Chapter 2: The King’s Mark
The pendant seared my skin, a live coal pressed against my collarbone. I shoved it back beneath my dress, but the damage was done. The tallest guard, a man with a scar bisecting his left eyebrow, pointed a gloved finger at me. “Her. The King’s Mark is on her.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lied, backing toward the kitchen. My heart hammered against my ribs. The patrons of the Rusty Mug parted like water, their whispers a rising tide of shock. “I’m just a barmaid.”
The scarred guard laughed, a cold, sharp sound. “A barmaid wearing the Royal Seal? Unlikely.” He signaled to his men. They moved like shadows, flanking me before I could take two more steps. One grabbed my wrist, his grip like iron. “You’re coming with us, girl. The King has questions.”
“The King?” I spat, trying to yank free. “The King doesn’t know I exist. And I prefer it that way.”
“That’s not your choice anymore.”
They dragged me out into the rain-slicked street, my feet slipping on the cobblestones. The tavern door slammed behind me, sealing off the murmurs of my former life. A black carriage waited, its horses stamping nervously. They threw me inside like a sack of grain, and the door clicked shut with the finality of a coffin.
The ride was a blur of cold and terror. I pressed my palm against the pendant, feeling its unnatural heat, and tried to remember my mother’s face. I couldn’t. She’d died when I was six, leaving me with nothing but a whispered name and this cursed piece of jewelry. She’d said it was my birthright. I’d thought it was a fairy tale.
The carriage lurched to a stop. The door swung open, and I was pulled into a world of blinding white marble and gilded gold. The palace loomed above me, a monstrous cathedral of power. I was shoved up a grand staircase, past paintings of stern-faced kings and queens, until we reached a pair of enormous oak doors.
The guards knocked. A voice, thin and reedy, called out, “Enter.”
Inside, the court was assembled. Lords and ladies in silks and jewels lined the walls, their eyes fixed on me like vultures circling carrion. At the far end, on a throne of obsidian and gold, sat the King. He was older than I’d imagined, his hair silver, his face carved from stone. But his eyes—his eyes were the same shade of gray as mine.
The room fell silent. The King rose, his boots echoing on the marble floor as he approached. He stopped a few feet away, studying me with an intensity that made my skin crawl.
“She has the Mark,” he said, more to himself than anyone. “After all these years.”
“My lord,” I managed, my voice trembling despite my best effort. “I’m no one. Just a servant girl from a tavern. There’s been a mistake.”
“No mistake.” He reached out and touched my chin, tilting my face toward the light. “You have my eyes. My mother’s cheekbones. And the Mark.” He gestured to my chest. “Show me.”
My hand flew to my collar. “No.”
“You’re in no position to refuse.” His tone wasn’t cruel, but it was unyielding. “I am your father.”
The word hit me like a physical blow. Father. I’d never had a father. I’d had a dead mother and a string of faceless patrons who paid for my drinks and nothing more. I stared at him, disbelief and rage warring in my chest. “You abandoned me.”
“I didn’t know you existed until a fortnight ago,” he said, his jaw tightening. “Your mother—she never told me. She fled before the court could find out.”
“Fled?” I laughed, bitter and hollow. “She died. Alone. In a corner of the kingdom you forgot existed. And you call yourself a king?”
A collective gasp rippled through the court. A lady in a crimson gown stepped forward, her lips curled in disdain. “Your Majesty, this is absurd. The girl is a commoner. A tavern wench. You cannot seriously be considering—“
“Silence, Lady Ashworth.” The King’s voice was a thunderclap. He turned back to me, his expression softening just a fraction. “You are my blood. That makes you a princess of this realm. Whether the court likes it or not.”
“I don’t want to be a princess,” I whispered, my legs threatening to give out. “I want to go home.”
“You have no home,” he said, not unkindly. “You have the palace now. And the crown’s protection.”
“And the crown’s enemies,” a voice drawled from the throng. A young man stepped forward, his hair as dark as a raven’s wing, his smile sharp as a blade. He wore the sigil of the Crown Prince. My half-brother. “Welcome to the family, sister. Try not to get yourself poisoned.”
The court erupted in stifled laughter. I felt the heat rise to my cheeks, but I refused to look away. “I’ve survived worse than spoiled nobles.”
His eyes glinted with something dangerous. “We’ll see.”
The King raised a hand, silencing the whispers. “Ella will be given a suite in the east wing. She will be educated in court manners and history. And she will be presented at the Autumn Ball as my daughter.” He looked at me, and for a moment, I saw something almost like hope in his gaze. “You are the Crown’s Hidden Heir. And you will take your place beside me.”
I opened my mouth to refuse, but the words died in my throat. Because the prince—my brother—was staring at me with a smile that promised nothing but pain. And in that moment, I knew: I hadn’t escaped the tavern.
I’d walked into a cage far more gilded, and far more deadly.
As the court bowed to their new princess, the pendant turned cold against my skin. And I heard my mother’s voice, faint as a ghost, whisper: *They will never let you live, my love. Run.*