Chapter 4: The Birdcage Gets a Gilded Cage

Total darkness isn’t black. It’s heavy. It has weight. It presses against your eyes and your chest until you feel like you’re drowning in ink.

The moment the lights died, the room didn't go silent. It exploded.

I heard the metallic shing of a dozen swords leaving their sheaths simultaneously. I heard Cian’s breath hitch—a sharp intake of air that sounded like a predator spotting prey. And I heard the Beast.

He didn't roar. He growled. It was a low, guttural vibration that rattled my teeth.

"Don't move," Armano commanded, his voice a calm anchor in the storm of chaos. He was pressed against my back, his body heat seeping through my thin bathrobe.

"I wasn't planning on it," I whispered, gripping the golden dagger so hard my knuckles were white. "I'm currently enjoying the ambiance. Very moody."

Something moved in the dark to my left. A shuffle of boots on stone.

"Kill her!" Cian’s voice shrieked from the darkness. "Kill the bastard heir!"

A blade whistled through the air, missing my throat by an inch. I felt the wind of it against my skin.

I dropped to the floor, covering my head.

Crunch.

The sound of bone breaking was sickeningly loud. Followed by a high-pitched scream that was cut short abruptly.

"Good dog," I breathed.

The Beast was on the loose.

The Throne Room became a slaughterhouse. I could hear the Beast tearing through armor, the clash of steel, the shouts of Armano’s men engaging the traitors in Cian’s guard. It was blind, terrifying chaos.

"Stay down," Armano ordered.

He didn't wait for me to answer. I heard the distinct *click* of a safety being disengaged, followed by the rapid, rhythmic percussion of gunfire.

*Pop-pop-pop.*

Not American military rounds. Something smaller. A suppressed pistol. Armano was working.

"Armano!" a voice screamed from the dais. King Marcellus.

"The King is secured!" Armano shouted back, grabbing my arm and hauling me up. "We are moving!"

He didn't give me a chance to find my footing. He dragged me through the darkness, his grip iron-tight. We bumped into bodies—guards who had fallen—and I had to stifle a scream. I slipped in something warm and wet. Blood.

"Eyes forward," Armano barked, sensing my panic. "If you look down, you trip. If you trip, you die."

We burst through a side door. Armano slammed it shut and shot the lock, melting the mechanism with the muzzle of his gun.

We were in a hallway. Torches sputtered on the walls, casting erratic shadows. We were alone.

For a second, we just breathed. My chest heaved, the cold air burning my lungs. I looked down at myself. My white bathrobe was spattered with red. My bare feet were dirty.

"Well," I wheezed, leaning against the stone wall. "That went well. Ten out of ten for dramatic effect. Zero out of ten for hospitality."

Armano turned on me. He was terrifying in the torchlight. His grey eyes were wild, scanning me for injuries. He reached out, grabbing my chin, tilting my face from side to side.

"Are you hurt?"

"Just my pride," I lied. My knees were shaking so hard they were knocking together. "And I think I broke a nail."

"Marigold." His voice was rough. "This isn't a joke. Cian just attempted a coup in the Throne Room. He tried to kill you five minutes after you were named Heir."

"He’s just jealous of my hair," I said, trying to flippant, but my voice cracked.

Armano stepped closer, invading my space. He smelled of smoke and that sandalwood scent that made my head spin. He looked down at me, his expression intense.

"You held the line," he said quietly. "You didn't run. You knelt for the King, but you stood up to the Beast."

"I was too scared to run," I admitted.

"Fear is fuel," he said. "Use it. Now, come. We need to get you off the streets before the rest of the castle wakes up."

***

We didn't go to a dungeon.

We went to the top of the highest tower. Of course.

Armano led me up a spiral staircase that seemed to go on forever, my legs burning with every step. At the top was a heavy oak door reinforced with iron bands.

He unlocked it and pushed me inside.

"Your rooms," he said, not following me in. "You will stay here. You will not leave. Do you understand?"

I looked around.

It wasn't a cell. It was a museum.

The room was massive, larger than the entire floor of the White House residence. Four-poster beds with velvet canopies, tapestries depicting hunts and battles, a fireplace big enough to roast an ox. But it was cold. Dusty. It felt like a tomb that had been decorated by a wealthy ghost.

"This is my mother's room," I realized, looking at a portrait above the fireplace. It was a woman who looked exactly like me, only sadder. Marina Golding.

"Yes," Armano said, his voice tight. "It was sealed after she... left. King Marcellus ordered it opened for you."

He hesitated in the doorway.

"Armano," I said, turning to face him. "Cian. The lights going out. That was coordinated."

"Everything in Regalia is coordinated," he said. "Cian has supporters in the Guard. He has supporters in the staff. He thought you would be weak. He thought the Beast would tear you apart. He didn't count on the blood in your veins."

"Does he have you?" I asked, the question hanging in the cold air.

Armano’s eyes darkened. "I am Captain of the Iron Guard. I serve the Crown."

"The Crown is a hat on a chair, Armano," I said, stepping toward him. "I am the person standing in front of you. Who do you serve?"

He looked at my lips, then up to my eyes. The tension crackled between us, electric and dangerous.

"I serve the survivor," he whispered.

Then he closed the door. I heard the lock click from the outside.

Great. Prison with a better view.

***

I slept fitfully, dreaming of dogs with red eyes and cousins with swords.

When I woke up, the sun was streaming through the heavy velvet curtains. I sat up, expecting to be in my bed in D.C., expecting to hear the hum of the traffic on Pennsylvania Avenue.

Instead, I heard a bird screech outside a stone window.

I looked down at my bathrobe. It was stained with dried blood and dirt. I smelled like a gym locker room.

A knock on the door.

I froze. "If it’s Cian, go away! I have a dagger and I’m not afraid to use it on unsuspecting delivery personnel!"

The door opened. A group of women filed in.

There were four of them. They were dressed in severe black uniforms with white collars. They looked like a flock of crows. They were carrying trays, fabrics, and instruments of torture that I recognized as hairbrushes and makeup kits.

"The Queen Mother requests your presence in the Grand Hall in two hours," the lead woman said. She was tall, severe, with a face like a clenched fist. "I Madame Devereaux. I am your Mistress of the Robes."

"Good for you," I said, sliding out of bed and clutching my dagger (I had slept with it under my pillow). "I request a cheeseburger and a plane ticket. We’ll see who gets their wish first."

Madame Devereaux didn't blink. "The bath is drawn, Your Highness. Do not make the King wait."

She gestured, and two of the crows moved toward me.

I backed up, holding up the dagger. "Touch me and you lose a finger."

Madame Devereaux sighed, looking bored. "Put down the toy, girl. You cannot meet the Council of Lords smelling like a barnyard. You are the Heir of Regalia. Act like it."

"I'm an American," I snapped. "In America, we wear sweatpants and drink coffee from paper cups. It’s a sign of power."

"Here," she said coldly, "power is appearance. If you look like a peasant, they will treat you like a peasant. If you look like a Queen, they will fear you."

She had a point.

I lowered the dagger. "Fine. But I’m choosing the music."

***

The next two hours were a form of psychological warfare I hadn't been trained for.

They scrubbed me until my skin was pink and raw. They dumped oils and salts into the water that smelled like lavender and old money. They combed my hair until my scalp hurt.

But the clothes... that was the real battle.

"No," I said, staring at the dress they held up. It was pink. It had ruffles. It looked like something a cupcake would wear to a tea party. "Absolutely not. I’m not six."

"It is traditional," Madame Devereaux said, her lips pursed.

"I’m not traditional," I said. "I’m a disaster. Remember? Give me something... darker."

Madame Devereaux stared at me. She looked at the dried blood on my discarded bathrobe. She looked at the way I held myself—shoulders back, chin up, ready to fight.

A flicker of respect—maybe even fear—crossed her eyes.

She waved a hand. Her assistants scurried away and returned with a garment bag.

"We found this," she said. "It was your mother’s. We altered it to fit you."

She unzipped the bag.

My breath hitched.

It was a gown of midnight blue velvet. It was simple, elegant, and sharp. The bodice was embroidered with silver thread in the pattern of thorns. The skirt was long and flowing, but the slit on the side was high enough to show leg—*and possibly a concealed weapon.*

"Put it on," Madame Devereaux commanded.

I stepped into it. It fit like a second skin. The fabric was heavy, protective. It didn't feel like a costume. It felt like armor.

They sat me down at the vanity. They twisted my hair up, leaving strategic tendrils loose to frame my face. They painted my lips a deep, bruised red. They darkened my eyes.

When they finally spun the chair around to face the mirror, I didn't recognize the woman staring back.

The "Disaster Daughter" was gone. The party girl was gone.

Staring back at me was Marina Golding’s daughter. But the eyes... the eyes were sharp, cynical, and furious.

"Well," I said, standing up and smoothing the velvet. "I guess I can work with this."

"Arms out," Madame Devereaux said, holding a heavy velvet cloak lined with white fur.

I let her drape it over my shoulders. It weighed ten pounds. Literal weight of the world.

"One last thing," I said.

I reached down to my dagger. It had a simple leather sheath now, thanks to the crows. I strapped it to my thigh, hidden by the high slit of the dress.

"Your Highness, you cannot carry a knife to the Council—" Madame Devereaux began.

"I’m not carrying a knife," I interrupted, flashing a cold, hard smile. "I’m carrying insurance."

The door opened. Armano stood there.

He looked devastating. He was wearing his full dress uniform. Black tunic with silver buttons, medals on his chest, a sword at his hip. His hair was slicked back, exposing that scar.

He froze.

His eyes swept over me, taking in the midnight blue, the thorns, the red lips. For a second, he looked hungry. Then, his mask slammed back into place.

"The Council is waiting," he said, his voice gravelly.

"Then let's go," I said, walking toward him. "I have a government to threaten."

I stopped right in front of him. We were inches apart. I could smell the gun oil and the sandalwood.

"You look... acceptable," he said stiffly.

"And you look like you're ready to kill someone," I replied. "Feeling better?"

"Always."

"Good." I adjusted the cloak. "Because I think I'm about to start a riot."

He offered me his arm. It wasn't a suggestion; it was a requirement.

"Take it," he commanded. "If you stumble, they will eat you alive."

I placed my hand on his forearm. The muscle beneath the fabric was rock hard. Grounding.

"I don't stumble, Armano," I said, looking up into those grey eyes. "I make people stumble."

He didn't smile, but the corner of his mouth twitched. "I know, Marigold. I know."

We walked out of the room.

I was the Queen of Regalia.

And I was coming for blood.