The Rise of Deragon (The Deragon Duology #2)

3

Pandora

U nlike most events we host in the grand ballroom, this one starts off on a very distinct, sobering note, with every guard manning the room’s perimeter, adjusting their weapons in unison. The echoing click of crossbows rings out upon the proclamation of the King and Queen’s entrance, so it wouldn’t surprise me if all the cheers that roar through the room come from a place of terror rather than excitement, worried they’ll face a slaughter if they don’t applaud.

Following them, enter Calliope and Eli. It’s customary to have the adults enter first, a presentation of honor and respect, while their children file into the room in reverse birth order. Ten-year-old Dorian, and his bashful smile, leads the way, with seventeen-year-old Samuel and eighteen-year-old Flora trailing close behind. From the shadowy alcove I hide in, I see more than enough men and women assessing Flora’s appearance with either gleaming smiles or envious glares. Naturally, I try to block out how many more will look at me when it’s my turn to step out. After them, my mother waves to the crowd, and then, with a gentle gesturing motion, she turns the room’s attention towards me.

I’m suddenly hyper aware of what skin my dress doesn’t conceal, or how my right eye begins to minutely, frustratingly twitch. Worse, I can feel myself beginning to perspire under my arms and along the backs of my knees—but by some mercy, the revelry only grows louder in the room as I appear.

That mercy being Ardian Asticova’s voice introducing me.

The poor man is withered and old and borderline senile—but the smile beneath his scruffy, gray mustache is heartwarming. From all the histories my aunt and uncle educated me on, Ardian’s was always one that baffled me. Once a native of an opposing territory, he brought his orphaned niece to Broadcove Castle to serve Jericho’s parents as a foreign ambassador, but when Jericho ascended the throne, Ardian didn’t cut ties and run home to Mosacia like most people would expect him to. Instead, he stayed to help the bereaved prince find his footing as king and keep his continent secured from anyone with ill intent. Unfortunately, his niece he took responsibility for happened to be one of those dreaded underminers, and when Venus herself annihilated her for her treachery, Ardian still stood by Jericho.

It’s like the old bat can see those recounted memories in my eyes, and suddenly, he feels the need to glance elsewhere and abandon the stage in slow, staggered movements.

I’m halfway to the steps when I begin to register the amount of attention poised on me. This is good , I try to tell myself. Less people looking at Venus. You can handle it for one night.

It’s not that I loathe being the center of attention. I’d be more than charitable to do these sorts of events, so long as I had someone that loved me at my side to undergo them with me, to make small talk with guests, or even to help bail me out of conversations that drag on. To lay their hand on the small of my back when the hour gets late and tell me, “Why don’t we turn in for the night?”

Instead, it’s me, alone, against everyone. Against every preening gentleman, refined lady, and potential threat to my aunt’s and uncle’s lives.

I ascend the stairs onto the dais with feather-light steps, my shoulders rolled back and my chin high as I approach center stage. I dip into a low curtsey, placing my hand over my heart in humble acceptance, and then proceed to the chair set before my elegant harp.

I’ve played my harp for audiences before, casting a dreamlike mood over the room while guests wait for their plated dinners to be brought out by the staff. So the customary routine flows as expected. The string ensemble surrounding me helps pick up the pace when my fingers start to cramp up, each of them incorporating little featurettes to highlight other solo performers. I try not to let the red meat smell that wafts towards the stage make my stomach gurgle, if only to keep from feeling another unsettled emotion in the pit of it.

Just as I consider asking a guard to smuggle me a dinner roll, members of the kitchen staff come around to clear entrees from the table and Jericho strides up to the lip of the stage. The crowd’s voices hush before needing to call for their attention.

“Thank you, everyone. I am honored to have so many of you gathered here to celebrate another year that the Saints have blessed my love, my Venus.”

All I can think about as the crowd swoons and applauds again is how I ache for someone to acknowledge my presence with even a fraction of Jericho’s reverence.

“As a gift to her,” my uncle continues, “as well as to all of you, I’ve arranged for Princess Pandora to sing a song for us. Please welcome her, now.”

I drink in the bemused and surprised expressions of the masses, who now deliberately turn their banquet chairs towards the stage. Then, to steady my heart rate, I look to Mother and Calliope, both of whom flash me toothy, encouraging smiles. It’s the push I need to crane my neck once towards the conductor and signal the music to begin.

Despite not having a full orchestra at this gathering, the strings still manage to replicate the triumphant start of the Urovian anthem.

Brought up from roots of infamy

Delivered ‘cross the Sea

Reborn from ribs of the enemy

The Saints we thank for thee!

The first few onlookers start to gape at me. Even the staff members portioning the dessert pastries in the back stop their duties to watch in awe.

Crimson blood we spilled so that

Our suffering would cease

This castle stands, thanks to our dead

The Saints we thank for thee!

As I glide through the next two verses, I think about how I’ve always been enamored with Urovia’s anthem. The song is simple, and antiquated by its hymnal refrain. It’s the perfect song for operatic women, middle-range harmonies, and men with velveteen vocals. There could be one singer for each part, and yet, the song and its melodic structure could make the room feel infinitely full. But perhaps more than that, it captures the hope of people that aren’t alive to see what their humble Urovian roots have grown. That, and when Jericho first took the throne, people feared that the dynasty would deteriorate, and the land would be reclaimed once more by the Mosacians.

But a viciously brilliant queen, with a love for a once-loathed king, managed to thwart a massive empire. Two people against the entire world, it seemed, came out victorious and in love. And that was worth singing about.

With everything in me, I lead the ballroom through the final, jubilant chorus.

Land we love, we defend

This legacy we leave

And blessed be the King and Queen

The Saints we thank for thee!

When I finally release the sustained final note, the world erupts with a thrilled, collective sound. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever experienced directly, and as I take it all in—a graceful, polite smile plastered across my lips—I understand why Venus and Jericho host these sorts of events. To have this many people applauding for them, I have no doubt it goes straight to their head. It’s certainly starting to do the same to me, the feeling further cemented as a couple men dare to pull individual roses from their tables’ centerpieces and toss them towards the stage in honor.

I drop into my final curtsey before the throng of excited congregants. “Thank you. Really, thank you.” I beam, delivering a delicate wave to the crowd. “You are all too kind—”

“Encore!” an unseen voice among the masses fervently cries out.

The agreement among the crowd is unanimous and resounding, and while I was only meant to serenade the crowd with the anthem, Jericho’s eyes go wide with prompting encouragement. Go on, they say, and I know that the words are not those of my uncle, but instructions from my king, who I know better than to disobey.

Quickly, my steps carry me over to the maestro, and I whisper the aria I’d been practicing in case of this exact moment. He obliges, rounding up his musicians in a hissed whisper as I once more return centerstage.

“And now, for this next song,” I proclaim. “I’d like to invite all the lovers onto the floor.”

Before anyone else among the masses has the idea to do so first, Jericho tips his head in charming acknowledgement towards his queen. His dearest love takes his hand with a smile that reminds me of how young she was in their first, shared royal portrait, and on featherlight footsteps, they approach the dancefloor together.

As the king leads them through the dreamy waltz, I begin to sing them into whatever world their souls drift off to. The pianist plinks the ivory keys with a wistfulness that makes this moment even more touching, and I will the knot in my throat to sink into my stomach. Because Saints, watching Venus dance with Jericho almost feels like intruding on a private moment—like two very different dimensions of human happiness exist in the same room and somehow don’t cause an explosion.

History has recorded the two of them doing such heinous, unimaginable things together, and yet, to know that most of them were done in the name of true love . . . I am almost able to look past it all.

And perhaps that’s another reason why I feel like a disappointment to them.

Because as the bodies piled up over time, their eyes never left one another.

All I fear I can give them is my music.

It’s more than enough , some mythical voice in my head tells me, and for the sake of getting through this performance, I heed its words.

Letting my voice soar through the gilded gathering, I watch longingly as fine gentlemen spin beautiful ladies and young maidens across the sweeping palace floors. Revolving in a pattern that allows Venus and Jericho to have their space, I scale through a complicated run and structure my breathing as seamlessly as possible. The song comes to a soothing end, drawn in by soulful chords across all the musicians, and when I expect the world to clap for the king and queen’s dancing, I find that every eye in the room remains geared towards me.

I exit the stage amidst the continuous praise.

“Bravo!” I hear a herd of men holler.

“So moving!” an elderly woman remarks kindly.

“Who knew the princess had such a lovely voice?” a few others murmur to one another.

And then, from behind me, I hear, “Stunning. Absolutely stunning.”

I try to suppress my blush in time for me to lock eyes on the guard from outside my rooms. “You flatter me, but I owe my voice to my aunt’s faithful training—”

“I never said anything about your voice,” the guard says, his grin deepening.

The words would normally indicate flirtation, but something about the tone of his voice makes the compliment feel delicate.

“I’m Heath, by the way,” he blurts.

“Pandora.”

His gentleman’s smile is likely nothing more than polite, yet it floods me with the heat of the already-set sun. So much so that, when a server comes around with a tray of alcohol, I blindly reach for a glass and pour the liquid down my throat. I assume it’s champagne, but I assumed incorrectly, because the moment the bourbon hits my tongue, I shiver. With Heath’s eyes on me, I certainly can’t spit it back into my glass, so try not to make a face as I swallow it down, and Heath laughs at the bravery it takes me to do so.

“I didn’t know you were this nervous about your performance,” he says.

Yes, sure. The performance.

I nod pitifully and attempt to turn the focus back on him. “It’s sort of my obligation to make the king and queen happy,” I say, only half lying. “So it can be stressful.”

“I’m sure,” Heath says through somewhat of a sigh, as if steadily running out of words to say to keep the conversation going, but not wanting to be disrespectful about it.

And as I ransack my brain for anything smart or endearing I could say to make him stay longer, the liquid courage starts to run its course, intermingling with the word obligation . I’ve done my job for the evening. I’ve sung for the guests, and aside from the one dose of bourbon, I kept a sober head on my shoulders. Why be a slave to obligation when no one is looking at me anymore?

“You know what helps relieve my stress?” I dare to ask.

Heath must be able to read the mischief in my modesty, because he tugs me towards the door, and as we head for the hallway, I contemplate the best way to take off his belt.