Cleo had barely seen the prince over the week since he’d chosen to continue this horrible betrothal. It seemed that he wished to have very little to do with Cleo, which was more than fine by her. “I couldn’t agree more. Just try to stay out of his way, all right? How did you slip away from Lucia’s bedside? I feel as if I haven’t seen you in ages.”

“The queen is visiting her daughter right now. She told me to leave and return later. Of course, I didn’t argue. I’d hoped to find a friendly face in this nest of vipers. Yours is the first I’ve seen today.”

Cleo repressed a smile. Nest of vipers, indeed. “Well, I’m glad for the chance to see you. It’s the only good thing that’s happened all day.”

She stood with her friend at the edge of the hallway, sweeping her gaze over the large portraits of each member of the Bellos family, which lined the hall outside the library doors. She couldn’t look away from the painted eyes of her father. Her last memory of him was of his death in her arms from a wound inflicted during the attack on the castle. In his final moments, he’d given her a ring passed down from generation to generation in her family, a ring said to somehow help lead the way to find the Kindred. He hoped, with that magic in her possession, she would be able to crush King Gaius and reclaim the throne. But he’d died before he could tell her anything else.

Cleo believed it to be the very same ring rumored to have belonged to the sorceress Eva, the ring that allowed her to touch the Kindred without being corrupted by the endless elemental power of the lost crystals. Cleo had hidden the ring in her chambers behind a loose stone in her wall, and she’d come here to the library every day since, searching for more information to help her figure out her next move. Her father had believed in her so much, far more than she believed in herself. She couldn’t let him down now. Mira touched her arm, her eyes now dry. “You’re trying to be so strong, but I know, Cleo. I know how much you miss him. How much you miss Emilia. I miss them too. It’s all right to let yourself cry. I’m here for you.”

Cleo swallowed hard, her heart swelling to know that she had a friend who understood her pain. “I try not to look upon their faces for too long when I come by here. When I see them, I . . .” She exhaled shakily. “It so strange. Sometimes I can’t see anything past the darkness of my grief. Other times I’m angry, so angry that they left me to deal with all of this on my own. And I know how selfish that sounds, but I can’t help how I feel. So, don’t you see? I can’t let myself cry. If I cry again I might not ever be able to stop.”

“You should know, princess . . .” Aron’s voice cut between them as effectively as the edge of a blade “. . . the king has instructed that these portraits—apart from the one of you, of course—are to be taken down and replaced with those of the Damoras.”

Cleo spun to face yet another lurker in the shadows. That was what Aron did now that their engagement was called off. Lurk.

She had hoped he would go away, back to his parents’ villa elsewhere in the City of Gold, but it appeared that he had moved into the palace permanently.

“And will you do it yourself?” she asked, her words twisting. “I know, as the king’s new lap dog, you will do anything he asks of you for the mere promise of a treat.”

He gave her a tight smile. “No, why should I? Since I am fully capable of giving orders of my own. And why wait?” He gestured toward the two red-uniformed guards who’d accompanied him. They immediately went to the wall and began to remove the portraits. Mira clutched Cleo’s arm as if to prevent her from lurching forward. Fury rose within her like a tidal wave.

She glared at him. “How can you do this, Aron?”

“Lord Aron, Cleo. As kingsliege, and since we are no longer betrothed, it will show more respect if you begin to use my proper title.”

Of course. Kingsliege. The king had gone ahead with his promise to bestow the lofty—but, in Cleo’s opinion, meaningless—title on Aron. He was still a “lord,” only now it was a title Aron felt he’d earned, rather than having it given to him through his family line. Everyone of importance in the palace had been required to gather in the throne room for the ceremony yesterday. Now Aron wore his new status like a suit of armor, shiny protection against anything that might attempt to hurt him.

It sickened her. He acted as if he’d been born with Limerian blood running through his veins. Once, Cleo might have dismissed this as merely a necessary survival tactic against the enemy now in power. But Aron did everything asked of him with a smile on his face, as if he relished being one of the King of Blood’s trained dogs.

“He finds you an amusement, you know.” She couldn’t stop herself from speaking her thoughts. “Pray to the goddess that you make yourself invaluable to him before this amusement wears thin.”

“I could say the same for you, princess,” Aron said evenly.

“What are you going to do with the paintings, Lord Aron?” Mira asked with the barest edge of sarcasm detectable in her tone. “Hang them in your chambers?”

There was once a time when Mira had had warm feelings for the handsome lord, but no more. She too saw him for what he truly was. An opportunist who would sell his own mother’s soul to a demon from the darklands if it meant he might gain the king’s favor.

“They’ll be burned,” he said simply, and Cleo’s heart wrenched. He gave her a smirk. “On the king’s orders.”