Glint (Plated Prisoner Book 2)

My handmaidens are uneasy.This belongs to NôvelDrama.Org - ©.

I keep catching them sharing looks with one another, but I pretend not to see, not to care. One of them is so nervous that she seems close to fainting. If I weren’t so well-trained at keeping my expression as flat as a stone, my mouth might’ve lifted in a sly smile.

The dressmaker I hired from the city sits back on her knees, a deep V creased between her brows as she peers at the hem of my dress with assessing, aged eyes. She has sharp needles stuck in the pincushion that’s sewn into the belt around her waist, like a metal cactus jutting from her stomach.

“All finished, Your Majesty.”

“Good.”

I step down from the wooden stair she brought and walk over to the full length mirror that sits against the wall in my dressing room. The sight of my reflection fills me with a quiet sort of vindication, the kind that simmers just on the surface of still waters.

I turn to glance at the back of the new gown with pointed assessment before facing front again, running my hands down the skirts. “This will do.”

My handmaidens share another look.

“You may go,” I say to the dressmaker.

She bites her lip, getting to her feet, old knees cracking as she straightens. She’s the oldest dressmaker in Highbell, but her age is a boon rather than a downfall, because she worked for my mother when I was just a girl. She’s the only tailor left who remembers the clothes of my old court.

“Your Majesty, if I may… The king decreed that all clothes in his court be gold,” the old crone says, as if this rule somehow slipped my mind. As if it ever could when the gaudy color is everywhere.

“I’m quite aware of all the king has decreed,” I say coolly, fingering the velvet buttons at my chest. The entire ensemble is perfect. Just the way I remember my mother’s gowns looking. White with a trim of fur at the sleeves and collar, ice-blue threading embellished in rosettes that perfectly match my eyes.

It suits me far better than any of the golden dresses I’ve worn these last ten years.

“You’ll have the rest of the gowns and coats finished by the end of the fortnight?” I confirm.

“I will, Your Majesty,” she answers.

“Good. You are dismissed.”

The woman quickly gathers her things, knobby hands flipping the wooden stair over to use like a bucket as she dumps her measuring chain, spare needles, fabric strips, and shears inside before bowing low and retreating out the door.

“My queen, shall I do your hair?”

I look over at my handmaiden, the apples of her cheeks rouged with glimmering gold powder. It’s a fashion statement for all the women—and some of the men—who reside in Highbell. But on her, the yellow of the gold dusting just makes her look sickly. Another thing I need to change.

After all, appearance makes up more than half of an opinion.

“Yes,” I answer before walking over to the vanity and sitting down.

When I see the girl reach for the box of gold glitter to dust over my white hair, I shake my head. “No. Nothing gold. Not anymore.”

Her hand freezes in surprise, but by now, my intentions must be more than clear. She recovers quickly, grabbing the comb, brushing out my tresses with a gentle touch.

I scrutinize everything she does, directing her every move as she fashions my hair. She plaits a single braid starting at my right temple, no bigger than the width of my finger, and curves it around to end below my left ear. A waterfall effect of my sleek white hair, as if rapids froze on the way to their plummet.

Instead of having her finish with golden pins or ribbons, I say, “Just the crown.”

She nods, turning to head for the case where I keep my royal jewels and crowns at the back of the room, but I stop her. “Nothing from there. I’ll wear this.”

She hesitates, unable to keep the confused frown from appearing on her face. “Your Majesty?”

I reach for the silver box that I’d set out on my vanity earlier. It’s heavy, the metal dull, but my fingers trace the delicate filigree adorning the case, my touch nothing less than reverent.

“This was my mother’s,” I say quietly, my eyes following the direction of my finger as I trail along the outline of the bell, an icicle hanging from its hollow middle. I can almost hear the sound it would make, a cold, clear call to echo through the frozen mountains.

My handmaiden approaches as I open the box, revealing the crown inside. It’s made entirely of white opal, sculpted from a single gemstone. It must have been the size of five hand spans, a glistening stone pulled from a roughshod mine.

The weak gray sunlight coming in through the window reveals only the barest hint of the delicate prism of colors held within the crown’s depths. It’s sturdy, but not nearly as heavy as the gold crown Tyndall has me wear. Just another thing to weigh me down.

The design itself is simple, carved to look like icicles jutting up from the top—dainty, yet sharp. I place it on my head, centering it perfectly, and for the first time in years, I finally feel like myself.

I am Queen Malina Colier Midas, and I was born to rule.

White gown, white hair, white crown—and not a hint of gold anywhere. This is how it should’ve been. This is how it will be.

I stand, and my handmaiden rushes forward to slip shoes over my feet. I cast my reflection one last look before I sweep out of the room, each step surer than the one before.

Guards coalesce around me like smoke, trailing me while I descend the stairwell. I enter the throne room through the back door, the chatter of occupants an indistinct hum that fills my ears.

The moment I enter the room, the nobles and courtiers inside bow and curtsy to fulfill their customary deference to their queen.

It’s not until they straighten up that I feel the ripple of surprise pass over the gold-clothed congregation in a widespread arc.

Keeping my eyes poised on the dais, shoulders back in perfect posture, I walk determinedly forward. At the press of weighted silence that’s fallen over the crowd, a seed of nervousness tries to settle in my stomach, burrowing deeper to set roots, but I yank it out like a weed.

I am Queen Malina Colier Midas, and I was born to rule.

I stop at the pair of thrones on the dais. Both gilded, one larger, one smaller. Tyndall’s throne has a tall back, spires jutting out on either end, six glittering diamonds set into the back to depict Sixth Kingdom.

In comparison, the queen’s throne is much smaller and less imposing. A pretty accompaniment and nothing more. The true power is in the king’s throne, and everyone here knows it.

Including me.

Which is why I walk straight past the queen’s seat and sit in the throne meant for the true ruler of Highbell.

An audible gasp rolls over the congregation, like apples down a hill, too many to catch.

My hands come down on the armrests as I settle onto the throne, fingertips digging into a notch in the gilt where Tyndall often tapped his fingers in boredom.

He was never good at open forums like this. Even holding them only once a month was enough to make his temper flare. He loathed sitting here, listening to the people of his kingdom raise concerns and beg for pardon.

He flourishes at balls, meeting with other royalty, charming guests at dinners. But then, Tyndall has always thrived under attention, adoration, and the secret manipulation that goes on behind closed doors.

But when it comes to this, the grit that collects on the day-to-day wheels of the kingdom’s cogs…it bores him.

Yet this room, this monthly forum, it’s where power in a kingdom can be won. If you can snap the reins over the nobles and courtiers gathered here, you can steer a kingdom.

I stare out at the gathered crowd with an impassive face, letting them look, letting them whisper. They take in every single meticulously planned part of me, notice the complete lack of gold, the old royal colors of Highbell now reborn.

I give them another moment for my silent statement to sink in. I let them take the time to truly realize what I’m saying before I even open my mouth to speak. And I give myself a moment to relish in this, to hold my head up and be who I was raised to be.

I let out a calm breath, gaze skating over the room as the people wait with bated breath to hear me speak. Me. Not Tyndall.

“People of Highbell, your queen will hear your concerns now.”

For a moment, everyone is quiet, like they don’t know whether or not they should take me seriously. I’m sure most of them thought that Tyndall’s advisors would appear and tell them all to state their concerns. But those written accounts would only gather dust in Tyndall’s meeting room, if he even requested them at all.

Finally, one nobleman, Sir Dorrie, comes forward. He bows once he reaches the bottom steps of the dais. “Your Majesty,” he begins, face red with birthmarks, like a handful of raspberries smashed against his cheeks. “My pardon, but I feel I must point out that you are sitting in the king’s throne.”

My fingers curl around the edge of the armrest. I can see they’re going to need a more direct response.

“On the contrary, Sir Dorrie. I am sitting in the throne of Highbell’s ruler, which is exactly where I belong.”

Whispers hiss like agitated snakes slithering along the golden marble, but I hold my gaze.

“My queen… King Midas—”

“Is not here to rule,” I say, cutting him off. “I am. So speak your concerns, or my guards shall escort you out so that someone else more worthy of my time may come forward.”

My warning travels throughout the entire throne room. A message for them to hear loud and clear. I wait. Small rises of my chest, impassive face, the cold indifference of a monarch who knows how to put her people in their place.

They’re either going to fall in line, or I’ll make them.

Sir Dorrie hesitates. He looks back, but no one in the congregation says a word. Not a single one of these simpering nobles joins him to defend Tyndall’s position and my blatant move for control.

“Ah, I beg your forgiveness, Your Majesty. I would be honored if you would hear my concerns,” Sir Dorrie finally says.

And just like that, I’ve collared them. Victory, not boredom, is what has me tapping my finger against the armrest. I’ll make my own divots now.

The crowd doesn’t raise a word of argument. Not even the guards behind me shift on the feet of uncertainty. Because when you’ve been raised your entire life to be royal, that’s what you are. It doesn’t matter that I have no magic flowing in my veins, because I have a different power, one passed down from generations.

Ruling Sixth Kingdom is in my blood.

After today, news will spread like snow across the white plains of our wintry land, drifting and covering every inch. I can almost hear the gossip, the whispers, the news drenching the kingdom like sleet.

Accounts of my opal crown will be explained as a beacon amidst the tawdry room, the bell of the castle will ring out the start of a new monarch, and the genuflection for the Golden King will end.

I’m going to freeze him out, ice him over. I’m going to make Tyndall regret ever marrying me.

A rare smile curves the pale edges of my lips.

I am Queen Malina Colier Midas, and I was born to rule.