The Crown Saga
Автор
Tori R. Hayes
Прочтений
694K
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65
Chapter 1
The porcelain shard kissed my fingertip, and I knew before I looked that the blood would betray me.
"Cursed blood!" the man in front of me exclaimed as the plate shattered against the kitchen floor.
My heart lurched. The entire kitchen stopped moving—every eye on us, on me, on the hand I was already curling into a fist to hide the bead of pale blue threatening to give away everything.
"You again, Milo?" someone shouted, breaking the silence with roaring laughter. More voices joined in, mocking the brown-haired waiter who'd collided with me.
I pressed my cut finger against my palm, hard enough to hurt, and fought to keep my breathing steady. Mom's warning from this morning echoed in my skull: They cannot know what you are. One drop of that blood, Willow, and we all end up in the dungeons.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, dropping to my knees beside the mess. Maybe if I kept moving, kept my hands busy, no one would notice the smear of color I was grinding into my black skirt.
"Don't!" A large hand caught my wrist before I could touch another shard.
I flinched, looking up into the stranger's face for the first time. His eyes were extraordinary—green and brown waging war across his iris, colliding in a burst of gold at the center. They were narrow yet kind, and right now they were studying me with concern that made my chest tighten.
"You'll hurt yourself," he said, his voice softer than I expected from someone so broad-shouldered.
Too late, I thought, but I let him help me to my feet as others swept in with a handheld vacuum. I kept my injured hand pressed against my side, praying the blue would fade to red before anyone saw.
"I should be apologizing," the man continued, releasing my wrist. "I know better than to stand in the middle of the floor during rush hour." He towered almost a head taller than me, dark stubble framing a crooked smile. "I'm Milo."
First-blood. I could see it in his flushed cheeks, the natural pink of his lips. No telltale tint beneath his olive skin. Which meant he was safe—but also meant I had to be more careful. He couldn't know what I was hiding.
"Milo is one of the mansion's waiters," Mom said, appearing at my elbow. Her fingers dug into my arm, a warning and an anchor. "Milo, this is my daughter, Willow. Today is her first day."
"Nice to meet you, Willow." His hand extended again, but Mom was already pulling me away.
"You both have work to do," she said, her voice tight with a control I recognized. The same control she'd used on the walk here when she'd gripped my shoulders and made me recite the rules: No eye contact with the family. No speaking unless spoken to. Straighten your back. The Deverouxs are all Iridis, all powerful. Master Deveroux is a metal manipulator. Lady Deveroux is an ice crusher. Their son is a fire wielder. Do not provoke them. Do not let them see you.
"See you around," Milo called after us, but I didn't look back.
Mom dragged me through a side door and into a narrow hallway. "Let me see it," she hissed.
I uncurled my fist. The cut was small, barely bleeding anymore, and the blue had already faded to a dull pink-red that could pass for normal in dim light. Mom exhaled, pulling a handkerchief from her pocket to wrap my finger.
"You have to be more careful," she said. "We can't afford mistakes like that. Not here."
"I know." My voice came out smaller than I wanted. "I'm sorry."
She softened slightly, touching my cheek. "I know you're nervous. But you can do this. Just remember—"
"No eye contact. No speaking. Don't provoke them." I'd memorized it like a prayer.
"Good girl." She squeezed my hand once before straightening. "Now come. Lady Deveroux wants to meet you."
The mansion was a labyrinth of white walls and soulless elegance. Every room we passed through looked like the last—pristine, sterile, designed to intimidate rather than welcome. Mom led me past dining halls with chandeliers that cost more than our house, sitting rooms with furniture I was afraid to breathe near, bedrooms with beds large enough to sleep my entire family.
Lady Deveroux waited for us in a gallery lined with paintings. She was tall and willowy, with red hair cascading down her back and a blue gown that seemed to shimmer with frost. An ice crusher. I kept my eyes on the floor as Mom had taught me.
"Elia!" Lady Deveroux's voice was warm, almost musical. "And this must be your beautiful daughter."
I curtsied deeply, my legs shaking.
"Yes, my lady. Willow turned twenty last month. Today is her first day," Mom answered for me.
"Come, child. Let me show you around." Lady Deveroux's arm wrapped around my shoulders, cold enough to raise goosebumps. I kept my gaze down, following her lead as Mom trailed behind us.
The tour blurred together—more bedrooms, more halls, more rooms I'd be expected to clean and maintain. Lady Deveroux narrated the history of each space with practiced ease, but I was barely listening. My powers hummed beneath my skin, responding to my anxiety with whispers of wind that I had to fight to suppress.
Then we entered a hallway dark as shadow, and everything changed.
A spark of orange light flashed, illuminating a wall of glass I hadn't noticed. Beyond it, a sea of fire raged in a training room, and at its center stood a young man with black hair and burning hands.
I forgot Mom's rules. I stared.
He moved like he was dancing, flames erupting from his palms as he fought off opponent after opponent. The heat radiated through the glass, kissing my skin. It was mesmerizing—the control, the power, the freedom to use his gift without fear or hiding.
Jealousy seared through me, and with it came the wind. Just a whisper, a tightening of the air around me, but enough to make my fingertips tingle.
"Isn't he marvelous?" Lady Deveroux whispered beside me. Too close. "My son discovered his gift at five. Accepted into Scorch Academy at six. He's been training here every day since he graduated."
Her son. The fire wielder. The one Mom had warned me about.
"It's remarkable, my lady," I managed, my voice steady despite the panic clawing at my throat. "I've never seen anything like it."
"Indeed." Lady Deveroux's hand found my chin, tilting my face toward her. I froze as she studied me, her frost-blue eyes searching for something I couldn't name. "You have a beautiful daughter, Elia. Those lovely green eyes—from her father, I assume?"
"Yes, my lady," Mom said, her grip on my other wrist tightening to the point of pain.
Lady Deveroux hummed, her gaze boring into me. Then she released my chin with a satisfied smile. "Too bad you're a First-blood. You would've made a wonderful wife for my son."
The words hit like a slap. Mom pulled me away before I could respond, murmuring thanks as she curtsied. I followed her lead, desperate to escape, but something made me look back.
The fire wielder had stopped fighting. He stood at the glass now, separated from us by only a thin barrier, and he was looking directly at me.
The wind stirred again—not from my will, but from something deeper, something I couldn't control. My skin prickled as if his flames were trying to engulf me from across the room.
Behind the glass, the fire-wielder turned—and smiled like he'd just found his next target.
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