Palace Bedroom.
Oredison Palace, Gazda.
The evening of the Welcome Dinner.

After our training, Caine let me see Ruthie for just a moment. I'd hugged her, apologized for everything that had happened, and then she was gone again—hauled away by guards and put in a different transport. Nadia rode back with me and Caine, but we didn't speak anymore.

Back at the palace, I was given breakfast and then locked in my bedroom, where I'd stay until the dinner tonight. I'd wanted to go to the library to see if Kai had gotten my note. We'd talked since then, so it hardly seemed to matter, but I was still curious to see if his library book mailbox had worked. As far as I could tell, no one had discovered it. So, if nothing else, it might prove to be a good way for Kai and me to communicate—even if it did mean waiting days for a response.

I spent most of the day sitting in the windowsill, trying to map out how exactly I might scale the wall from my room to where one of the other goddess-touched girls were staying. I'd asked Nadia and she'd described her bedroom as being to the left of the lift, a floor down from mine. I'd sketched out a very rough version of the palace halls, estimating where her room was in relation to my own.

I think it was about six or seven floors from my room to the ground—from the angle I was sitting, it was difficult to tell. I'd always traveled the palace using a variation of stairways and lifts. I typically didn't go to the same place the same way more than once. The inconsistency made it difficult to gauge how far from the ground floor I actually was. Add in the fact that the palace had a basement that was partially above ground in some areas, and I was thoroughly confused. All I knew was that it was a long drop and I was—admittedly—very afraid of heights.

The jagged stones, trellises, balconies, and ornate architecture of the building made it seem like an easy task. Uri had certainly made climbing from the second story to the ground floor look easy enough—but when I'd done it the one time, I had struggled to do it even when I wasn't under pressure. I couldn't imagine what it would be like if I was trying to move quickly and avoid detection.

There was also the fact that I had no idea where Heidi was being kept. Nadia had said that she wasn't sure Heidi was even back in her rooms, since the fourteen-year-old had proved to be hard to handle. With her tendency to pick fights and instigate trouble, it was possible that Caine had opted to keep Heidi in a cell until her trial. As it stood, it seemed unlikely that he'd let her train.

Nadia and Heidi's trial was about ten days away and I needed to find a way to get them out of Gazda before they were put in the arena. Training with Nadia today hadn't helped to give me very much confidence in her hand-to-hand combat skills. And ability against ability—well, everyone knew how that would turn out.

Nadia had told me that she wouldn't fight Heidi even if her ability was more tactical. We were all friends and she'd made it clear even in Third Corps that she had no intention of fighting any of us in the arena, even if it came to that. While that reaction was nice, Caine was right—in the arena, opinions might change. And Heidi had never been secretive about what she'd do if she ended up in the arena with either of us.

Heidi was going to fight for herself. She was scrappy and young and willing to do whatever it took to save herself. It wasn't like I could blame her for it, I'd done my share of selfish things. I was certain, as I stared down at the garden far below me, that I would do many more selfish things before my time was up.

I must have drifted off, my head pressed to the cold windowpane, because by the time I awoke the sun had shifted in the sky and it was nearing nightfall. Dinner was set for eight o'clock and I was unsure exactly what I was supposed to do to get ready. The first dinner had been a white-tie affair. It seemed a little ridiculous to get all dressed up again.

I'd just decided to pull a nicer day dress from my closet when a key rattled in the lock of my door.

Caine wasn't worried about my privacy, but even he typically knocked before letting himself inside. Convinced that this was just one more of his mind games, I hurried from the window and shoved the paper and pen with my drawing into a drawer of the vanity. I'd have to find a way to dispose of it later.

I'd only just made it to the middle of my bedroom, far enough from the vanity and the window to avoid suspicion, when the door swung open.

Turning on my heels, I found two people standing there. Neither of them was Caine. It was a boy and a girl, both around my age. The boy carried with him a large garment bag, which he brandished before him like a shield.

At first, they didn't move, they just stood in the doorway blinking at me, as if I'd stumbled into their room and not the other way around. Then the boy spoke up, his voice rougher than I'd imagined it would be. "We're here to help you get ready for tonight." He pointed to himself and then thumbed lazily towards the girl next to him. "We're the stylists."

"Perfect." I walked to the door to greet them, shooting Ross and Igell a look as I ushered the two stylists inside. Ross stepped forward like he might say something to me but I shut my bedroom door in his face before he could even get out a word.

I turned to look at the two stylists. "I'm sorry for not answering the door. I didn't hear you knock."

The girl shot me a weak smile and lifted a shoulder. "Oh, we didn't knock." When she saw my look of surprise she said, "Your guards told us not to, so..."

"I for one thought it was rude," the boy said, his mouth pulling up slightly as he shrugged his shoulders, "But, I mean, who are we to argue with people who have guns?"

"Yeah, I...I guess that's a good point." I watched as he sat on the edge of my bed and started fiddling with the closure on the bag. By the time I'd turned to look, the girl was gone, having already disappeared into my closet. I rubbed at the place where my forehead had been pressed to the window, wondering if it was red. "So, what's your name?"

The boy's head shot up in surprise. He settled back onto my bed, propping himself up on his elbows as he took me in. "I'm Birk. Birk Bisley. And she's Emilie," he said, nodding to the closet where the girl had already disappeared.

Birk had a deep, gravelly voice. He sounded like the embodiment of smoke and dark pub corners. Like trouble. I decided, right then and there, that I liked him.

I'd only just decided this when he shot me a sly smile and said, "You know, I didn't really know what to think when they told us you had short hair. But I kind of like it. It's edgy. You look like you could kick someone's ass with that haircut."

I ran my hand through it, suddenly self-conscious. "Yeah, that was sort of the point."

"Did you cut it yourself?"

I nodded.

"I was reading up on you, trying to figure out what would work best for your clothes and stuff, and I saw an article some dick-head journalist had written calling you a Scalp." He shook his head. "I bet he was sitting nice and cozy in his comfy little office in his comfy little house with his comfy little life as he wrote that bullshit. He wouldn't know a Varos Scalp if one spat in his eye."

I laughed, thinking of the women from back home who so often took on that slur. In my home city, Scalps were the poorest of the poor. They were almost always destitute women who had found themselves living in the fringes of society. They did whatever work they could to survive and that typically meant standing on street corners and taking strangers into their beds.

The dirty living conditions and questionable company meant lice and other pests ran rampant in the community houses the women frequented—and that was if they could even afford to live somewhere like that. These infestations typically led to women either losing their hair or cutting it off in order to keep it bug-free.

Since these women were not very religious and their way of survival went completely against temple beliefs, they'd been cast off by the priestesses, who swore their lack of hair was a blight from the goddess herself. This had turned into people believing that long hair was a sign of female purity or divinity or whatever. So, me cutting my hair before going into the Culling had held a greater, perhaps unintentional message, than I'd originally intended.

I crossed my arms over my chest. "Have you ever even been to Varos?" I asked, skeptical.

He pressed a hand to his chest, feigning offense. "Excuse me! I was born and raised there."

My brows rose. "Really?"

He nodded. "Oh yes. I speak fluent bastard and I can tell a real Scalp from a fake one in ten seconds flat. And you, marked girl, are not a real Scalp. Any reporter worth his salt would have been able to take one look at you and see that you're a respectable lady." I shook my head, unable to keep myself from smiling as he added, "Well, as respectable as a double-crossing, rebellion-leading, fire-wielding marked lady can be, that is."

"I didn't lead the rebellion."

"Never too late." He laughed loudly and ran a hand over his shaved head. His white teeth flashed against the warm brown of his skin as he said, "I notice that you didn't correct me about the double-crossing though."

I shrugged. "That's public knowledge and has been for months. There's no hiding it anymore."

He shrugged. "That's neither here nor there. What matters now is whether or not you're gonna be queen." He sat up and leaned forward, opening the garment bag, to reveal a stunning silver gown. Birk grinned wickedly. "I didn't spend the last three weeks hand-sewing crystals onto tulle just for my art to be worn by a loser. Em and I, we're here to win. We can't have you being the weakest link, Benson. You're gonna have to pull your weight."

The girl, Emilie, strode out of the closet, a pair of shoes in either hand. She shot me an apologetic look before she looked pointedly at Birk, her voice turning shrill as she hissed, "Good goddess, Birk. Way to pressure her."

He rolled his eyes. "Her life is on the line here, Em. If she's only feeling pressure from me, her priorities are all out of order."

"I'll try not to disappoint you," I said.

"That's what I like to hear." Birk rubbed his hands together excitedly and said, "Now, Em and I have argued about this dress over and over again—She says silver isn't your color."

Emilie gestured towards me with one hand, the shoes she held banging together as she said, "She's blonde and fair-skinned. It'll wash her out and make her look like a ghost. We don't want her to look dead before the Culling has even started."

Birk held up his hands in surrender. "With the right makeup—"

Emilie tucked a strand of auburn hair behind her ear and rolled her eyes. "Makeup shouldn't be a crutch, Birk. Good goddess."

He shrugged, offered her a cocky smile, and then turned his full attention back to me. "Let's see what Benson thinks of it. She can be the deciding vote." With that, he pulled the dress from the bag and draped it across the foot of my bed.

The motion of the fabric was like water—it glittered under the lights and made rainbow sun patterns splay across the bed. The shape of the gown was simple, a fitted top with thin straps and a pointed neckline that swooped down lower than anything else I'd ever worn. It would be sexy at best, provocative at worst.

But the real showstopper was the fabric, which was a grayish silver that started at the top and turned light as it grew closer to the hem. The tulle material was covered in thousands of tiny jewels and sparkly flakes of thin crystal. As Birk adjusted it on the bed, showing me the low-cut back, I couldn't help but be enamored by the sheer craftsmanship of it.

Birk must have seen the awe on my face because his smile turned arrogant. "Ah, there it is."

Emilie made an annoyed grunt at his words and I glanced between them.

"There's what?" I asked.

"The look," she said. "The one everyone gets when they first see something Birk's designed." She sighed and tossed both sets of shoes onto the bed next to the dress. "Don't feel bad," Emilie said, her tone filled with teasing exasperation as she explained, "it happens to the best of us."

Birk shrugged and nodded to the dress. "What can I say? I'm just too damn talented."

Emilie took hold of my shoulders and directed me towards the vanity. "Too damn full of yourself, more like it," she called over her shoulder. Birk laughed at this and, by the time I was seated and could catch a glimpse of him in the mirror, he was already sprawled out on my bed again.

"You guys aren't like the stylists I had before," I said, trying not to instinctually flinch away as Emilie started playing with my hair.

She met my gaze in the mirror, "Oh?"

"Yeah. They didn't really talk to me other than to tell me what to wear."

Birk rolled over onto his side to watch us. "We aren't technically palace stylists," he explained. "We're only apprentices. We do this shit for free."

"Not free, we just...the money goes towards our living costs," Emilie explained. "We work for Madame Leroux—the famous seamstress from Banicket Street. You know, the fashion avenue in Deca Market. Usually, she'd come herself or she'd send one of the actual stylists, but with the ball happening tomorrow, we're short-staffed. So, here we are."

Birk nodded. "The hag says she's too busy with orders to come here herself. And we've had three different stylists in the last week come down with some sort of illness, so she sent Em and me. We both trained at the art academy and were top of our class—or well, Em was top of the class. I was somewhere in the middle, but Leroux likes me well enough so..." he shrugged.

"So you work for her, but you don't get paid?"

"We do," Emilie said. "But our wages don't go to us directly."

"Apprentice wages pay for upkeep," Birk said. "We live in an apartment in the shop. I work day and night just to sleep on a ratty mattress and eat cold porridge. Meanwhile, Leroux doesn't do a damn thing, not really. She mostly just sits on her ass while the rest of us do shit for her."

Emilie frowned. "Don't talk bad about Leroux, it's tacky to badmouth your employer in front of someone you hardly know." She shot me an apologetic look. "Not that you aren't nice, it's just..." She shrugged.

"I understand."

Birk made a face like he didn't get it, but didn't say anything else.

I watched as Emilie began braiding my hair and twisting it up, pinning it away from my face. She was skilled, but it was clear that hair wasn't her forte and she wasn't exactly sure what to do with mine, especially since it was still fairly short.

"So," I said, trying to get the conversation going again. "You both attended an art school here in Gazda? Is this where you're from, Emilie?"

She grabbed a tin of hair cream from the top of the vanity and coaxed down a few wayward strands. I watched her step back, look at her handiwork, frown, and move back to continue braiding and pinning. My hair was long enough now that I could pull it back into a little ponytail, but not long enough to do much else. I watched her work in the reflection of the vanity mirror.

She was pretty, with olive skin and auburn hair that she pulled into a loose bun at the base of her neck. It struck me that she might be even prettier if she'd really smile. But her expression was schooled into one of neutrality, even when she was listening to Birk's jokes. She seemed like the sort who had a story of her own. But, seeing as I didn't like to tell mine, I wasn't about to pressure her to explain herself to me.

Enough time had passed since I'd asked my question that I'd started to suspect she hadn't been paying attention. I'd just decided to change the subject away from her, but then she glanced up at me and said, "Yes. I'm from Gazda originally. I come from a long line of Deca Market seamstresses, many of whom have had the honor of outfitting the Crown." The light in her eyes told me just how much pride she took in that fact. "I'm not as skilled as my mother was, but I'm working on it."

I didn't miss the way her voice shifted over the word was.

"I'm sorry for your loss."

She waved me off. "It's been over a decade. I was really young when she died. I don't even remember her sewing. Everything I know comes from Auntie Camille."

Birk made a sound like he thought her aunt wasn't a reliable source, but one swift look from Emilie had him shutting up. I glanced at him in the mirror. "How about you, Birk? I know you're from Varos, but how'd you end up here?"

"Skill, Benson. Pure, unadulterated skill."

I laughed and Emilie shook her head, doing a good job of hiding an amused smile behind the hairpins she had pursed between her lips. She pulled a few of the pins out of her mouth, placing them in my hair as she said, "I'd bet good money on him being unable to actually spell the word 'unadulterated.'"

He winked at her in the reflection of the mirror. "And why should I spell it when I can say it just fine?" He sat up on the bed and started messing with the shoes Emilie had pulled from my closet. They were both heels—one set dark gray and the other a pale white.

Emilie stepped away from me, admiring what she'd done. After a few head tilts and a few more adjusted pins, she nodded and, putting her hands on her hips, declared me ready. With that, Birk was off the bed, the dress draped across his arm.

He stood in the corner, his back to me, while Emilie helped me into the gown. Once I was modest, Birk took to pinning the dress, fitting it around my body, and making sure it looked perfect. My chest wasn't as ample as the dress required, so he had me change out of it so he could taper the fabric to lay more naturally.

While he did that, Emilie pulled me into the bathroom. She turned me towards the light and pulled down one sleeve of my robe. Her brow furrowed. I followed her gaze. "What is it?" Then I saw the wicked cut on my upper arm. I hadn't even noticed it. I turned away from her, catching a look at it in the mirror. The blood was dried, but the skin around it was puffy and red. "Shit."

Emilie grabbed a cloth from a cabinet and wet it. "I noticed it during the fitting, but I wasn't sure it was fresh," she explained. "Does it hurt?"

I shook my head, trying to think of when I would have gotten an injury like that. It could have been from a number of things. All signs pointed towards it being something Caine had done.

I sighed and rubbed absentmindedly at my arms.

Nadia had healed the worst of my cuts and bruises, even managing to fade some of the uglier scars—but the feel of it still remained. I remembered every burn, each blister and cut and cry of pain. Kai had seen a lot of it, but there was still so much he didn't see—like earlier that day on the transport. I'd been alone with Caine and it would have been easy for him to do so many terrible things to me.

Recently, his stare had turned possessive.

And, recently, it had felt like he wanted to do more to me than he already had.

Emilie seemed to notice how my mood had shifted. She kept her voice quiet as she dabbed at the dried blood on my arm. "Do...Do they hurt you?"

I met her stare in the mirror. "I'm fine."

She held my gaze for a long moment before she turned back to her task. "Is it the new king—?"

"I'm fine, Emilie."

She scraped her teeth against her bottom lip and shook her head. "You have a yellowing bruise on your chin. And the shadows under your eyes are...well, they aren't good." She set the cloth down on the counter, the white now stained pink from my blood. "I can cover them with makeup, no one will even notice it. But that doesn't mean that I don't see it. You aren't...Monroe, I realize that you're goddess-touched, and this probably goes against almost everything you've been trained to believe, but you aren't alone. If you need a friend, you've got one. In me, and probably in Birk too... if he'd ever get his head out of his ass long enough to realize all of Erydia doesn't revolve around him."

I smiled, tight-lipped but appreciative. "Thank you. But I really am alright."

She sighed but didn't push the subject. I stayed still while she examined the cut. Together we decided it wasn't too bad and that it didn't seem infected. It didn't hurt when I wasn't actively poking at it and, compared to most of the cuts and scrapes I'd gotten over the last month, it really wasn't bad. I'd had far worse and would probably suffer far more before this was all over.

When the cut was cleaned off, she had me sit on the edge of the bathtub while she did my makeup. This, she was good at. I found that it was fun to watch her work. She was careful with her selection of colors and products. By the time she was finished, I didn't feel like I'd been covered up, instead, I felt enhanced—somehow prettier.

Emilie and I had just come back into the bedroom when Birk finished taking in the gown. He retreated back to his corner and I dressed, thrilled at how well it now fit because of his skilled alterations. It seemed Birk was incredibly talented. A closer inspection of the dress revealed the intricate layering of glitter and stones, the way he'd positioned everything so that it lay together as one massive piece of cloth instead of a grouping of elements.

At his request, I spun, allowing the skirt to flow out and the fabric to glitter like a million stars. It reminded me of the dress I'd worn to the first Commencement Ball. That dress had been beautiful too. Uri had gifted it to me and I'd never felt beautiful until the night I wore that garment. This one, while structurally simple, was breathtaking in the fabric choice and icy tones.

"I'm surprised you didn't go with red," I said, admiring the flow of the dress in the floor-length mirror.

Birk nodded. "Red, orange, gold. Warm tones. Their all predictable. And we can't have predictable, especially not in the Culling, take two. We've got to pull out all the stops this time around."

Emilie sat on the foot of the bed next to him, her brown eyes alight as she watched me twirl in the dress. "Plus," she added, "Birk's already done a red dress for you."

"Oh? You mean for tomorrow night?"

He shook his head. "No, I—uh—I designed the dress you wore to the Coronation. You know, during the masquerade ball on Sauenmyde."

I stopped moving and the dress settled around me. It took a lot to school my face into an expression of anything other than horror. I remembered that dress and that night in vivid clarity. It was a constant loop in my mind. I relived it almost every night in my dreams.

Larkin had dressed me as the pyre. I'd had a magnificent red gown and a lace mask that looked like fire. Goddess, we'd all been wearing masks that night—but no one more than Kai.

I forced a smile. "That was a beautiful dress too. Thank you...Thank you for designing it."

He gave me a little bow and smiled widely at me. "You know, I'd hoped there'd be more pictures in the paper of you wearing it. But there was only a couple. The best one is of you dancing with the Crown Prince—or, well, I guess he's the king now. But even in black and white, the dress looked great on you."

The Erydia newspapers had been carefully vetted by Caine and the reporters had only been allowed to print what he approved. One of his favorite pictures from that night was of Kai and I dancing, just before I realized that the gunmen were aiming at me. I'd been so surprised to see him, so happy to have him there. In the image, I am beaming and even the mask around my eyes did nothing to hide my relief.

But Kai was not smiling back at me.

Instead, he was stone-faced, his brown eyes dark and his expression one of fear. To anyone else, it would have looked like he was nervous. And since everyone in Erydia believed that he was about to be revealed as the Crown Prince and made king—his anxiety made sense. No one questioned it. No one ever questioned anything.

Everyone just believed what the papers printed.

They believed what Caine had said.

And he had done such a thorough job of imprisoning or killing anyone that could've possibly threaten his lie, that the truth had never really come to light. No one knew what had happened, not really. Uri's death was publicized as an illness. She wasn't a martyr or a casualty of Kai's new reign. Instead, she'd just been brushed away. Her death had meant nothing.

But her death had meant everything to me.

"Did—" I turned and looked at Birk and Emilie, trying to keep my voice light as I asked, "Did you ever make any dresses for the princesses?" I gestured to Emilie, hoping she didn't see the way my hands shook as I said, "You mentioned that your family has a history of dressing the Crown. Did your employer ever dress Princess Uriel?"

Birk considered. "I don't know. A lot of the time we get orders but we don't really know who we're making the dress for. We just see measurements. And even then, orders for the palace aren't usually fitted by us. We just make the gowns to size and send them. Someone here makes sure they fit well. So, if we did, I didn't know it at the time."

Emilie nodded. "Unless a picture comes out in the paper, we don't really have a way of knowing who is wearing what. But there's probably a good chance we made something for her or one of the other princesses."

Silence fell and then Birk asked, "Why?"

I shrugged and wrapped my arms around myself, honestly unsure why I'd even asked. It wasn't like it mattered. After a second, I decided to be truthful, even if the truth hurt. "I used to sometimes borrow dresses from Princess Uriel. She was on my court during the first part of the Culling. I wasn't sure if maybe I'd worn something by you before, something she gave me." The silence I spoke the words into was heavy with grief, suffocating in the worst way. I swallowed and muttered, "I miss her and I just thought..."

"You thought if we'd designed one of the gowns she'd given you, it would make this dress more special," he finished for me. "You wanted there to be a connection."

I nodded, fighting past the sudden ache in my chest as I explained, "I thought it might make this a little easier. I might feel closer to her."

Emilie's mouth pulled down slightly and she glanced at Birk before she said, "I was really sorry to hear she'd passed. There's always a ton of gossip and speculation surrounding the palace, but I don't think I ever heard a bad word about her."

He nodded. "She seemed nice."

I sighed and glanced at myself in the mirror. "She was the nicest."

We all jumped as a knock sounded at my bedroom door. Without waiting to be invited in, the door opened and Igell poked his head in. "It's thirty minutes to eight. Caine said he wants you there twenty minutes early."

I lifted my chin. "Good thing it doesn't take a full ten minutes to go downstairs. I'll come out when I'm ready. You can wait outside."

He bristled at this but said nothing else as he shut the door behind himself, leaving us alone again. I turned to look at Birk and Emilie. He was grinning like an idiot and she was trying to school her expression into one of indifference.

"What?" I asked. "What is it?"

Birk burst out laughing. "Damn, Benson. You tell 'em."

Emilie nudged him. "Stop calling her that. It's disrespectful."

He gestured to me, his smile so wide it made his brown eyes crinkle at the corners. "Goddess, Em, it's her last name, not a slur."

Em took a very deep breath.

After a second she said, "She might be the next queen."

Birk's brows rose in question. "And? I might be the next royal clothier, but neither of us there yet. Let's not climb on our high horses until they're fed and watered, yeah?"

She shook her head. "I swear, one day I'm going to strangle you."

He stood up from the bed and grabbed the abandoned garment bag. "Well, I guess that's our cue to get out of here." He offered Emilie his hand and she took it.

She touched my arm lightly, the gesture unsure. When I didn't flinch away from her she said, "It was really nice talking to you."

"You too."

"And I meant what I said," Emilie added. "You've got friends. If you need help or just someone to talk to, we're here."

As I walked them towards the door, I said, "Will I see you again tomorrow?"

Birk nodded. "Benson, if you think this dress is nice, you wait until you see what I've got in store. You're gonna lose your shit."

I beamed at him. "I can't wait."

He stepped towards me and made a few last-minute adjustments to the dress, tugging on the straps and adjusting the lay of the skirt. Just before he pulled away, he leaned forward and took hold of the rabbit head necklace. He twirled it between his thumb and forefinger, his expression changing from one of evaluation to one of interest.

Emilie tugged on his elbow. "We better get going before it gets too late. If we're lucky, we can catch a ride with some of the other stylists..."

She was still speaking as the corner of Birk's mouth quirked up and he met my eyes. "Looking good, Benson."

With that, he shot me a wink and stepped away.

Emilie seemed completely oblivious as Birk let go of my necklace, draped an arm around her shoulders, and hauled the door open. Before I could say anything else or ask any questions, they were gone and I was left bemused and utterly unsure what the hell had just happened.

***

If you enjoyed this chapter: leave this emoji 🎀 in the comments.

Back in July, I asked for character name suggestions on my Instagram story and Emilie (hi, Emilie!) messaged me about how she and her friend Birk were reading TCC series together. She said that they'd just die if their names were in this book. Well, here you go, Emilie. I added your names. :)

I promised an extra chapter this week, so enjoy chapter 12.

My upload schedule for The Reckless Reign is Tuesdays and Thursdays. 🧡🔥👑

For more information on The Culled Crown series and other projects, follow me on Instagram (@briannajoyc) or check out my website (www.briannajoycrump.com).