to cross.

“You said only one of them was killed. So where did the rest of the assassins go?” Avera mused aloud.

“We don’t know,” Gustav growled. “It’s why the queen sent me to find you. Currently, we have knights and pawns searching the castle top to bottom.”

Apparently, they should have been searching the city because as she and her soldierly escort cantered into the last street—one lined with three-story houses inhabited by the richest and most favored noble ladies and lords—they were attacked!