Women in the small kingdom of Aeriana are disappearing.
Iris Daniels, a budding painter in the East Territory, is trying to keep her head down. In a kingdom filled with abilities, music, and Destined love, Iris is determined to build a career out of...
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"Promise you'll be nice to Princess Driana. She needs a friend.
Have a great day today!
I love you,
Mom."
—Note from Kara Garrick, left in Wylan Garrick's lunch box, First Palace
The door to the master bedroom loomed in front of Wylan. He lifted his hand to knock, then hesitated.
Get it together, Garrick.
He knocked.
Her voice, when it came, was flat. "What?"
Stars, he hadn't apologized to someone in a long time. Better to get it over and done with. Then convince her to stick with them. "Can I come in?"
Silence on the other end. He half expected her to let him sit there and stew. Instead, there was movement behind the door.
He braced himself as it opened.
Half of her light purple hair was tugged up into a messy bun on top of her head. A few strands escaped around her forehead and ears. "What do you need?"
He might be quick to anger, but he was also quick to admit when he made a mistake. Rusty or not, better to rip off the bandage. "I came to apologize."
She stared at him for a moment—a tense, long moment for him—then stepped back to let him in.
"It was unfair for me to attack you like that," he admitted. "I apologize."
She folded her dark hoodie on the bed, tucking the sleeves underneath. Then she took a breath and gruffly said, "I get it. You've been searching for this person for who knows how long. I suppose it would be very frustrating, especially when the evidence is pointing otherwise."
Wylan had to fight to keep his face neutral. She still didn't believe it was her.
And to her point, until he got eyes on an Acemark, he couldn't 100% verify that the woman standing in front of him was Princess Driana, either.
Only 90%.
Wylan sat in the dark green armchair in the room's corner. Iris moved around, packing only a few items into a small dark backpack she'd had since their run in at the post office. As she moved, he kept sweeping over her, looking for a peek of an Acemark anywhere. There was a curl of ink along the back of her neck, right where her head met her spine. His gaze locked on it. If he hadn't been paying attention, he wouldn't have noticed it.
Was it her Acemark, though? Or a tattoo?
"Regardless, there's no excuse for the way I reacted," Wylan said. He interlocked his fingers and leaned forward in his chair, elbows resting on his knees. "I hope you'll forgive me."
