Scarred (Never After Series)

I’ve seen paintings of the Saxum kingdom my entire life. There’s one hanging above the mantle in my uncle’s great room back home; a dreary picture, with thunderous clouds looming over a darkened castle, one that was built in the sixteenth century and has blackened with age. I’ve always assumed the sight was exaggerated for the artwork. Turns out, the paintings don’t come anywhere near the reality.

The king’s driver winds the automobile through the Saxum city streets, passing by women as they laugh in the arms of men as if there isn’t a care in the world. Blissfully unaware that five minutes down the road, the cobblestone turns into dirt, and the wide-brimmed hats turn into dirty bonnets and torn clothing over skin and bone.

Or maybe they are aware, and they simply don’t care.

“Nothing does justice to the real thing, does it?” Sheina, my closest friend turned lady-in-waiting, sighs as she gazes out of the window, her blonde hair peeking from beneath the brim of her hat. “You spend your whole life hearing tales, but it is an eerie sight.”

Her head nods toward the castle, perched on a cliff at the end of a long winding road, lush green forestry surrounding either side.

Paintings don’t do it justice, indeed.

This part of the country seems to lend itself to more of an overcast gloom—a stark difference to the sunshine that used to help grow the crops in Silva—and an anxious energy eats its way through my middle as the buildings that line the streets give way to sycamore and pine; the smell of evergreen permeating through the automobile and stinging my nostrils.

The road narrows and my anxiety grows, my stomach rising and falling with the quickened beats of my heart as I realize the castle backs up to the angry Vita Ocean and this is the only way in. And the only way out.

“Do you think what they say is true?” Sheina asks, twisting her body toward me.

I lift a brow. “Depends on what part you’re referring to.”

“That the ghosts of the fallen kings haunt the castle corridors.” She wiggles her fingers in front of her face.

I laugh, even though truthfully, I’ve wondered the same thing. “Sheina, you’re too old to still believe in ghost stories.”

Her head tilts. “So, you’re saying you don’t?”

A shiver notches its way down my spine. “I believe in superstition,” I say. “But I’d also like to imagine that when someone leaves us, their soul moves on to rest in the Kingdom of Heaven.”

She nods.

“Or Hell,” I add, the corner of my mouth tilting. “If they deserve it.”

A giggle escapes, her hand coming up to smother the sound. “Sara, you shouldn’t say such things.”

“It’s just us, Sheina.” My grin spreads as I shrug, leaning into her. “Can’t you keep a secret?”

She scoffs. “Please. I’ve kept every single one of your wicked deeds to myself since we were little girls.”

I adjust against the back of the seat, the steel bones of my corset digging into my ribs. “Would they make a wicked girl a queen?”

Her lips purse, her blue eyes sparkling. “With you, Sara, anything is possible.”

Warm contentment settles in my chest, happy that my uncle allowed me to bring her along. Having a familiar face helps to ease the tension knotting its way through my shoulders.

I’ve known Sheina since I was a little girl, us having grown up together on my family’s estate. Her mother is a maid, and Sheina and I used to spend our summer days sneaking into the fields and picking fresh berries, making up stories about how we’d find the poisonous ones and bring them back to the boys who gave us trouble.

But one of the first things my father taught me was to keep your friends close and your secrets even closer. So while I love Sheina, I don’t trust her with the heavy burden of my truths.

Even to her, I play the part, and she’s none the wiser.

Slowly, the landscape stops whizzing by as our automobile stalls, my gaze snapping to the dual towers housing the entrance to the castle’s courtyard. The stone itself is a dark gray, wet from the earlier rain—or maybe just stained from years of wear—deep ivy winding up the sides until it reaches the steepled tops and disappears into the small, glassless windows.

A lookout area, I’m sure.

I wonder if my father had the same view when he arrived, his mind full of hope and his heart filled with courage.

The hole in my chest aches.

“We’ve arrived, milady,” the driver announces.

“Yes, I can see that, thank you,” I reply, my spine straightening as I run my hands over the lap of my light-green travel dress.

The metal from the iron gates creak as they open wide, royal guards lining both sides of the yard, their forms draped in black and gold, the crest of a roaring lion on their breast. It’s the same image that adorns every flag in Gloria Terra.

The Faasa family coat of arms.

I swallow down the nerves, staring at their rigid faces as the automobile moves again, stopping once we’re just inside the gates. There are a dozen bystanders staring our way, but other than that, there isn’t any type of grand fanfare.

A small group of men stand in front of us, and I recognize the shorter one immediately, relief flooding through my system at the sight of my cousin Alexander making his way over.

The door opens, and Sheina is helped first, and then Alexander’s hand reaches for mine. The lace of my sleeve rustles against my wrist as I place my palm on his and step down to the ground.

“Xander,” I say as he bows, bringing my hand to his lips for a kiss.

“Cousin, it’s been too long,” he replies as he straightens. “Your travels went well?”

I smile. “Long and uncomfortable, I’m afraid. But happy to be here all the same.”

He clucks his tongue. “And my father? He’s well?”

“As well as he can be. He sends his regrets he couldn’t make the trip.”

“Of course.” He inclines his head. “Come. Let me introduce you to His Majesty.”

He pulls my hand until it loops into the crook of his arm and leads me to a man standing in a tan country suit, a smile growing on his handsome face as he trails his gaze over my form.

I’ve learned so much about the royal family over the years that I could point them out with a single glance, despite never having seen them before. And from this man’s coiffed brown hair to his broad chest and giant frame, coupled with the unusual amber shade of his eyes, I immediately recognize him.

King Michael Faasa III of Gloria Terra.

Fire consumes my chest, hatred dripping down my insides as I dip into a curtsy, the lace hem of my skirt swishing against the ground. “Your Majesty.”

“Lady Beatreaux.” His voice is a deep rumble, booming through the courtyard. “You’re much better looking than I imagined.”

I straighten and incline my head to hide the flash of irritation that crosses my face. “You’re too kind, sir.”

He tilts his chin, his hands resting in his pockets. “I’ve met your father, you know.”

I let my smile widen, even though his mention of my father sends a ball of anguish tearing through my center. “What a pleasure for him to have held your company.”

King Michael’s eyes spark, his posture straightening as a grin blooms on his face. “Yes, well… it would seem that pleasure’s being paid forward, since now I’ll have yours.”

Satisfaction spreads through my chest, warming the blood in my veins as my uncle’s voice whispers through my head.

The faster you gain his favor, the quicker you also gain his trust.

Michael steps forward until he’s in front of me, so close I can smell the starch of his clothes, and he leans down, pressing a lingering kiss to my cheek. My stomach jolts at how forward he is, and my eyes scan across the courtyard to see people’s reactions, curious to know if this is common demeanor or something special, just for me. But other than a few people scattered through the massive yard, no one seems to pay us much mind, although I feel their lingering stares.

His hand grazes my waist.

I allow his touch, knowing I have no other choice. You can’t deny the king, and I have no interest in coming across as difficult. Continuing my perusal of the area, my gaze snags on a beautiful weeping willow in the far corner, a shadowy figure perched beneath its crying branches, his eyes locked on me.

My stomach tightens.

King Michael whispers something in my ear, and I hum in agreement, although I couldn’t tell you what he said. I’m too busy being sucked into this stranger’s stare, knowing I should look away, but unable to force myself to follow through. There’s a challenge in his gaze that keeps me glued in place. One that stiffens my spine and irritates my nerves, wishing he would be the first to surrender. He doesn’t, of course. He simply smirks as he leans against the trunk of the tree, running his hand through the messy locks of his jet-black hair, pushing the wayward strands from his forehead.

My breathing grows unsteady as I track along the harsh lines of his pale face, his fingers adorned in silver as they brush against his chiseled jaw, and his forearms dark with ink. And then my heart stutters when I notice the scar running through his browbone and ending just above his cheek, barely visible from this distance, and dull compared to the piercing jade green of his eyes.

My middle clamps down tight as I realize who he is.

Even if I hadn’t spent years studying the Faasa family, his reputation precedes him; rumors of his temper and tales of his extracurricular activities reaching even the farthest corners of Gloria Terra.

They say he’s as dangerous as he is unhinged, and I’ve been firmly instructed to keep my distance.

Tristan Faasa.

The younger brother of the king.

The scarred prince.