Bring Me Their Hearts(103)
I’ve set the perfect trap. I am the perfect bait. I’ve played the part of the perfect bait so well, Lucien fell in love with me for it. Or—was it myself he fell for? The monster beneath? The orphan girl with no heart?
IMPOSSIBLE, the hunger thunders.
Prince Lucien sits at the head of the table, barely touching his food, sneaking glances at me over his water glass. When our eyes meet he smiles, and my heart locket tears itself apart on the inside. He stands once, to make a toast, the table rapt at attention.
“You who are gathered here are the privileged few,” Lucien says. “I’ve chosen you to be my witnesses as the future of Vetris and Cavanos is shaped in the next few days.”
Some clap politely. Whispers move around the table; he’s talking about his impending engagement, surely. The future of Vetris will rest with him, and his Princess Consort, who is no doubt seated at this very table. Eyes fall on me, but I concentrate on the bubbles of my sparkling wine. I know better. I know how this ends, and they don’t.
Lucien especially doesn’t know.
“You are the new blood of Vetris,” the prince says. “My peers, who will come to power someday in your own right. But I, too, will come to power soon.” His eyes tear from mine as he stares down Lord Grat, Fione, all of them one by one. “I am not my father,” he continues. “I will not threaten you as my father threatens your parents with his approval, his power. In my Vetris, in the days to come as I rise to the throne, suffering will not be tolerated any longer.”
Lucien sweeps his eyes beyond the nobles—to the servants, to a shocked Ulla, to the guards.
“We all grew up in a world newly ravaged by war. We’ve seen the veterans, our parents and grandparents and uncles and aunts, the people who work our fields, drive our carriages—all of them scarred by the Sunless War. We’ve seen our elders force Vetris relentlessly down a road of hatred and pain—purge after purge.”
The nobles murmur to one another, but Lucien raises his voice.
“I’ve seen a little girl crushed under the feet of a desperate crowd, left with only one eye. I’ve seen men and women die, all because a red tower in the center of Vetris told a certain archduke they deserved to. And I’m tired of it. I’m tired of seeing it. I’m tired of being a part of it. It has to end sometime, and that time will be sooner rather than later, if the blood of the d’Malvanes that runs through me has anything to say about it.”
Lucien unsheathes Varia’s sword. “I know it’s hard to comprehend. But I know too that you have seen it—caught glimpses of the suffering from between the gilded bars separating you from reality. I know you have seen it, and I know your first instinct has been to turn a blind eye. But I don’t blame you for it—our parents taught us only how to blind ourselves. They drowned us in tradition—tradition like these Hunts, the Spring Brides.” He pulls his braid over his shoulder. “Even this hair of mine is a tradition, chaining me to the nest of suffering we call Cavanos.
“My Cavanos will be a new Cavanos. Humans and witches will live in peace. The Old God, the New—neither of them will stand in the way of mortal progress any longer.”
Lord Grat grimaces, and Fione is pale, though she looks faintly proud. This is heresy. What he speaks of will certainly reach the ears of the adults, of the court where the power truly lies. Lucien stands.
“Your Highness?” Ulla clears her throat, clearly nervous. Malachite stands with him, putting a hand on his shoulder.
“Luc,” he murmurs. “What are you doing?”
Lucien ignores him and takes his long braid in his other hand, placing the bite of the sword just beneath the midnight hair at the base of his skull. In one fell movement, he slices the braid from his head cleanly, his hair hanging short. It suits his sharp face even more than his long locks did. The nobles give an audible gasp, clutching at their mouths. The royal family’s hair is their pride, a symbol of their utmost power and regality. He might as well be cutting off the very crown from his head. The guards and nobles are so quiet in the moments after, you can hear the buzz of the fireflies hanging in the stillness. Lucien drops the braid to the ground, the hair skittering across the grass with a faint wind. He sheathes his sword, lifting his water glass again.
“For a new Vetris,” the prince says, voice clear. “A new Cavanos.”
The stunned silence is deafening. Something clear and crisp breaks it—a slow, strong clap. Next to me, Fione applauds, standing tall, her cane forgotten and her blue eyes shining at the prince. He looks so incredibly determined, so perfectly poised and ready for anything. Admiration glows on my cheeks—admiration diluted with despair. He’s ready for so much. But not for his heart to be gone by the morn.
Fione’s clapping breaks the spell of silence over the camp, and the nobles echo her hesitantly, one by one rising to their feet and clapping, as if unsure this is what they’re supposed to do. Following the flow. But wariness gives way to murmurs, then smiles, then a deafening racket as some nobles begin to cheer. Some remain seated, glowering into their plates, clearly unenthused by the prince’s vision. But most are on their feet. I stand, and I clap with them.
“Long live Prince Lucien! Long live Prince Lucien!”
Lucien’s stone face melts, and he grins at them. He raises his goblet in a toast, and the nobles clink their glasses together and drink. I bring my eyes to his, only to find him already staring at me with a streak of fierce joy—so hot it burns my skin.