A Shattered Dawn

Chapter 4

We slow to a stop in the round, paved circle surrounding the fountain, and its sheer size amazes me. I follow Lucia's lead and carefully step to the ground, trying to slow my racing heart and keep my knuckles from paling as I hold my clutch. She appears to take my advice, transforming completely from the meek, scared girl I was just with into a confident woman. She walks with a nonchalant air, flipping her loosely curled hair over her shoulder and strolling with utmost confidence in her impossibly high heels that I fail to understand, and I can picture the half–smirk gracing her beautiful face. I hurry along behind her, nothing more than a shadow, and watch the main palace rise above me. 

More guests are arriving now, filing into the huge double doors engraved with gold and white details. As we approach the entrance, Lucia looks back at me with a gentle, encouraging smile, and extends her arm. I link elbows with her, hoping my worry does not show too much on my face.

More guards greet us at the doors, ushering us into the vast entrance hall. I try not to gape at the tall arched ceilings lined with golden accents as we walk along the polished marble floor. The guests crowd the hallway, dressed in the same style of clothes as Lucia and I are wearing. At the end of the hall awaits another set of double doors, propped open to reveal a vast banquet hall, large enough for a wedding and with an atrium-like ceiling, its glass panels curving to meet at a point at the top. 

The dregs of sunlight filter in, a soft glow on the pristine floors. We filter in and Lucia pulls me along to a round table tucked off to the side. Now, I see the full extent of the room: a large center with areas off to both sides, including a generous array of royally dressed tables, with their pale rose tablecloths and assorted flowers strewn across the center.

Lucia puts down her handbag and I follow suit, trailing after her once again as she greets her friends with the same perky excitement I saw today. Minutes later, everyone has found their seat again, and the room quiets as more people walk in. No, not people—royals. Dressed in various shades of gold and white, matching the home in which they reside, all I can hear is the sound of their footsteps as their presence hushes the guests. 

About twenty royals walk in, taking their seats at the reserved tables in the back of each section. A man walks to the very back of the room, across from the entrance, and steps up the three stairs that lead to a small, raised platform strewn with dainty flower petals. His polished shoes crush the petals wherever he steps, and when he starts speaking, the picture of authority, I know who he is. He's the King, the former Duke, and ruler of these lands, titles jumbled and thrown around ever since the war. I think these people are moving toward a different way of ranking—less rooted in tradition and bloodlines and more in merit.

He speaks, his voice commanding authority even from across the room.

"I'm sure we all know why we are here."

Yes, I do know why I am here, I need to find the people who murdered my family.

"And I would like to congratulate my daughter, Adela..."

And he winks at a beautiful girl—presumably his daughter—sitting straight in her seat with a broad smile on her face, cheeks tinted rose. Her light brown hair doesn't quite reach her shoulders, and she reaches to push a strand behind her ear as she laughs silently, her joy clear on her face.

"...on her marriage to one of the finest warriors in these lands, Malik."

Here he gestures to a dashing young man with short red-brown hair, his stocky build visible in his fitted suit. He reaches a muscular arm around his wife's shoulders and she reaches up to hold his hand, his fingers ringed with gold bands that shine in the lamplights lining the ballroom.