Roman rode with Dacre and two officers in a vehicle to the Promontory. The back windows were covered with dark velvet drapes, holding the light and all views of the city at bay. As tempted as he was to part the curtains and watch Oath roll past, Roman didn’t dare move. The letter Shane had given him was tucked into the inner pocket of his suit jacket, and every time Dacre looked his way, Roman could feel his heart falter a beat.
Once he had believed Dacre could read minds. He had since learned that it wasn’t true, but it didn’t dispel the fact that Dacre had uncanny abilities when it came to interpreting people.
Thankfully, the ride through downtown was a quiet one. But there was a perceptible chill in the air, as if hints of the under realm clung to Dacre’s fine raiment of gold, red, and black.
Something was going to happen tonight. Something that would crack the world in two.
Roman exhaled. He could almost see his breath.
They reached the Promontory, an old building that had once been a castle in a different era. It had been updated and redesigned over the past decade, turning it into a structure that seemed caught between nostalgia and modernity. A place that didn’t seem to quite know where it belonged.
Roman quietly climbed down from the motorcar, walking in Dacre’s shadow as they entered through a private back door of the building. No one was supposed to know Dacre was in the city, and that he was speaking to the upper echelons and most influential of Oath’s denizens after the chancellor tonight. His officers, one of whom was Captain Landis, walked close behind while four of Dacre’s elite soldiers also followed, two dressed in uniform and two dressed in black coats and trousers, starched white button-downs, and jeweled cuff links for the event. Shane, of course, was not among them; he was still at the estate. As Dacre was guided into a room to rest before the event, Roman took a quick inventory.
The chamber was spacious but only had one door, no windows. Flames crackled in the hearth, and a massive tapestry hung from the wall. There was a table of refreshments, although no one touched the chilled wine, fruit, and cheese. Only those Dacre trusted most were in the room, but no one relaxed save for the god himself, who sat in a chair before the fire.
Roman stood awkwardly off to the side, trying to make himself as unnoticeable as possible. But his hands were trembling, shot through with nerves. He needed to get out of this room. He needed to be in the courtyard, to deliver the message, but when he moved toward the door Dacre saw him.
“Come, Roman,” he said, inviting him closer. “Have a seat.”
The last thing Roman wanted to do was sit. But he did as Dacre bid, sitting in a high-backed leather chair beside him.
“What do you make of tonight?” Dacre asked, studying his face.
“I think it’s going to be an important one, sir. A turning point for us.”
“Do you think I will be able to convince them to join me?”
Roman paused. Them being the people the chancellor thought were powerful in society. But the problem with that notion was that there was far more to Oath than the noble, wealthy, and influential residents. There were the working and the middle class. The artists and writers and teachers and dreamers. The stonemasons and plumbers and tailors and bakers and construction workers. People who were made of mettle and drive and courage, who kept the city alight and moving forward. Some of them might support Dacre, but Roman knew that most of the people who had volunteered to fight for Enva had come from classes of society who could see the world as it truly was. Who could see injustice and who were willing to take a stand against it.
Dacre’s desire for surrender—a “peaceful” overtaking—would not be possible without their support. Oath would sunder in two before it happened.
“I hope so, sir,” Roman replied.
“You never told me about your meeting with Iris E. Winnow,” Dacre said, changing the topic so fast that Roman’s posture went rigid. “How was it?”
“It went well, sir.”
“Do you think she will be open-minded?”
“Maybe. It’s hard to tell with her, sometimes.”
“And why is that?”
“She’s quite stubborn, sir.”
Dacre only chuckled, as if he liked the thought. It made Roman’s blood feel clotted with ice, and he wished he hadn’t said such a thing.
But then Roman couldn’t stop himself. He asked, “When you do expect an answer from her?”
Dacre was quiet, gazing at the fire. “Soon.”
The door suddenly opened. Chancellor Verlice swept into the room.
Roman rose when Dacre did, moving out of the way as the chancellor offered a greeting. The leaders were soon preoccupied, conversing in low voices. But the air was heavy with anticipation as the clock ticked closer to half past five. The event was about to start.
When Roman noticed the two soldiers dressed for the event slipping out the door, he was not far behind them.
The Green Quarter was an inner courtyard in the heart of the Promontory, which once, long ago, had been the gathering place for medieval life. But the only trace of the past was the forge, located on the right-hand side, which had since been converted into an open café. Even then, it had changed so drastically that Roman would have never known it had once been a place where weapons were crafted, save for the blacksmith’s anvil that remained behind.
He watched from the edge of the courtyard as servers carried out flutes of champagne and trays laden with small bites, weaving through the gathering crowd. Hanging chandeliers burned against the encroaching dusk. Soon, it would be dark, stars and swollen moon shining overhead. And what of the curfew, Roman wondered, his eyes seeking the person with the red anemone. All the guests would be stranded here or would have to risk traveling home through mercurial streets.
The envelope was heavy as a stone in his pocket. He forced himself to mingle with the crowd, feeling checkerboard grass and stone beneath his shoes. Shane’s words continued to echo through him: There will be a man wearing a red anemone pinned to his lapel in the crowd. This envelope needs to be handed directly to him. Once you do that … leave the courtyard immediately.
Roman bumped shoulders with someone and quickly apologized. Sweat began to trickle down his face as his desperation grew. He could hear a wheeze, catching the end of each breath, his cough flaring. He accepted a flute of champagne, downing the fizz, feeling it trickle through him like fire.
He recognized some of the guests here. Most of them were older, hailing from rich and noble families. People his father had been desperate to win approval from, and it made Roman feel like spiders were crawling over his skin as he continued to weave his way through the throng. He reminded himself to be mindful of Dacre’s two soldiers who were also pretending to be guests, milling around in their fine clothes. If they saw Roman hand off a message, then they would know he was a traitor.
Roman sighed and came to a halt at the edge of the courtyard again. He looked for the two soldiers in disguise, finding the tall, handsome one talking to a woman in a silver dress.
The soldier shifted, granting Roman a view of the woman’s face.
It was Iris.
Roman was frozen to the ground as he stared, taking in her every detail. Her red lips, the dress that shimmered when she breathed, the way her skin looked in the candlelight. She had cut her hair shorter; it was crimped in a wavy bob, the ends touching her bare shoulders.
A pang went through him when she granted the soldier a small smile. She was politely listening to him talk, but she angled away when he leaned in closer to her.
Roman took two steps and then halted. He couldn’t approach them. He couldn’t walk up to her and slide his hand around her waist like he yearned to. He couldn’t lace his fingers with hers and whisper words into her ear to make her smile and then blush. He couldn’t acknowledge her as his wife. Not now, and maybe never, if Dacre’s plans took root tonight.
And yet Roman couldn’t help but feel like his insides were twisting the longer he gazed at her.
Look at me, Iris.
Look at me.
The soldier was still talking, but then Iris’s attention shifted to the stage that was set up at the front of the courtyard. Everyone in the crowd looked that way as the chancellor began to speak, his voice commanding the dusky air. Everyone but Roman, who could not draw his eyes away from Iris.
One breath.
Two.
Three.
He felt his composure crack.
He didn’t make out what the chancellor said—the words melted together—but Roman finally dragged his attention away from Iris when the atmosphere turned cold and quiet. When a smattering of applause covered up a few gasps of alarm, and Roman saw that Dacre had now taken the stage.
Roman had missed the handoff.
He had failed to do what Shane had ordered, and it took another minute for the truth of his current predicament to scrape down his ribs.
Leave the courtyard immediately.
Roman needed to know why. He needed to know what was imminent because Iris was here, her face blanched and her lips parted as she listened to Dacre and his honeyed words.
The air shuddered through him as Roman retrieved the envelope from his inner pocket. No one around him noticed. They were all either transfixed or horrified by the sight of Dacre in the courtyard. A god here in Oath, in plain sight.
Roman broke the seal and slipped out a small square of paper.
A blast alone won’t do. You must sever the head.
The words swam before him as he read them a second time. A third. He slipped the paper back into the envelope and calmly tucked it into his pocket. But his gaze cut through the crowd. He found Iris again as if she were the only one in the courtyard. A glimmer of light in the growing shadows.
He began to walk to her, nudging people out of the way. He didn’t care if he caused a scene. He didn’t care if Dacre saw him striding to her. To Iris E. Winnow, a woman Roman was only supposed to have an acquaintance with.
Something terrible was about to happen, and neither Roman nor Iris would be here to witness it. He was going to take her hand and flee with her, far away from this place. From this city, from the war. It had bruised and wounded them enough, and he simply did not care—
Someone grasped his arm, their grip like iron. It stopped him in his tracks.
“Come with me,” an unfamiliar voice said in his ear. “Don’t draw attention to us.”
Roman swallowed, his eyes remaining on Iris. “I’m not going anywhere with you.” But he felt the prod of a revolver in his ribs, and his shoulders curved with submission.
“Yes, you are,” the man said. “Now.”
Roman allowed himself to be propelled through the crowd, a gun jammed discreetly into his side. When they stepped into the empty corridors of the Promontory, he jerked away and spun, glaring at the person who had come between him and Iris.
To his shock, Roman recognized him.
Even wearing a nice suit and hat, his father’s associate couldn’t fully disguise his rough edges. Bruce, Mrs. Kitt had called him, boasting of how he kept their family safe.
“What are you doing here?” Roman asked tersely.
Bruce kept the gun trained on him, but Roman sensed it was only to make him comply. This man had no intention of shooting his boss’s son.
“I’ll tell you on the way back to the house.” Bruce took hold of his arm again, twisting Roman around, forcing him to step forward. “Your father wants you home. And this is not a safe place.”
“You don’t understand.” Roman dug his heels into the floor. His shoes squeaked as he slid over the polished marble. “I need to return to the courtyard.”
“You’ll thank me later.”
“My wife!” Roman hissed. “My wife is in that crowd!”
That revelation made Bruce pause. But whatever he planned to do—whether it be to go back for Iris or to propel Roman onward—Roman would never know.
There was a flash through the windows, followed by an ear-splitting boom that Roman felt in his chest like his heart had torn free.
The explosion rocked him from his feet.
