Ash Princess

THE LAST PERSON WHO CALLED me Ash Princess was the heart’s sister I orphaned.

We played together as children, learning to dance and pretending to be fantastical creatures, but when we meet again it will be as enemies. I saw the hatred in her eyes, felt her wrath like a hurricane ripping at my skin. She won’t stop until she has my head, and I did that to her. This I do regret.

But she was right, in a way. I was a princess made of ashes; there is nothing left of me to burn.

Now it’s time for a queen to rise.

As I deepen the kiss, I slide the dagger down my free arm until its handle is clutched tightly in my hand. It takes some maneuvering to unsheathe it, but he’s lost in my arms and his own pain so deeply he doesn’t notice anything. Not until the sharp point of my blade is pressed to his back.

His lips break away from mine and his blue eyes fly open, searching for answers that he discovers quickly. Shock registers on his face, but it’s all too soon replaced by resignation. The lump in his throat bobs as he swallows and gives an infinitesimal nod.

“An inch lower,” he whispers against my lips. When I comply, a smile ghosts across his face, though it doesn’t make it to his eyes. “There it is. Now strike hard and true, Thora.”

I don’t want to see his face when I kill him, but I can’t look away. “My name is…” I break off, taking a steadying breath. “My name is Theodosia,” I say quietly.

Confusion flickers across his expression before clearing. “Theodosia.” It’s the first time my real name has crossed his lips, and it sounds almost reverent. He rests his forehead against mine so that his eyes are all I see. “You know what to do.”

“I’ve withstood his wrath time and time again for things I didn’t even do. But I know who I am because of it; I know what matters to me and what I’m willing to fight for. Can you say the same?”

He swallows. “I know that I’m willing to fight for you,” he says quietly.

I don’t doubt that he means it, especially after the banquet. Søren wants so badly to be different from his father. And I wanted this to be easy, one way or another, but I feel like I’m being torn in two.

My dagger presses against the skin of my forearm from where it’s hidden in the sleeve of my cloak, but the weight isn’t uncomfortable as it was earlier. It’s almost welcome, an anchor in a stormy sea and the only thing keeping me from getting lost in the waves. I can’t be taken over by anger, not when there is still so much to do and time is running out.

“Thora,” Søren says, stepping closer to me. This time, I don’t move away. I don’t flinch when he reaches his hand up to touch my cheek. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am, how I wish I could go back and undo it. I would, in a heartbeat.”