The Princess and the Warlock

Chapitre Deux

"Amora, sit up. A lady does not have poor posture."

I forced myself to sit up straighter at the sound of Father's voice, as if a rod of iron were dropped down my spine. My hands were folded in my lap, brushing against the ruffles of my day dress. I'd chosen the childish print I owned—a mixture of purple and pink colored fabric sewn in such a manner that it looked haphazard. The sleeves were capped with a fine lace, and the hemline fell just above my ankles. My maids would never sew something so freeing, so I had to take up the needle myself.

And, what I found to be the most important, Father hated it.

"He's late," I said to no one in particular, just feeling like I wanted to point it out. I glanced at the curtains that were covering the windows, trying to block out as much light as possible. "Punctuality is becoming, is it not?"

"He's a prince," Father said with a deep voice, a tone suggesting that my ramblings were just that. He didn't even look my way, which was unsurprisingly. He didn't look at me often, only to scold and chastise. "Punctuality isn't his priority."

I kicked my feet against the edge of the throne, the chair so high that my heels just barely grazed the ground. "Perhaps, but when appearing in front of a king would suggest punctuality."

"Enough, Amora." His voice was a loaded gun. "Wipe that look off your face."

There was a seed of anger that was sprouting in my stomach, and try as I might to squash it, to cover it up, the stem still poked through. "What look?"

A muscle in his thick jawline twitched as he fought for his composure. But the look in his eye was what scared me—it was a dark sort of twisted that he reserved especially for me. His affection for me was merely superficial. I provided the kingdom security, and that was why he kept me around.

If he had had a son, I was certain I'd have been casted to the servant quarters.

"I suggest you watch your tongue as well. If you have another outburst in Prince Grimond's presence, I won't hesitate to make sure your garden privileges are provoked."

Father's eyes were dark, cold, and soulless. Looking into eyes like his never made me question what his spirit was like. I was certain it was darker than any magic wielders combined, before they were killed.

"'Yes, Father'," the king said.

I swallowed hard. "Yes, Father."

He turned away, putting his eyes back on the door.

As I sat on the throne, I wondered, not for the first time, how long I'd survive if I went out on my own. How long would I last? How long would it be before Father hunted me down and threw me to the prince.

I always decided that it wasn't worth my trouble. I'd be in even hotter waters if I attempted it.

The doors on the other end of the room opened to expose a squat man in tight pants. Sweaty was the best way to describe him, and jumpy. "King Faber." He bowed deeply, face nearly parallel with the marble. His eyes lifted to mine. "Princess Amora. Prince Grimond of Newheart has arrived."

The King sat up straighter on his throne, puffing out his chest to appear larger. Which wasn't hard—he was a man who hadn't seen the action of a war in my entire lifetime, a man who sat back and watched the battles play out rather than join in on them. "Send him in."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

I knotted my fingers together, feeling my nails bite into my flesh.

Prince Grimond has been visiting the Palace ever since I was ten years of age. He'd been invited, him along with several other princes from affluent kingdoms, but he was by far my father's favorite, though I never understood why. But when Prince Grimond had told Father of his interest in me, Father had been overjoyed.

Me? Well, I think me escaping into the forest every time I was told he'd be visiting was answer enough.

Though the prince wasn't directly unkind, there was something about him that left me unsettled. But Prince Grimond was forty-two years old, third in line for his throne, and had to turn his sights elsewhere for the crown. And me, a seventeen year old heiress of one, was the perfect pairing.

Thankfully we were never left alone--I always had my handmaid, Anna, at my side--but one day there would be no chaperons, no handmaids. In only a month's time, my life would drastically change. In only a month's time, I was signing my soul over to a man who only wanted me for my crown.

Mother always used to say that princesses cannot afford to marry for love. I'm not sure I even knew what love was.

Without preamble, the prince rounded the corner.

He wasn't a very tall man, Prince Grimond. He was my height when I wore no shoes, and his red hair was a thin band around the sides of his head. His lips were two thin strips on his face, and were almost always pressed downwards in a scowl. He walked with a limp on his right leg, and carried a cane to lessen his weight on it.

When he approached the King and I, he bowed at the waist. Not as deep as the crier. "Your Majesty," he addressed Father with a voice that shook, confidence lacking in every movement he made. And when he spoke to me, he didn't look me in the eye. "Princess Amora. My, you've grown lovelier since my last visit."

Though his words were kind, they made my stomach turn with a feeling of heavy dread. I felt so deeply sick to my soul when he spoke to me, and a despair so thick washed over my skin. But I felt Father's eyes on me, a silent warning for me to behave. "You're too kind, Prince Grimond."

His thin lips fluttered up for a moment, his reaction a trying smile, and he tucked his hands behind his back. "I was hoping you'd reconsider waiting a month, Your Majesty," he spoke to my father. "I do not see the point in waiting."

King Faber tilted his head at the prince, though his voice held amusement. "Princess Amora is not yet eighteen, Prince Grimond. In a month, her birthday will pass, her studies will be completed, and she will be much more suitable as your wife."

As your wife. Not as a queen. That was who I was going to become once this was over. A queen whose titled would be stripped by the men in her life.

Suffocating. I was suffocating.

"I understand, Your Majesty. I was only hoping you'd reconsider." Prince Grimond's eyebrows pulled closer together on his face as he thought, reaching up and scratching his nose. "Perhaps, King Faber, might I ask for a carriage ride with your daughter?"

Father said, "Under supervision, of course."

"Of course."

My hands were clasped tightly in my lap, so tightly that my nails were biting into my skin. If things were different, perhaps Father would turn and ask me if I wanted to go on a ride with the prince. But we were a dying kingdom, and desperate times have driven my father to desperate choices. Marrying me off to a man ten years younger than him was a desperate choice. Prince Grimond, though, was our last chance at reviving the ruin that lived among us.

And he's the only one who hasn't been driven away by my attitude, try as I might.

"Then--" Father reached over and gripped my hand in my lap, so tightly that I felt my bones shift. I refused to let the pain show on my face. "By all means, Prince Grimond."