Page 154 of Hellbound

Her eyes watered to the point that she had to keep her gaze low and forward, navigating the crowd through her peripheral vision and sheer instinct.

The crystal-encrusted chandeliers became secondary sunsets—violet and gold shards thrown in every direction, multiplied by the polished marble floor beneath her feet.

The room felt twice as tall, twice as vast, twice as punishing.

The jewels swayed with the warmth and movement of the crowd filing into the upper balconies, beams of light shifting with them in a way that churned her stomach.

Jostled toward the center of the crowd, the glasses were whisked off her tray faster than they were replenished, which was the only thing going right. She found herself in a sea of faces she couldn’t read. The light made everything wrong.

Hollows that were supposed to be dark were light. Cheeks that caught the light were shadowed. Everyone’s expressions were unintelligible. Jewels at their throats, wrists, hands, fingers, throwing light independently so that her eye kept snagging on those glittering points rather than their faces.

She was about to vomit on their well-polished shoes.

Made worse by her unnatural hearing, all the glass, polished stone, and crystal assaulted her sensitive ears. Warbling music and foreign and common tongues, stripped of their context, arrived in fragments from every corner of the room.

Things had never been so bad that she did not want to exist in her body.

She resolved to get through her first mission with grim efficiency: get everyone as intoxicated as possible, as quickly as possible.

Kindling operated under the guise of unity and peace, but every sober person in this room understood it to be an unprecedented night of espionage on all sides.

She was blindly navigating through the crowd on her second pass when she pulled back hastily, successfully avoiding collision with an icy figure, her beauty only sharpened by age.

Lady Milena’s hair was woven into a rich brunette crown, braided with silver thread.

She shot Ksenia a look that could cut glass, and the fractured chandelier light hit her cheekbones at a vicious angle. She was dressed in a rich sapphire gown, trimmed with brown and black minx fur. She wrenched her train behind her with a glare.

Not a single drop of wine had spilled, but that didn’t stop the woman from stalking forward with a vicious sneer.

“Watch yourself, peasant.” Her breath was sour with wine. “The king will have your head if you ruin Kindling—and I won’t hesitate to name you.”

“Yes, my Lady. Thank you, my Lady,” came Ksenia’s practiced reply, her jaw tightening as she bent her head in apology.

Milena swept past her, a floral musk hitting Ksenia in the face as her heavy dress dragged past her foot. She fought the intrusive thoughts telling her to step on it.

A ringing cut through the air as Lord King Karsan delicately chimed his silverware against his crystal goblet.

“Friends. Welcome to another Kindling. Look around you—see the faces who have chosen wisdom over folly, prosperity over chaos. For generations, this hall has witnessed the Kindling, a celebration born from the ashes of old conflicts and nurtured by those wise enough to choose unity.”

His hand gestured to an empty set of tables and chairs on his left. “The absent remind us why the present company is so…precious. Let’s celebrate what we have built together and what we shall continue to enjoy as long as we remain of one mind.” He nodded at the Grastel and Kraal nobility seated stiffly to his right.

A resounding roar of applause echoed his sentiment.

The sun had mercifully set, purples and deeper blues transforming the conservatory.

Karsan stepped away from the chalice and ascended the raised platform to his throne. The event coordinator from earlier stepped before him, presenting a couple of dozen red ribbons in her outstretched hands. He shook his head and, with a wave of his hand, Bohdan stepped forth to accept the Threads of Grace.

The crowd took a collective breath, and Ksenia rolled her eyes at the giggles that burst forth from a trio of girls behind her. He was dressed in a crimson velvet doublet, its collar edged with golden thread that caught the light with every movement. The garment hugged his broad shoulders down to his tapered waist, fastened with gold buttons bearing the Saranov crest—beneath, a black silk shirt teasingly revealed his collarbone and scar. His red Envorsen cloak had been replaced with an elegant black one, cascading over his shoulder in rich folds past his knees, secured with a gold clasp featuring a ruby cabochon. His black breeches were tucked into polished, knee-high black leather boots.

Wordlessly, he drew his sword. The audience cheered as he did so.

He patiently waited as the ribbons were affixed to his sword, just above his crossguard. With his other hand, he gathered the ribbons and stepped to the center of the ballroom, parting the crowd as he walked.

As they had practiced, the twenty or so handmaidens floated in a single-file line, each grace prettier than the last. Each delicately grasping a ribbon within his outstretched hand. Their blushing deepened at the slightest smile from his face. Ksenia went last, struggling to suppress the vision of him fucked out beneath her and half-debating whether being punished for non-participation was worth the embarrassment of Bohdan being left with a single ribbon still.

She groaned as she joined the lineup. No doubt if she didn’t, some love-stricken woman from the crowd would eagerly take her place, further stroking Bohdan’s inflated ego.

Her chest constricted, heat rising in her face at the thought that these women could capture his attention.