"I love my solitude but I was meant to be a lover." - Rachel Wolchin

˖𓍢ִִ໋𓇼⋆

I was tired of all the hands that had been poking and prodding me every day since the incident. The constant questioning, worrying, and being watched even when there is nothing to worry about. It had been a week since the failed assassination of my life, and I had grown restless of being confined to my room.

The room was spacious enough and designed to welcome the cool night air while shielding against the oppressive desert heat of the day. Tall, arched windows lined one wall. Their panes were adorned with intricate latticework that cast delicate shadows across the marble floor when the sun rose. Heavy drapes, made of deep blue and gold-dusted fabric, were drawn to block out the light, and they fluttered like the wings of a desert falcon.

My fingers drummed against the bedding of ivory and deep crimson, reminiscent of the sands at sunset. If someone blindfolded me, I could recount every detail from memory if questioned. The bed was a grand, four-poster structure carved from dark desert acacia wood, with posts twisted into the shapes of intertwining vines, a nod to the lush oasis behind the great wall. Sheer, gauzy curtains hung from the posts, falling in gentle waves to create a sense of privacy and softness.

Across from the bed stood a low, stone hearth used to warm the room on the cooler desert nights. Along the walls, low wooden shelves hold books and scrolls, their spines bound in leather, each about a country outside my home. A polished bronze mirror stood in one corner, its frame embellished with tiny shells and gems, a gift from a trade envoy from the island port of Zospery. A carved desk sat beneath one of the windows, covered in parchment, ink bottles, and an array of delicate trinkets, the tools I used for correspondence and the occasional midnight reflection.

Potted desert plants—succulents and resilient flowers that bloom in rare bursts of color—were placed throughout the room, bringing a touch of greenery to the otherwise warm, earthen palette. A large rug, woven with intricate geometric patterns in shades of deep orange and indigo, covers much of the floor, adding warmth and comfort.

However, it all felt like a prison.

The healer prodded at my shoulder again, checking the wound and its bandages. I pushed her hand away. "Enough."

The older woman sighed, withdrawing her hands. She crossed her arms over her chest, lips pinched together. "Your Highness, I must insist that you allow me to do my job."

"I have been bedridden for a shoulder injury for a week." I pushed forward, kicking off the blankets and sheets. "There are matters I must see to regarding my future."

"I believe you were told to remain in place."

A deep groan rumbled in my throat. My gaze lifted to the door. My father, King Petar, stood in the doorway looking just as regal and imposing as always. His deeply tanned skin starkly contrasted to the whiteness of his royal robes, and his dark brown eyes were like amber, glittering with amusement.

"Must you always ruin my fun?" I asked, allowing the healer to fluff my pillows as I settled back down.

"I am afraid I must." He stepped into the room, shooting the healer a kind smile. "As it seems, you cannot be trusted to make wise decisions for your health."

I winced, dropping my gaze to my hands. "Father..."

With a wave of his hand, he dismissed the healer. His kind, soulful eyes were filled with emotion for a split second before he pulled on the mask of the king. "Ilaria, you are the princess. Beacon of Sigyn and heir to the Oasis. How do you expect to serve your people if you are dead?"

Rolling my eyes, I mouthed the titles so graciously bestowed upon me. Not titles given by the people, no. Titles produced by the courtiers and advisors for publicity and instilling an identity for me.

Fake.

Every single last one. Fake. Unlike the titles earned by other leaders, mine were crafted and carefully selected out of a hat. There had been a time, years ago, when I was still a desert runt, that he used to fill my mind with grand ideas of what I could do for our kingdom. The people I could save, the changes I could make. You have the makings of a true Queen, he used to tell me.

How distant those memories felt now.

Father hadn't read the letter. He didn't know what had been threatened. So what if I needed to spill blood to protect the kingdom? Hadn't others done it before me? Valiant men and brave soldiers had gone to war over less. Why must it be different for me? Why did it matter that it needed to be my own blood?

"You trust so little in me," I said, gazing back at my father's face. "If I were a son..."

"Do not start." He lowered himself into a chair beside my bed, kind eyes searching mine. "You know your limitations. I thought you had accepted those terms long ago. You are a woman, dear. Your place is not on the battlefield but in the courtrooms."

I bristled, spine stiffening as I fought back bitter words. "That is an age-old tradition, and you know it. Countless women lead armies into battle. Queens, generals, and the like. Is not our greatest potential ally Queen Deline of Zospery? Does she not control the finest ports in all of Ettheim?"

"Ilaria." His tone was final. "We will not speak of it further. You will remain in bed until the healer releases you."

"Oh, great." I curled my lip, staring at the wall across from me. "So I am to lie here like a useless doll until the next assassination attempt."

"You would not be here in the first place if you had heeded Captain Rook's advice." He rose to his feet, hands clasped behind his back as he crossed the floor. "You will not remain in here forever."

Relief washed through me like a cleansing desert rain. "Good. I cannot wait to be out of this room and back where I can be of some real use."

Father looked over his shoulder, and I saw pain dwelling in his eyes. His smile curved downward, and my heart went with it. "No, my dear. You will not be staying here either."

Alarm shot through me. I sat up, wincing as pain shot through my shoulder because of the sudden move. "What do you mean?"

"Due to your recklessness with this last threat," he began slowly, dragging out each word over his tongue as if it pained him even to say it. "The advisors and I thought it necessary to take your protection into our own hands and take it a step further."

A frown pinched my eyebrows together. "Go on."

"Someone is coming to meet you, and I think it would be wise if you were well-rested to meet him and make a good first impression."

"Father, your vagueness does not do you any favors."

He pursed his lips, moving to look out the window. His eyes narrowed, and then he turned to me. "Have you heard mention of one they call the Devil of the Spire?"

The title tickled something in the back of my mind. Flashes of stories blinked through my memory. Nothing good, and nothing promising. "Isn't he regarded as some sort of murderer underneath the guise of a lord?"

"Yes! That's the one," he said, and he beamed with pride. "His real name is Alaric, warden of the famed Spire in Zospery. He's a lord and a fine one at that. He is coming here to meet you."

The blood drained from my face. "Father, you cannot be serious. None of the stories I hear from our soldiers about him are good! Why would you invite him here?"

Father's jaw tightened as he stared at me, eyes pointedly fixated on my shoulder. "My daughter's life is in danger, and she questions why I seek to find her protection. Lord Alaric is a fine soldier, one of the best in his generation, and his reputation proceeds him. The arrangement has already been set, and if all goes well, you will be going with him to Zospery, where he can keep an eye on you at all times."

"Excuse me?" My jaw dropped. "Leave Sigyn? At a time like this? Father!"

Anger blazed in his eyes, but he tampered it. "Rest easy, Ilaria. He will be here tomorrow evening. I expect you to be on your best behavior."

He slammed the door on his way out, and I yelled in frustration as I flopped back onto my pillows. Leave Sigyn! Had my father lost his mind? Worst of all, to be protected by the infamous Devil of the Spire.

How I wished that assassin had hit his mark.