CHAPTER ONE

The letter lay soft and worn in my hands, the folds delicate from the number of times I had opened and closed it. My father’s handwriting curved across the page with a weight I had never noticed until now, each stroke pressing deeper into me than it had the first time I read it. It was strange—when he gave it to me on my birthday, I had been startled and, if I am honest, slightly irritated. A letter? From him? He was not the kind of man to pour out his thoughts in words. He had always been more presence than voice, more rule than tenderness. Yet this was different. This was him speaking not as king but as father, and I remember reading it so many times that day that the words blurred together until I no longer saw them, only felt them.

But today, as I traced each line again, my tears blurred the letters into a haze. I had not cried for him at the funeral, nor in the lonely hours afterward. I had told myself that I could not cry for a man who had never loved me as he should. But this letter—this gift I had once dismissed as small compared to the jewels, gowns, and fleeting attention he gave me—cut through me like nothing else. He had known I was unhappy. He had seen more than I ever gave him credit for. He had understood, in his way, that I was angry at him for choosing another woman to sit beside him where my mother once had. And now, with him gone, I could no longer tell him that beneath my anger I had loved him all along.

The necklace he had given me that day glimmered faintly from its place in the box, half-buried beneath the folded letter. I had forgotten it, truly forgotten it, as though I had buried not just the gift but the moment itself. When I held it up now, the heart-shaped pendant caught the light and seemed almost alive. I slipped it around my neck, letting my hair fall forward to hide it. If my sisters saw it, they would only mock me, or worse, take it for themselves. But it was mine. It was him. And in that quiet, the weight of the pendant against my chest was the closest thing to comfort I could allow myself.

“Solstice!”

The voice jarred me from my thoughts. I stuffed the letter back into the box, slid it under my bed, and pulled my hair forward to cover the chain. Anastasia would not notice if I was careful. She noticed everything that was hers, but rarely what was mine—except when envy sharpened her eyes.

The door swung open before I could reach it. Anastasia stood in the doorway, her expression pinched as though she carried her own permanent ache. Her hair was drawn into a bun so tight I wondered if it pained her scalp. She wore clothes that might have been elegant on someone else but only made her appear smaller, meaner. The shine of her jewels did nothing to hide her dissatisfaction. She glittered, yes, but like broken glass.

“It’s time for dinner,” she snapped. “And you haven’t cooked yet. Mother will be furious.”

I drew myself upright. “Anastasia, why don’t you cook for yourself? Do you think I need no time to grieve? My father passed away only a few weeks ago.”

“What good is grief?” she answered with a sneer, her head tilting as though she pitied my weakness. “Will it bring him back? No?”

The cruelty of it stunned me. “Are you saying you are not sad? You always loved him!”

“Loved him?” She let out a short laugh. “That was Drizella. She adored him because he spoiled her. But me? I despised him. He was nothing but a stepping stone. Mother only married him for his crown. That’s the only reason we are here at all.”

Her words rang in my ears long after she slammed the door shut. Could it be true? That my father, who believed he had found love again, had been nothing more than a tool? I had suspected Tremaine of being false, had felt it in the way she carried herself, too perfect, too measured. But hearing Anastasia say it aloud—so casually, so certain—made the truth unbearable. My father had been deceived, and in his blindness, he had dragged us all into her grasp.

I touched the necklace again as if it might give me strength. If Tremaine had manipulated him, then everything I had feared was worse than I imagined. The throne was never his to her; it was always hers. And if that were true, then it must fall to me to take it back.

The castle itself seemed to echo her claim. In just a week, Tremaine had reshaped it to her taste. Curtains drawn heavy and dark, portraits removed, the warm light replaced with dimness that seemed deliberate. Even the air felt different—colder, thinner, as though the stone itself mourned the change. Where once a painting of my family had hung, now a new portrait loomed: Tremaine herself, draped in black and glittering stones. She had placed herself not just on the throne but upon the very walls of history.

I felt my fists curl. “That is my family’s place,” I muttered.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Her voice came from behind me, smooth as silk stretched too thin.

I turned. She stood as though she had been waiting for me to notice. Her eyes were sharp, her smile carefully measured. Her presence was overwhelming—her black gown glittering with stones, her lips painted to match. Even when she said nothing, she filled the air with unease.

“That portrait was of us,” I said carefully. “Where is it?”

“I gave it to the servants,” she replied, tilting her head in amusement. “Unless, of course, you would prefer to keep it yourself. You might ask them.”

“You had no right,” I said. My voice trembled, but I forced myself to continue. “That was not yours to throw away. That was Canmore.”

Her smile widened, though her eyes narrowed. “And Canmore no longer rules. The kingdom belongs to me. The throne belongs to me. It is my face they will greet now.”

I met her gaze, forcing the words through clenched teeth. “Then replace it with mine.”

For a moment, she was silent, studying me as though weighing whether I was worth speaking to at all. Her hair framed her face in darkness, her features sharpened by the shadows. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet, yet each word cut like a blade.

“You are not worthy of the throne, child.”

“Neither are you,” I whispered.

Her eyes lingered on me, narrowing, as though she could not decide whether to laugh or strike me. That silence was worse than her words; it felt like standing at the edge of something vast and unseen.

Then, at last, she said, “If neither of us are worthy, then tell me—who is?”

I had no answer. I had thought of it often, in restless nights, but the throne was a weight I could not imagine on anyone’s shoulders but mine. I did not know if I was fit, but I knew with certainty that she must never have it.

I looked back at her portrait, glittering with all the false grandeur she claimed, and tightened my hand around the pendant at my throat. If the throne was all she desired, then I would do everything in my power to keep it from her.

Even if it destroyed me.