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I’ve never had, and I grin and bob my head at those who greet me as I make my way to the palace. At the portcullis, I hand my invitation to the gateman and when he grants me entry a young page bows to me respectfully. I follow him deep into the palace to an area I haven’t been before, an alcove off a side hall lined with plush, comfortable chairs. I’m asked to stay here, and he rushes off to announce me.
    As I wait, I’m entranced by the artistry of the tapestries on the walls which tell various stories of Cerion’s history and the Plethore family’s rise to the throne. A particularly dark tapestry catches my interest, and I find myself drawn into it. Woven masterfully into the tapestry, an ominous sky looms over a craggy black mountain, pelting the range with sharp white streaks of lightning. Glimpses of creatures lurk in the shadows at its rocky base, barely visible except for a hand here and a boot there. As I move closer, the shapes change and I can make out eyes looking at me and hands reaching toward me.
    I’m so absorbed by the tiny figures I don’t realize someone has come to stand behind me until I feel a hand on my shoulder. I start to turn, but a second hand catches my waist and slides to my hip. The touch is too firm, too assuming. It sends a chill through me, and suddenly I feel vulnerable without my sword.
    “The Fall of Diovicus.” The whisper is hot and breathy in my ear. The hand on my shoulder slides down my back and around to my stomach, holding me. Yet something about the voice is familiar, and my instinct tells me to be still. “The mysteries of Kythshire, so compelling, so...” He brushes my cheek with his, grazes my hair. “Forbidden.” I feel the stubble of his chin on my neck, just where Dacva’s blade had sliced me. A lump rises in my throat as my heart begins to race. Thinking back, I realize this hall, so tucked away, had no posted guards. I wonder if that was on purpose. I don’t like feeling this way, vulnerable. Powerless.
    No, I tell myself. Not powerless. I’m a fighter. I could take him by surprise, throw my elbow up behind me into his chin and smash his jaw. Gouge my heel into his foot and turn and punch his stomach. Run. Scenarios of escape race through my mind and then it clicks. I know who it is, and I know fighting would have serious consequences. Instead I stand rooted in place, carefully masking my shock at his appalling behavior. At attention. Disciplined, just like yesterday in the field.
    As he circles to face me, he slides a finger along the line of the sash tied at my waist. I feel my cheeks go warm with humiliation as I fight to keep my gaze locked ahead. Why is he acting this way? I watch until his rich boots come into view, then his deep purple doublet, the glint of gold at his neck. He strokes my chin and raises it up, and I look into Prince Eron’s face.
    “You did well yesterday,” he whispers as his fingers trace down my throat and along my collar bone. I hold my breath, grateful I listened to my instincts rather than attack him. “Such skill, such grace, such restraint.” I remain stoic, keeping my eyes fixed on the eyes of a dark creature before me, praying he can’t hear my heart pounding. He pulls me closer, his hand on the back of my neck, his face tipped to mine.
    “Azi!” Footsteps patter around the corner and the prince and I jump apart as Margary emerges. Sarabel follows close behind, laughing as her little sister dances around me and takes my hand. Both seem completely oblivious to the tension between Eron and me, and before the prince can do anything to protest, Margy takes my hand and pulls me away. We run together through the winding corridors and into the sunny royal gardens, and by the time the sun brushes my cheeks I’m laughing along with Margy, infected by her bubbly excitement. 
    “Come see what we made!” She leads me to a corner of the garden where we stop in the shade of a copse of well-pruned trees. Her nurse settles on