Liar

First Lies

Iris

"Then I want your word, Maven Calore."

"You have it—"

"Your word and your hand. The strongest bond you can make."

As the words reach my ears, I don't even try to comprehend them. Either they had been lingering in the smoke-filled air of the Choke ever since this conversation started, or they were just imprinted into my mind. If the Nortan King is shocked, he doesn't show it.

"It would be an honor to call you father." His voice sounds hollow, though, as he speaks. Like a steel block whose inside had been carved out of it.

I notice his posture relax, if only slightly, as my father lets go of his hand. "And an honor to call you son."

Not a single one of those words is true.

A chair scrapes against marble as the Samos girl stands. For a second, I'm convinced she's about to scream, or attack someone, or both. All she does, however, is walk away as her hands dangle at her sides, her brother and father following suit.

The Nortan King's eyes do not turn to look at her. Instead, they find mine. And for the briefest moment, I notice the tiny silver flecks embedded into the bright blue.

"My lady," he says, bowing in my direction.

I incline my head. My eyes never leave his, never waver. To his credit, his voice doesn't shake when he speaks.

"In the eyes of my noble court, I would ask for your hand in marriage." Out of the corner of my eye, I notice the lightning girl tense in her seat. "I pledge myself to you, Iris Cygnet, princess of the Lakelands. Will you accept?"

For a second, it feels like I've forgotten all the words I rehearsed a million times today. Then, I stand, extending a hand to the king in front of me. Almost as if it had a mind of its own, the air fogs. Tiny droplets of moisture dance around my hand, circling my forearm, condensing into crystal beads of water.

"Trolügen'achtige verratuer," I say in Lakelander.

Lying son of a bitch.

The thing about speaking in my native language is that the Nortans have know idea what it means, and neither does their king. I could threaten to drown him and face no repercussions.

"I put my hand in yours, and pledge my life to yours." I barely contain my smirk, playing it off as an innocent smile. My life belongs to the Lakelands. "I accept, Your Majesty."

As he takes my hand, I feel a strange surge of warmth run across my nerves and it takes every ounce of my willpower not to shiver.  As his bracelet sparks, the words taught to me about a million times run across my head.

Maven Calore, King of Norta, burner.

A current of fire hits the air, snakelike and curling around our joined fingers. It does not burn me, though it certainly passes close enough to try. I resist the relentless urge to flinch. Queens should not do that.

Especially queens that come from enemy nations.