Heart of Iron (Heart of Iron #1)(98)

“It is improbable,” Di had replied, his fingers patiently weaving her hair into a braid. “But I do like the sentiment.”

“Of a girl shining? She’d be burning.”

“No, I like the sentiment of hope.”

Hope.

She had waited for a week to feel like the girl of light—the Goddess. But perhaps she was waiting for the wrong thing. She had been waiting for power, for control, but what if the Goddess’s only power was hope?

How strong was a power like that?

Sunlight broke over the horizon, warming her face, her smooth cheek and her scars.

Last night, a skysailer had left the docks with a stolen exit code. She hoped it was Di and Jax. Robb had tried to come see her this morning, but the Messiers at the door wouldn’t let him in. Not even when she asked.

So she was rather glad for the Royal Captain’s stalwart guard this morning. It meant the Messiers had to get through at least one body before they killed her, although she hoped Viera could hold her own if she tried. The captain kept her collar up higher than normal today, hiding the bruises Ana saw anyway underneath.

Ana reached for the pendant at her throat—then she remembered it wasn’t there. She’d given it to Di last night, though she could still feel the ghostly weight of it against her chest.

Far out in the square, she heard her name being chanted— Ananke. Ananke. Ananke.

—with a conviction that could hold up the stars.

But she was not the Goddess, and she did not know how she could be. She clung to a small part of her that was still Ana, who’d kissed an iron boy, and who cared for him deeply, and if that was love—if wanting him to be safe, and happy for the rest of his life . . . if that was love . . .

It felt a lot like hope.

“Your Grace, are you ready?”

Ana turned around, smoothing out her dress to make sure no one could see the dagger hidden underneath. It was Viera’s, borrowed without question. Siege had taught her never to go into a fight empty-handed, and she’d be damned if she would start now. If the kingdom expected her to shine, it’d be from the blade at her hip.

“Yes,” she told her Royal Captain. “I think I am.”





Hive


Nine hundred and ninety-nine candles burned low in the Iron Shrine.

He sat in the rafters of the shrine, a hood pulled low over his brow, chewing on his thumbnail as he waited.

Ironbloods fanned themselves, waiting impatiently for the princess’s entrance. They sweated in their satins and starched collars like pigs in a hot pen, speaking with wet and smacking words. He crinkled his nose at their smell. Meat trying to mimic flowers. What fleshy things. One tipped candle and they would all burn.

The shrine was dimly lit. News drones circled in the rafters and around the Goddess’s outstretched arms. One of them turned a prying lens to him—that would not do. He caught its information stream and slithered inside. The camera glitched, and slowly buzzed away.

The Grand Duchess was old enough to only want humans present during the ceremony, so the HIVE lined its Messiers outside. They would not be of much assistance, however.

In fact, he was sure they would not even move.

Ananke Armorov knelt in front of Rasovant, the thousandth candle lit in her hands. She was the last surviving member of a lost bloodline, presumed dead, pieces and parts of what the kingdom wanted her to be, stuck together.

It would be a relief to pry her apart.

Can I yet? he asked, the dirt under his nail tasting like ash.

“Patience, brother.”

For how long?

“Until she takes her vows,” the voice in his head cooed. Gentle, sweet, like a song.

Why?

“Because that is what we want. Listen harder, brother.”

He shifted, impatient. If he listened harder, he could have come to the conclusion himself, but he was still adjusting. When he rebooted last night, she told him it would take time. He only needed to listen. Listening became easier the longer he did it.

“Blood of the Moon and Sun,” Lord Rasovant droned on, “and blood of the Iron Kingdom, the first daughter in a thousand years, it gives me great honor to pass this holy privilege to you . . .”

Lying in wait, he was bored. His fingers twitched, eyes roaming the shrine. On the ceiling, the painted murals told the story of the kingdom of shadow and the daughter of light.

Far above the crown of stars . . .

He had heard that before. Sitting two in a cramped cockpit. Braiding dark hair. Warm eyes. The sound of—

“Listen!” she hissed.

A knife of pain sliced through his head. He winced. I was. I am. I—

The command was a strike of red in his processors; it was a shift of prompts. When at one moment his thoughts ran one way, she twisted them like readjusting a cog, and suddenly he understood her wholly. And there was no more pain.

Yes. I will listen, he replied.

“Good,” she cooed.

Lord Rasovant droned on.

He surveyed the room. In the front row, Lady Valerio stood beside her sons. They matched the princess in white tuxedos, although the youngest Valerio’s crimson bow tie was crooked from pulling at it uncomfortably.

In the rafters, he blinked, watching. He must have stared too long, because the young Valerio glanced up—and saw him.

The human’s eyes went wide. Shock morphed into recognition. Robb Valerio’s lips formed a name. One syllable, two letters.