Glint (Plated Prisoner Book 2)

I’ve never liked taking the ride down the mountain.

It’s winding and steep, dangerous even on clear days, the road always icy and littered with slick divots and rock. But when there’s a winter storm—and there usually is—the road becomes even more treacherous.

I keep the curtain drawn tightly closed against the window, my teeth clenching every time the carriage jolts.

I suppose I’m lucky that it’s only slightly windy and snowy right now. I refuse to return to the castle tonight if there’s a storm, so all I can do is hope that the weather holds.

Jeo reaches forward, squeezing my thigh. “It’s alright, my queen. Nearly there.”

I give a terse nod, saying nothing, a hand pressed to my miserable stomach.

“Why take this trip into the city when you’re so frightened of the carriage ride?” Jeo asks.

My eyes slice over to him where he sits beside me. “I’m not frightened. The route is frightening,” I argue sharply. “There’s a difference.”

Jeo flashes a stunning smile. “Of course.”

I narrow my gaze on him, unamused, but he just smiles wider. He’s as relaxed as can be in my golden carriage, legs spread out as much as the space allows, head resting against the wall, a quiet whistle on his lips.

The fact that he’s so unworried, worries me.

It seems like a weakness, if I’m honest. The intelligent are always considering the what-ifs, the could-happens. Our minds a constant spin of possibilities and outcomes.

If you don’t worry, you’re either a fool or you’ve been fooled.

I watch him from my peripheral. At least he’s a pretty fool who knows how to use his cock.

Letting out a breath, I reach up and smooth back his blood-red hair. “I need to make an appearance. Under the right patronage, peasants can be a powerful group to utilize. I intend to use them to my advantage. There’s dissent among the impoverished, and I want to ensure that dissent is pointed at Tyndall, not me.”

Jeo winces a bit. “Word of advice? Perhaps don’t call them peasants. Or talk about using them.”

I wave him off, my fingers gripping the edge of the velvet seat when we hit another bump.

Jeo pinches the corner of the gold curtain at the window on his side and peers out. “We’ve made it all the way down,” he tells me reassuringly. “We’ll be on the bridge soon.”

I’m finally able to sit back in my seat and let out a tight breath. Shoving my curtain aside, I watch as we roll along the ground, blessedly off the narrow road of the mountain.

Soon, the carriage wheels are clacking over cobblestones, the sound of a bustling Highbell making its way to my ears. When I normally visit the city, I only go to the affluent part to dine or to shop.

Today, I’ll be going right into the middle of its haggard heart.

My guards ride in formation around us, horse hooves clopping. When the carriage stops and my footman opens the door to let me out, I already have the queenly mask covering my expression, posture perfect, my white gown pristine.

As I step into the market square, my opal crown diffracts the brittle daylight, the bottom of my dress sweeping the snow-littered ground, polishing it clear.

The guards have blocked off a part of the square, a long table set up ahead of time. A crowd has gathered already, since news seems to travel faster than royal carriages.

Behind the curious spectators, the square teems with vendors, shoppers, and beggars. In the distance, the Pitching Pines loom over the city, the enormous trees casting shadows across the city’s roofs.

As I walk forward, the crowd’s surprised murmurs begin to ripple out at my presence. All three of my advisors—Wilcox, Barthal, and Uwen—are here already, waiting for me by the table. They’re wearing matching white overcoats to set them apart as mine—not Midas’s—just as my guards also wear new steel armor.

No gold anywhere. Exactly as I want it.

For the next hour, I sit at the middle of the long table, Jeo and my advisors on either side of me, as we pass out coin, food, bolts of fabric, even small handmade dolls to give to the peasant children.

One by one, I win their favor.

They call me their cold queen. They curtsy and cry and thank me. Chapped faces, work-worn backs, tattered clothing, heads covered with sprinkling snow, faces strained with the weight of their poverty. They may not look like much, but these are the ones Tyndall ignored—they’re the ones who hate him most.

So I intend to stir that hate, to let it simmer, to make it into something I can use. All while I separate myself—make them love me with equal ferocity that they loathe him.

The crowd doubles, triples, quadruples as word spreads that I’m giving away gifts, and my guards work hard to keep everyone in line.

Soon, we’re nearly out of things to give out, and I’m relieved, because I don’t want to sit here for much longer getting snowed on. Despite my furs, I’m cold, and want to be back in my castle next to a roaring fire before nightfall.

Another woman is led up, and I wear a serene smile on my face. She’s huddled in a coat with patches at its elbows, and I’m not sure she’s got anything to wear underneath. Her eyes are gaunt, her teeth rotted, and she has a babe on her hip and another one clinging to her leg.

I can’t help the twinge of jealousy that surges through me at the sight. I should have born a strong son. A dutiful daughter. My castle should be full of my heirs, but instead, it’s an empty gold tomb.

The woman approaches with jerky, stumbled movements, and I can tell that the guards picked her out of the crowd simply because she looks so bedraggled.

“Come forward,” I call.

As she walks up, her eyes skitter over the table laden with diminishing piles of gifts.

“Coin and fabric for the woman, toys for her babes,” I say, my voice clear enough to carry.

My advisors grab her offerings and pass them off to a guard, who approaches her with the pile. She looks at the armful, to the guard, and back to me, but she doesn’t take them.

I tilt my head. Perhaps she’s daft.

“Your queen has bestowed great gifts on you, miss,” Barthal says, his dark brows drawing together in impatience. “Thank Her Majesty and take her offerings.”

A slow-simmered flame seems to catch in her gaze as she looks back at me. “What does this do?” she demands, voice hoarse.

My white brows draw together. “Pardon me?”

The babe on her hip fusses, rooting around at her shoulder, its gummy mouth sucking a wet spot on her dirty coat.

“All of this,” she says as she gestures to the table. “What does this do?”

“It’s my gift to the people. To help ease any suffering,” I answer.

The woman laughs. An ugly, crass sound, as if she spends her days steeped in smoke, or maybe the cold has frozen the chords of her voice.

“You think giving away a few coins and dolls is goin’ to ease us? Our great Colier Queen blessin’ us with a single coin. How grand. Must be such a sacrifice, when you’re up there livin’ in your gold palace.”

“Shut your mouth, woman,” the guard snaps, taking a threatening step forward.

I hold up a hand to stop him. My eyes dart around at the crowd, finding people watching her with interest, some of them nodding their heads.

I grind my teeth in frustration.

This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. I want them kneeling gratefully at my feet. The plan was for the people to see that I’m the one taking care of them, while Midas continues to ignore them.

This stupid woman is ruining everything.

“Where you been, year after year, while the shanties get ignored?” she asks.

I need to take back control of this situation, need to turn it back in my favor. “King Midas ignored you, but I—”

“You ignored us too,” she says, making my advisors gasp that she dared to cut me off. The crowd seems to take a step forward, the energy in the air spiking with something ugly.

“While you’re warm in your palace, do you know how we live? How we die from cold and hunger?” she demands. “No, you’re just a snow bitch pretendin’ to care. I don’t want your flashy tricks. We want real help!” she cries.

She ends her rant by spitting on the ground, and even though it doesn’t land anywhere near me, I feel as if she spat in my face.

My guards surround her in an instant and begin dragging her away, but she just gets louder, more belligerent, her children adding to her shouts with their own wails and screeches.

“Don’t touch me!” she hollers before she turns her vehemence to the crowd. “Don’t take the bribes of the Cold Queen so she can feel better when she sleeps in her gilded bed!”

Whatever else she says is drowned out by the crowd as she’s yanked from the square.

Beneath the table, my fingers have curled into fists. I slice my gaze over to my advisors, feeling my anger simmer. “Bring the next person forward. I want to get this over with,” I order.

Wilcox shoots me a look of concern, though I’m not sure if it’s for me or the shifting crowd. Some of them are laughing and cursing at the woman as she’s dragged away, but most are watching, thinking about what she said, flinging dubious expressions at me like spoiled fruit.

They’re considering whose side to be on.

“Next!” a guard barks.

But no one steps forward.

The gatherers have gone guarded, angry. Watching me not with reverence or awe, but with hostility. Not one of the threadbare people comes up to take my offerings.

My mouth tightens.

“Time to leave, Your Majesty,” Uwen murmurs beside me.

“I refuse to let this mob dictate what I do,” I snap.

Jeo comes around to whisper in my ear. “Look at them, my queen. You’ve lost the crowd. They’re looking at you like they want to rip you to shreds. We need to go.”

My eyes dart around, and I realize the truth of his statement when I see the people moving in closer, ignoring the guards’ shouts to back away. The energy has changed in the blink of an eye, as if they were just waiting for a reason. The air is brewing with threat, dirty hands fisting, cold cracked lips pulling into sneers.

“Fine,” I bite out, conceding to retreat, though it irks me.

Foolish, ungrateful lot. How dare they snub their true queen!

I rise from my chair, refusing to look flustered. With Jeo at my side, I start to walk back to the carriage, but as soon as I do, the crowd begins to shout, heckle, hiss. As if my retreat broke the tentative speculation.

Eight guards surround Jeo and me as we walk to the carriage, and my saddle grips my arm, urging me to walk faster. My heartbeat races when people begin to hurl things at my guards, my own gifts being thrown back at us, items clanging against my soldiers’ new armor.

My men close in while Jeo flings his arm protectively over my head, making sure that nothing hits me. I duck down, steps quick as we rush forward inside our wall of steel and strength. Soon, we’re ushered inside the carriage, and the driver lurches forward the moment the door is shut.

The shouting is louder now, a dull roar emitted from hundreds of malcontent mouths. I flinch when things are thrown at the carriage, something hitting and nearly breaking the window.

Jeo is wound tight, his movements jerky as he yanks the curtains closed while he still holds an arm over me.

I shove him away, vexation filling me, anger piercing through like splintered ice at how quickly the tables turned.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

I cut him a look. “Of course not! All my efforts were just wasted,” I hiss out of the corner of my mouth. “I spent the last hour handing all of that out, and now, these ungrateful rats think that they can rebel against me?”

My mind spins with what to do as the carriage rolls on, putting more and more distance between the angry mob and me.

I wanted open dissent against him. Not me.

I played my hand wrong, and that incenses me more than anything.

My father used to say that people are just an unlit wick ready to catch. I was supposed to get them to hold a candle for me, not burn me instead.

“What a bloody mess,” I seethe to myself. “I want that woman punished.”

Jeo says nothing, which is probably best for him, because my temper is an arctic bitterness ready to bite.

The carriage takes a sharp turn, making me nearly fling against the wall, and then it jolts to an abrupt halt.

Jeo frowns and looks out the window. “Seems we took a side street to get away from the crowd. There’s some kind of cart in the way.”

“I’ve had enough of this,” I snap before I shove open the door.

“My queen!” Jeo calls, but I step out and slam the door in his face. I’m finished with this day. I want to get back into my castle and regain control.

Stalking forward, my guards jump from their horses to follow me, but I wave them off. “My queen,” one of them says, rushing forward. “We’re taking care of it. You can go back inside where it’s warm.”

I ignore him, getting to the front, ready to lay into whoever dares to block a royal carriage.

In front of me is a weathered cart hitched to two horses, their brown coloring letting me know they’re not from Highbell. My driver and two guards are arguing with a man, urging him to move aside so we can pass.

“What is the meaning of this?” I demand.

All four heads turn to look at me, but my gaze hooks onto the man standing in the center. He’s not a Highbell peasant, I can see that immediately.

He wears finely tailored blue clothing, his shoulders are straight instead of hunched, and he dons a clean-shaved face. His blond hair is cut short against his scalp, and his eyebrows are a shade darker than the hair on his head. They arch up dramatically, giving him a look of intrigue.

He’s handsome, but there’s something more than just that, something that makes me want to keep looking at him. He’s magnetic.

“My queen…” one of the guards says.

“Why are you blocking the road?” I say, my attention on the man.

As I stop in front of him, I notice that his eyes are a peculiar color. Not blue, but gray and almost…reflective.

“Queen Malina.” He bows with practiced ease.

“What is your name?”

“Loth Pruinn, Your Majesty,” he replies smoothly.

I rack my mind to connect his family name, but for the life of me, I can’t. Strange, considering I know every nobleman in Highbell. “Sir Pruinn, you’re in our way.”

He smiles, a dazzling display to appease me. “Apologies, my queen. My wheel broke, and I was only mending it. I’m finished now, so I’ll make quick work of getting out of your path.”

“Good. See that you do.”

I turn to go back to the carriage, but he says, “Might I offer you a token? To show my appreciation for your patience.”

Facing him again, I hesitate for a moment, while the sky above us blows down soft flakes of snow.

“Please, Your Majesty,” he says, placing a hand over his chest in supplication. “It would greatly honor me.”

I nod, his respect somewhat calming my anger. “Very well.”

The guards and my driver move away while Pruinn beams and walks to his cart. It’s built like a covered box with a latch at the back. He opens it with a flick of a hook, lifting up the back wall and sliding it into a notch at the roof.

Inside, there are shelves that reach all the way to the front from bottom to top, the space cramped and loaded with too many items to count.

My eyes skim over the shelves. There seems to be a little bit of everything. Glass vials filled with exotic perfumes, baubles, shiny gems, books, spices, teacups, honeycombs, and candlesticks. It’s all a mishmash of odds and ends, my eyes unable to take in every piece.

“You have quite the collection. Are you a traveling merchant, then?” It would explain why I don’t recognize his name and why he looks and behaves the way he does.

“Something like that, Your Majesty,” he replies with an ambiguous curve of his lips. “I collect rare and priceless items.”

“Is that so?” I muse, picking up a silver hair brush and testing its weight and shine. Real. I can’t help but be intrigued. “What is the rarest and most priceless thing you have then, Sir Pruinn?” I challenge.

His magnet-gray eyes latch onto mine. “That would be my power, Your Majesty.”

My brows rise up in surprise. “You have magic?”

He nods. “I do.”

For the second time today, jealousy wells up inside of me. If only I’d been born with magic, then I wouldn’t be here now, struggling to take control of my own damn kingdom.

“What kind of magic?” I ask, eyeing him in a new light.

A wry grin pulls at his cheeks. He leans an inch closer, and that sense of being pulled toward him returns. “I can show someone how to gain their greatest desire.”

All of my interest fizzles out, and I pull back with a disinterested sigh. “I don’t take kindly to charlatans,” I tell him, my tone cross.

He shakes his head adamantly. “No tricks, Your Majesty, I swear it.”

I arch a condescending brow. “I’m sure,” I say sardonically.

“Please, let me prove it to you,” he says, probably because he knows I’m quite close to calling my guards over and having him arrested for being a swindler.

“And how will you do that, Sir Pruinn? Have me close my eyes while you read a crystal ball?”

“Not at all. I only need to hold your hand.”

“You won’t be touching the queen,” one of my guards intervenes.

Sir Pruinn ignores him, his attention staying on me. “No tricks, Your Majesty.” He holds out his hand palm-up.

I don’t take it. “If you think I’m going to fall for silly palm reading, then you are a very poor charlatan, sir.”

“Again, not a charlatan,” he vows. “And I won’t be reading your palm. Like I said, I’ll only be holding it.”

I’m impatient now, but I can’t deny that I’m also quite curious. My guards are watching warily, hands on the hilts of their swords, but they know that ultimately, they have no say whether he touches me or not.

I study the man, trying to get a read on him. “Alright, Sir Pruinn. Prove it to me.”

I place my hand in his, his palm surprisingly smooth for a traveler who’d be catching his own food and fixing his own wagon. The guards move closer.

Sir Pruinn gently curls my fingers into a loose fist and wraps his hand over mine.

The moment he does, there’s a sensation—a static that pops on the surface of my palm and the back of my hand, the energy jumping between us.

My gaze shoots up to his face, but his gray eyes are closed, arched brows tucked down in concentration.

“My queen…” my antsy guard says nervously.

“Quiet.”

I stare down at my hand in awe, because I can feel it. I can feel the magic coursing over it, coming from his touch. It crinkles and snaps, little bursts of magical bubbles that nearly sting, but not quite.

Inside my fist, my palm begins to heat. I feel something form, small at first, and then it grows, until my fingers are unfurling to accommodate the size of the object that just appeared in my grasp out of nowhere.

I wear the wide, unblinking eyes of shock.

Amazement, surprise, doubt, excitement, confusion—all of these conflicting emotions fly through me in a swarm that wants to get out.

I look at the piece of rolled parchment now held in my grasp, my lips parted with a dazed gasp. It looks innocuous, harmless, but my heart is pounding in my chest.Exclusive © content by N(ô)ve/l/Drama.Org.

Sir Pruinn’s hand falls away, taking the magnetic crackle with it. “There you are, Your Majesty. Open it.”

“I’ll open it, my queen,” my guard offers, tone thick with distrust.

But Pruinn shakes his head. “It has to be you, or it won’t work, Your Majesty.”

I hesitate for a moment longer, and then I slip my fingers beneath the edge and unroll the paper. It’s not too large, maybe three hand spans, my mind spinning with spurred curiosity. “What is this?”

He peers down as I straighten it out, humming in interest. “It would appear that your greatest desire is somewhere quite literal. This is a map.”

I take in the elaborate lines with a narrowed gaze. Normally, I’d toss the map back at him and question what sleight of hand he used to get it in my grasp. But the magic was real, and something about this paper feels like me, though I don’t know how to explain it.

After I study it for a moment longer, I frown, my excitement abruptly dimming. “This map is wrong.”

Orea ends at the edge of Sixth Kingdom, but this shows boundaries into Seventh. Wrong. All that’s there is nothing. Nothing at all—not since the fae came and disintegrated it into the gray abyss.

My ridiculous spark of intrigue and excitement disintegrates right along with it. I should’ve known better than to believe this con artist. He nearly fooled me with his crepitate touch, but I’m clearly having an off day.

“Obviously, this isn’t where I can find my greatest desire,” I say with bored irritation. “It’s a misdrawn map you’re trying to pass off as one-of-a-kind.”

He should look frightened. At the very least, uneasy, since his magical trick failed. I could have him whipped on the street for being a fraud.

I let the paper roll up on its own, crushing it in my fist before I gaze up at Pruinn with a cool, unimpressed look and try to hand the map back to him. “Seventh Kingdom doesn’t exist anymore—hasn’t for hundreds of years.”

Pruinn doesn’t look worried or rattled. Instead, a slow, mischievous smile crosses his face, gray eyes glittering as he leans in conspiratorially and says something that sends static chills over my entire body.

“Are you sure about that, Your Majesty?”