CHAPTER NINE

INARA’S POV

The grand dining hall was suffocatingly warm, hot enough to make the heavy velvet tapestries along the stone walls smell of ancient dust and stale woodsmoke. Iron chandeliers hung low from the vaulted ceiling, their dozens of beeswax candles dripping thick, creamy fat onto the long mahogany table below.

It was meant to be a farewell dinner. A formal gathering to mark the departure of the eldest daughter of House Volkov.

Instead, it was a victory feast.

I sat at the far end of the long table, clad in a dark grey high-collared gown that swallowed my neck and wrists. Directly across from me sat Maksim Petrov and Elizaveta. They sat close enough that their shoulders brushed beneath the golden glow of the candlelight. Elizaveta wore a gown of rich plum velvet, her blonde hair arranged in intricate coils studded with pearl pins—pins that Maksim had purchased for me only two months prior.

Maksim looked thoroughly uncomfortable. His dark green coat was immaculate, but his collar seemed to strangle him. Whenever his golden-brown eyes accidentally drifted toward my end of the table, he flinched, snapping his gaze back down to his crystal goblet or over to Elizaveta’s glowing, delicate profile.

My father sat at the head of the table, flanked by my stepmother Sofia. He was drinking heavily, his silver gobletrefilled by the manservant every few minutes.

"The cathedral elders have confirmed the date for the third week of autumn, Viktor," Sofia announced, her voice ringing out like a bright silver bell over the sound of clattering cutlery. She beamed across the table at Maksim and Elizaveta. "The archbishop himself will perform the rites. It will be the grandest event the capital has seen since the winter solstice."

"A fine match," my father rumbled, his voice slightly thick with wine. He raised his glass toward Maksim. "House Petrov and House Volkov... linked at last. Exactly as it was meant to be."

Exactly as it was meant to be.

I took a slow, quiet bite of my roasted venison, chewing mechanically. The meat tasted like ash. Not once in the hour we had been seated had my father mentioned my departure. Not once had Sofia asked if my trunks were secured for the long, freezing trek north. They sat three feet away from a daughter being surrendered to a warlord, chatteringly planning a wedding that had been built on my corpse.

"Inara," a low voice murmured.

I looked up. The servants had cleared the plates, and my father was locked in a boisterous discussion with Sofia about dowry cattle. Maksim was leaning forward across the mahogany table, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge. Elizaveta had stepped away to the sideboard to select dried figs, leaving him momentarily alone.

"Don't," I said, my voice barely above a whisper, flat and unyielding.

"Please," Maksim rasped, his eyes wide, filled with a sudden, desperate panic that made him look small. "Inara, just a moment. Out in the gallery. Let me speak to you properly before... before you leave tomorrow."

"We have nothing to say to each other, Lord Petrov."

"I never wanted it to end like this!" he hissed, leaning closer, his breath smelling of dark wine. "You think I wanted you sent to Vargovia? I begged your father to find another way! I offered to double the land agreements if he could keep you here!"

I leaned forward slightly, resting my forearms against the edge of the table, looking him dead in the eye. "You begged him to save me after you destroyed my life. How heroic of you, Maksim. Did you hold Elizaveta in your arms while you cried over my fate?"

Maksim flinched as if I had struck him across the face. His mouth opened, but no sound came out.

"Do not pretend your guilt is affection," I whispered, every word sharp enough to draw blood. "You made your choice in his bed chamber. Enjoy your prize. But do not dare act like a grieving party at my funeral."

Elizaveta returned to the table, carrying a silver plate of candied fruit. She looked between Maksim’s pale, sweat-sheened face and my cold, static expression. Her small hand instinctively reached out, clutching Maksim’s sleeve, her eyes darting to me with that familiar, pathetic suspicion.

"Is everything alright?" she asked timidly.

"Everything is wonderful, sister," I replied, my voice carrying cleanly across the table.

My father hit his goblet against the table, drawing everyone’s attention as he stood up. His face was flushed, his eyes bright with alcohol.

"A toast!" Viktor declared, raising his glass high into the candlelight. "To the enduring strength of House Volkov! To the foolishness of our enemies, and to the bright, prosperous future waiting for us in the autumn!"

Sofia clapped her hands together softly, raising her glass. Elizaveta smiled weakly, lifting hers, while Maksim hesitated before following suit.

My father looked down the length of the table, his eyes finally landing on me. There was a challenge in his gaze a silent command ordering me to play the dutiful daughter one last time, to smile for the domestic picture he had painted.

I picked up my heavy crystal glass, filled to the brim with dark red wine. I stood up slowly, the dark wool of my skirts sweeping against the chair legs with a low rustle.

The dining hall fell entirely quiet. The servants standing along the walls went rigid.

I held my glass straight out toward my father, then shifted my gaze to Elizaveta and Maksim.

"To the future of House Volkov," I said, my voice steady, clear, and ringing like a funeral bell against the stone walls. "And to the daughter who gets to stay."

I raised the glass to my lips, took one slow sip, and set it down on the table with a loud, sharp clack.