Malice

his drink. “The poor girl should at least have a rest at her birthday party.”
I’m about to ask what he means when the cane bangs again.
“His Grace, Duke Prichard. Earl of Theonlay and the Western Provinces of Yesalt.”
Yesalt. A northeastern kingdom on the other side of the Carthegean Sea, my brain supplies. It’s no surprise. Briar Kings are almost always foreign princes, hungry to wrap their fingers around the Etherium mines.
A sickly-looking man sidles in, clearly doing his best to look regal and not like a caught fish. He’s failing.
“Oooo another duke.” Arnley scoffs and downs his glass.
Suitors for the crown princess are always male, even though couples of the same gender are common in Briar. There are several nearby, like the pair of women just behind me with their arms draped around each other’s waists. They wear twin gowns of cornflower organza, accented with sashes made of Grace-gifted butterflies fluttering down the backs of their skirts. But while Briar’s citizens may engage in whatever romantic entanglement suits them, the immediate royal heirs are forbidden from such affairs until succession is established. Daughters are required to carry on Leythana’s line, and husbands are required to get them.
Duke Prichard gives a stiff bow to the onlookers, then another as he nears the royal family. Aurora just stares at him. The queen jabs her daughter discreetly in the ribs with an elbow until she deigns to scrape the barest of curtsies.
“Your Grace. Welcome to Briar.” It is the most unwelcoming welcome I’ve ever heard. I rather like it.
“Thank you, Your Highness.” His red, bulbous nose practically touches the floor as he bows. “A very happy birthday to you. You look simply resplendent tonight.”
“Resplendent?” I hear someone nearby echo. “How long do you think he practiced that line?”
Aurora inclines her head the smallest possible degree. Candlelight washes over her skin, a bronze-kissed cream. Luminous. Grace-gifted, without doubt.
“Please, Your Grace.” King Tarkin snatches Aurora’s free hand in the awkward silence that follows and offers it to the duke. “Secure the future of our realm.”
The princess doesn’t withdraw her hand when the duke’s envelops it. But every inch of her remains locked in stone. Duke Prichard takes a hesitant step toward her. Another. Until he’s standing closer than he should be.
And then the whole court holds its breath as he leans down and plants a kiss on her lips.
My jaw drops to the floor. The princess was just kissed. In public. By a complete stranger. And no one seems to be batting an eyelash. I’d known the royal curse had to be broken by true love—even that she had to be kissed—but I had no idea it was such a spectacle. An entire court gawking as a man she’s never met puts his lips to hers. A strange, uncomfortable sympathy for the crown princess writhes in my belly.
A few taut moments pass, the duke still clutching Aurora’s hand as if he might break the curse with the force of his will alone. And then she gently frees herself, unbuttons the sleeve of her gown, and displays her forearm to the audience. The room lets out a disappointed sigh.
There it is, stamped into the princess’s otherwise flawless skin: a Briar rose surrounded by bloody thorns. The curse mark borne by each of Leythana’s heirs until they either find their true love or…
The king claps the dejected suitor on his shoulder, dismissing him, and the musicians begin playing again. But not even the music can mask the frantic whispers of the court or smooth the queen’s pinched brow. In fact, the only person who seems the least bit undisturbed is Aurora herself. Far from anxious, the princess appears…relieved.
And I might be imagining it, but I think I see a smile ghost across her face.

CHAPTER EIGHT
“Well, I say she made a lucky escape.” Arnley tosses back another glass, this time with an even larger dose of Etherium mixed into the wine. A few other nobles join us, eyeing me sideways but saying nothing. “I’m not sure being stuck with that one would have been much better than succumbing to the curse.”
Titters of laughter.
“Oh, Arnley, you are horrid.” This voice I know. It slices straight through my chest.
Rose.
She saunters into our circle, silk gloves concealing her predator’s claws, and loops her arm through Arnley’s. Her mask is barely a mask at all, just a thin strip of golden tulle resting across her eyes and secured to an elaborate headdress in the shape of a swan. Crystals glisten like drops of water on its feathers. Of course she wouldn’t want her identity concealed—it might mean she’s not the center of attention.
“I feel sorry for the poor thing. Such a beauty. All that Grace magic simply wasted if she doesn’t find someone within the year. Just like her sisters. And she is the last heir.”
In other realms, there can be any number of claimants to a throne. A cousin or nephew or even a favorite can be named successor in place of a direct heir. In Cryseria, whenever the monarch dies, a trial by battle is the method of crowning the new ruler. It’s something I’d love to witness if I ever manage to leave Briar. Here, the Etherian treaty is clear—only Leythana’s blood can wear the crown of bramble and thorn. Before the curse, perhaps it was possible for some distant relation of Leythana’s to take the place of a reigning queen’s daughter. Not anymore.
The first years after the curse were turmoil. Because the Vila’s magic was so powerful, so steeped in hate, all of Briar’s potential heirs bore the curse mark, no matter how far down they were in the line of succession. Women who had already reached their twenty-first year suddenly dropped dead when it turned out they hadn’t found their true loves, a nasty revelation for husbands and wives whose royal-blooded spouse abruptly perished. There was so much death that it was decreed that only immediate heirs were permitted to produce