Heir of Death

Ch. 1: The Virtue of Hate

Etain braided her hair carefully, using a large, spotted mirror in a dusty, quiet corridor to make sure she caught every stray strand. The pale color glimmered in the last vestiges of pearly light shining through the windows behind her, taunting her, reminding her of how much she stood out among the dark-haired, honey-skinned Metians.

Her hands were steady as she wove her hair into neat braids, but her breath shook. She had been putting it off too long. She'd cut herself short.

Now the rumors flying among the slaves were that the prince was returning tonight.

Etain looped the last braid into place, pinning it there. For a moment, she simply stood, running her hands gently over the woven strands. The slavemaster didn't allow her to wear her hair like this—she said it looked too barbaric. Etain stuck her tongue out at her reflection and turned on her heel. She couldn't waste anymore time.

The chill coming off the stones cut through her thin clothes as she walked down the hall. Etain shivered, embracing the cold. It was the only thing here that reminded her of home. Almost immediately, her throat thickened at the thought.

She missed Brunia. The high, clear skies. The brush of wind through pine trees. She missed the snow that trickled softly down from the heavens to leave the world a glittering, frosted masterpiece. The smell of summer rain over rolling hills.

The windowpanes rattled beside her. Etain curled her lip at the sleet pouring down outside. Lightning speared the sky, illuminating the capital city of Levitum. Even the weather here was ugly.

She hated it here. She would do whatever it took to return home. Home, where her mother and cousin were waiting to welcome her with love and—they would find—with pride.

Her slippered feet were silent on the winding stairs. Just below her and to the north was the room she wanted. The room she was never given, despite volunteering to clean it. She frowned as she peered around the corner of the staircase into a wide hall. Perhaps her volunteering was precisely why she hadn't been given the duty. The slavemaster hadn't kept her position for so long by being an idiot, unfortunate as that was.

Etain's steps slowed as the corridors grew brighter, more candles dancing with light in their sconces. She lowered her head and folded her hands in front of her waist. Bowing her shoulders was always the hardest part, ignoring the years of training and pride that had kept them thrown back and straight. Lowering her head was what made her taste bile in the back of her throat.

But she did all of these things, knowing a defeated posture was the best camouflage in this place. Metians liked seeing conquered people like this—defeated, discouraged. Beaten.

Etain wasn't beaten. Not by a long shot.

A minister wandered past, his overlarge nose buried in a pile of papers. He didn't even glance at her.

Etain reminded herself not to speed her steps. She should look purposeful, but not eager. Hurrying drew eyes. People paid attention to someone who looked like they were going somewhere important. 

She continued moving deeper into the administrative section of the castle, praying she wouldn't be too late. After tonight, getting into his offices would be near impossible. He spent far too much time there.

Getting caught wasn't an option. 

Etain ran through all of her excuses. Her tone. The thickness of her accent. The brokenness of her speech. How much was too much? What would be suspicious? What would draw attention?

Playing dumb had worked with the princess because she wanted to pretend she was kind. Etain's nose wrinkled and she ducked her head more so no one could see her disgust. The prince was a different story. He didn't care to appear kind. It simply didn't matter to him. At least he was honest in that respect.