In life there are decisions that must be made, and once decided they cannot be undone. Today Frederick would not be allowed to make his own decision, and after he cleared the hallway there would be no running away from the choice he'd been forced to make.

Sunlight stenciled through the open archways of the colonnade, shadows passing over him as he paced from light to dark to light again. He tried to concentrate on the task at hand, but his instincts urged him to turn around and abandon this idiocy.

"I will get you out of this," his father, Prince Urnald, said.

Frederick shook his head. "There is no getting out of this."

"Slow down and tell me exactly what the king said to you."

"There is no use in delaying this."

They entered the long hallway that led to Queen Dorothea's private quarters. It had been rumored that Queen Dorothea had re-designed this part to filter less of the Thescan sun to make her complexion appear softer. The real reason, Urnald confirmed, was to hide the passage of her many lovers. She would have never thought she needed this now to offer her "guests" a more comfortable environment. To offer Frederick some shadows to hide behind.

"We will think of something," Urnald said. "If I have to go out there and hunt Bront myself—"

"You will do no such thing," Frederick cut. "There is advantage in this. This might be my only chance."

"Only chance to what?" Urnald hurried his pace to match Frederick's echoing strides. "Only chance to do what?"

The looming double doors that kept the queen's many sins contained came into view.

"Frederick, stop and take a moment to speak with me. I order you."

He clenched his teeth. There would be no pausing. No turning back. No conversation to talk him out of this. He would not be following any more orders. Not ever again. "You will order no such thing. You will give me the respect and quiet I deserve before I go in there."

"I will not lose another child because of him."

Frederick spun to face Urnald, the both of them stilling. Suits of decorative armor columned the hallway, and despite the lack of guards inside them he suspected they were still being listened to. "Why don't you watch what you say and where you say it?"

He could only stare as Urnald grappled with his impotence. For he knew it just as well as Frederick did—it was neither of their decision to make. Not really. If he refused to do this, then he would have to answer to something far greater than the king who sent him there. Their people would lose everything if he didn't secure this alliance.

This was their last chance.

"Just—" Urnald scratched his beard, the jewel of his ring shimmering. "Just let me go and talk to the king before you go in there. Perhaps his order was worded wrong. You know he's mad and his ramblings are—"

"Father," Frederick said softly. "Stop."

They were out of plans. Schemes. Battles to fight. There was nothing else to do and no other way of doing it.

"There is advantage in this," Frederick repeated. "Great advantage."

"Listen to what you're saying."

He gripped his father's shoulder and squeezed, unable to ease the disapproval in Urnald's dark eyes. "Even if you don't believe it now, you will soon. Besides, I have plenty to make amends for. You can't compromise my chance to do so."

"Atone for what? Hendlemark."

Frederick hoped the shadows were enough to hide his wince. "Yes. For that."

He let go of Urnald and checked that the velvet of his mantle still covered the riding attire beneath. There had been no time to dress in the full regalia of his house, and the servants had rushed to clean and cover him on the way from the king's quarters as best as they could.

"Hendlemark wasn't your fault."

"That's not what Thescan thinks." Frederick could never forget the eerie silence that greeted him when he and what little of the army returned to the city. The civilians had stared and stared and stared, not comprehending what it meant. There had been so few soldiers left. So many of them had—

"If that's what they think, then it is your fault as much as mine."

Frederick shook his head. "It isn't."

"No, you're right," Urnald said, ire in his tone. "It is his fault. The Gentle King who couldn't spare a warning of what would happen if we went to—"

Frederick turned and continued up the hallway, hastening his steps.

Watch what you say.

Watch what you say.

Watch what you say.

"Just stop this madness and think, Frederick!" Urnald called. "Think about what you're doing. What is the point in doing this for Thescan if you will never see it again?"

Frederick glanced back at his father. "I fucked up the battle at Hendlemark, remember? I was the one with the grand plans to end the war. You all put your faith in me, but I was impatient, and I ..."

Lost.

And, well, the loss was spectacular.

Tiredness whispered along his bones, threatening to make him lose his nerve. He wished that this hall had a window he could fly from, or that he was still in the colonnade. Maybe he would have turned around. But standing before the final set of doors, the golden handles glinting in silent suggestion, he knew he had already come too far to flee now. He would not run from this. Could not afford to.

Frederick would approach the beast and do what needed to be done.

But he did allow himself a deep breath to ready his poise. "To say I miscalculated is a gross exaggeration."

"Frederick—"

"I got us into this," Frederick continued, speaking more to himself than to Urnald. "I will get us out. But I cannot have you there if there's a chance you'll ruin it all. Compose yourself at once or go." His father went to speak when Frederick repeated, "Compose yourself or go. Do not fight with me any longer."

Precious seconds slipped away. He thought he would have to do this without his father's approval when Urnald loosed a strained sigh. He could feel the tension thickening between them as he assumed Frederick's side, his movements jerky as he straightened his cuffs. "Ready, then?"

And to that question, he had no answer. So he reminded himself that this would serve all his selfish reasons—his and no one else's—before gripping the handles and turning them.

The sickly-sweet perfume of dried flowers cloyed the entire room. Light softened through the roses on the stained-glass windows, filling the room with a pink hue that almost looked hellish. The sight of it made his heart stop.

Red everywhere.

Hendlemark.

The man who told him to—

He stifled a wince and forced his mind to squash out the memories. It was becoming easier to do, but still, that final fight lingered where other battles never had before.

The Guardian Stone glowed, signaling that communication between Thescan and another kingdom was open. The stone cast three figures in the far corner of the room, their likeness veiled in shadows. Judging by their silhouettes, he identified the two on the outer sides as men. The middle one, the darkest figure, appeared to broaden into skirts.

That would be her—Queen Arabella of the Carnelian Empire. The Widow Queen.

Queen Dorothea left her guards and scurried across the room. "Freddie, you came?"

He nodded, never taking his eyes away from where Queen Arabella stood. "Introduce us, please."

Queen Dorothea gave an airy wave to the shadows as if acknowledging old friends, her many bracelets jingling with welcome. "May I introduce Prince Urnald of Aldren Heights and his son, Prince Frederick Baxter Landen."

Urnald lowered into the deepest of bows, the fringe of his epaulets swaying. "Your Highness. Thank you for agreeing to meet us. We hope we have not kept you waiting long?"

A deep rumble came from the shadows. "I assume it is the younger prince who is here to propose, yet he shows no respect."

"Frederick," Queen Dorothea urged.

His body awakened from the shock, readying to bow when a superior voice—her voice—said, "No need to have him bow. I would rather have him upright so I may assess the body in full, but would you mind removing the cape?"

Every muscle wound tight. It was the first time he heard her speak and it gave him pause. There was nothing beast-like or grotesque about it. She sounded like a woman, almost ordinary if not for the authority in every syllable.

He loosened the tie about his shoulders, regretting his haste for arriving in these clothes once more, and Urnald was quick to take the garment from him.

"Working in the stables, Your Highness?" one of the men said. "Is that normal for your princes?"

Frederick focused on showing no outward reaction, keeping the hands that wanted to clench loose at his sides. Though the servants tried to wipe his boots they were still caked with mud. Anyone who came near him would catch the horse-and-sweat scent clinging to him.

"You ruin my fun," Queen Arabella said. "I couldn't have asked for better clothes to view him in. Now be silent so I may look at my leisure."

Awkwardness filled the air as they all waited, and Frederick could sense the anger burning from his father's direction.

Queen Dorothea stepped forward, her stiff skirts swishing like a bell. "He is most handsome. I do not blame you for wanting to steal a shameless glance."

"And how do we know this man is actually a prince?" one of the men challenged. "This could be a commoner they grabbed from the gardens."

"Vignolo, you do not have to aggravate our kind hosts, for they have not only offered me one but two princes to choose from," Queen Arabella said. "Besides, there is only one way to test a true prince, so I will ask the specimen to turn around—if you wouldn't mind?" Frederick couldn't help the muscle that ticked in his jaw as he enacted her request. "You can always tell royalty from commoners by the derriere, and that is a prince's ass."

Heat seared up Frederick's neck. So, they could see him perfectly through the Guardian Stone but had chosen to shadow themselves. The Gentle King had promised that Queen Arabella would be a beauty, but he would not find out today. It didn't matter anyway.

"Are you quite done?" Urnald snapped. Queen Dorothea gripped his arm, her golden brows arching.

Frederick resumed his stance and folded his arms. The shadow on the left—Vignolo—came closer. "You would be wise to heed the warning from your queen, Prince Urnald."

"The fault is mine," Queen Arabella said. "I am so focused on the prince that it is easy to forget that his father is here. No parent would appreciate a monster ogling their son for the sake of amusement."

Urnald's boots scuffed along the floorboards. "I only meant—"

"I seek forgiveness for this slight against you, Prince Urnald. I suppose I just wanted to make this less awkward, and there was cheekiness on my part to put some of the odds back into my favor."

Urnald paled. "Your Majesty, I'm afraid I do not know what you mean."

"Prince Bront has fled, and news of that has gone far and wide. This has caused some embarrassment, you see."

"Great embarrassment," the figure to her right agreed.

"We have contained the rumors," Queen Dorothea said, crunching her heavy skirts within her grip. "We are taking great pains to ensure that none of this gets out before a decision is made."

"The rumors cannot be contained," Vignolo said. "Everyone knows that Prince Bront has spurned our queen three days before they were due to marry!"

A sigh came from Queen Arabella's direction. "My cohorts do not approve of my willingness to prospect the next prince for marriage." A low chuckle. "I have given them so much freedom that they do not seem to know when they speak out of turn. Something we may have to discuss later." The shadows at her sides grew a little taller than before.

Frederick knew now he would not get a moment alone to woo her; her cohorts would not leave her for a second. And he suspected that she would not respond to honey-toned promises and the smiles he feigned in an attempt to be charming. She wasn't a lady to be courted—this was a predator to be caged. He just needed the proper lure ...

"But I meant no disrespect before," Queen Arabella said. "I merely wanted to see what I would be receiving from this bargain. Thescan is not offering very much in return for the Carnelian Empire's alliance. So, I thought I'd take a look and see if my voice could make you squirm. But, Prince Frederick"—she clicked her tongue—"you do not share the skittish nature of your cousin, and you do not seem to be embarrassed in the least. I am quite put out by that, for I might grow to like you after all."

The corner of Frederick's lips twitched. Of all the things he expected today, he hadn't expected to be on the verge of smiling. "How do I ensure I am to your liking, Your Highness?"

"What's not to like?" she said, returning a hint of humor in her tone. "You have the same golden hair as your relative, which I have quite a penchant for, but you are taller. And your eyes are darker, more serious where he was scared. The poor lamb. Have you found him yet?"

Queen Dorothea focused on a spot far away. "My husband is readying to search for him as we speak. I apologize once again for his absence."

Readying to leave? The Gentle King had not left the castle in decades.

Frederick stepped forward, unable to make out any of Queen Arabella's features, but he focused on her and where he thought her eyes might be. "We needn't speak of my cousin, Your Majesty, for he is a piss-poor example for a man."

Queen Dorothea gasped. His father swore. One of Queen Dorothea's guards coughed as if shocked.

"In that regard, I am inclined to agree with you," Vignolo said, "but what makes you think you are worthy of our queen?"

Frederick ignored him and dared another step. "I would much rather speak of other things, like you and me."

"You and me?" Queen Arabella murmured.

"Yes, you and me. I do not wish to speak of other men—especially ones of my relation—while I propose to you."

The shadow on the right whistled low. "This prince is as slick-tongued as they say."

Frederick halted and reined in his frustration, wishing that he and the queen were alone. "As who says?"

"You think we don't hear about you where we are?" Vignolo said roughly. "We know it all."

Frederick clenched his fists and struggled for patience. "I didn't think I was worthy of such notice."

"A power-hungry prince who all but lost his king's crown? That gets noticed everywhere. They say you—"

"Cease at once," Queen Arabella commanded, and the whole room withheld its breath. "Apologize."

Vignolo's figure lowered as though bowing. "My apologies, Your Highness."

"No apologies required," Frederick said, deciding on a new approach for his proposal, "for I'm sure whatever you've heard about me is true."

"Frederick," Urnald hissed.

"I nearly lost Thescan, and we're all standing here today because Hendlemark hasn't retaliated yet. We need support but we won't get it from the Star. All it would take is for the other three kingdoms to give Hendlemark permission to invade Thescan and we would be finished." The permission Frederick hadn't sought when he took Hendlemark's castle by force, thinking to kill King Rycard then seek forgiveness from the Star later. That decision had cost him greatly. Hendlemark recovered, secured their borders, leaving Frederick with nothing but less than half his army and more ruined alliances.

And what was worse was that Frederick spent every day since in a daze, wondering how much of that day in Hendlemark was real. Did he really confront Rycard? Run his blade across his throat. Word had reached Thescan that Rycard had escaped from the castle unscathed, but Frederick swore he'd killed him.

A somnambulist stuck in a dream ...

His father attempted to interrupt again, but Frederick continued. "If I'm honest, Your Majesty, you are right. I don't have much to offer that would be of interest to you. I'm third-in-line to the Thescan throne—after my cousin and my father—but I don't think you have any interest in this kingdom. You don't need it." The shadows tilted slightly where he expected her head to be. "I do come from wealth, but I am certain Carnelia has amassed millenniums of its own riches, so I doubt you need mine. But if you wanted it, you could have all of it."

Frederick's shoulders straightened. "But we need you. I need you. If you pick me, I swear you will have someone to be whatever you want them to be. You will have someone who honors their commitments and is true to their word. Whatever you need from Thescan—whatever we can offer you—is yours. Just ..." Frederick paused. "Tell me what I can do to make you consider me. Hell, if you ask me to get naked, I'd gladly do it."

She barked a laugh. "Damn. I nearly asked, but I think your father would have had a stroke if I did."

Excitement sped through him. He managed to do it—he managed to get her to flirt with him in a room full of people. The next step would be to get her alone. "Well, if you insist—"

"Are you really listening to this?" Vignolo snapped. "All this nonsense and—"

"Not. Another. Word," Queen Arabella warned. Vignolo, Frederick feared, would not be a willing ally to his cause. Unwilling allies became catastrophic issues. "Come closer, Prince."

Frederick moved until his boot-tips edged into the shadows that hid her. Her silhouette moved nearer, and this close he determined she stood shorter than him but could still see nothing of her face. He felt her eyes roving over his form, taking all of him in. He had no way to know her thoughts or read her expression. No way to know if she found him desirable.

"And my reasons?" she asked. "Do you care what my reasons are?"

"Your reasons are your own," Frederick said. "Whether you merely want companionship, or whether you find me attractive, or whether you just want me to warm your bed, it matters not. You do not answer to me. Your reasons will always be yours. My reasons are mine." And will always be mine.

"And you do not wish to reconcile with the Star? Marrying me means you would be declaring war on not just Hendlemark, but all four kingdoms."

Frederick had wrecked his relationship with the other kingdoms already by fighting against Hendlemark. The Gentle King of Thescan had killed all chances of salvaging the alliance when he announced his son was to marry the vampyre queen from the Middle Lands. Frederick's move had been bold, stupid, and Thescan would suffer for it. The Gentle King's move had been crazed, shocking, and Thescan would die from it if Queen Arabella refused him now. The other four kingdoms of the Star would seek to annihilate them at the earliest opportunity.

This was the only option left. Forced or not, he wanted to do this. Chose to do this.

"Then they can go to Hell," Frederick said, lifting his chin. "If we have you, we don't need them."

A sound of dismay came from Queen Dorothea's direction.

"You are too honest for your own good," Queen Arabella admitted. "A welcome change. But there are worse things than Hendlemark. You do not fear me at all, and you would be wise to start."

Frederick raised a brow. Nothing was worse than Hendlemark. Not even a vampyre. "If that is your wish?"

She came closer, the illusion the Guardian Stone cast of her almost passing into his chest. "Promise you will not run like the other one, and I will consent to our marriage. No need to get down on one knee."

Relief flooded through Frederick. He had won. "I swear to you that I will be there."

"And the water I discussed with the Gentle King and Prince Bront?"

Frederick frowned. "Water?"

"Yes, the water, of course," Queen Dorothea said. "That will be taken care of once we know that Prince Frederick has made safe passage to Carnelia."

"Very good." The shadows of her cohorts faded into smoke and nothing. "A pleasure to meet with you, Prince Frederick. I look forward to seeing you on our wedding day." And she left.

Several heartbeats passed, but no one moved. His father was the first to break the silence. "Are they gone, truly?"

"The Guardian Stone no longer glows," Queen Dorothea said.

Indeed, it had returned to its former state, and the rough-cut pink stone no longer cast any unnatural light. The Carnelians were gone.

"Leave us," Urnald ordered, and Frederick lowered into the nearest armchair and put his head in his hands as the Queen's Guard emptied out of the room.

Queen Dorothea's ostentatious teal-and-gold gown crinkled as she knelt by Frederick's feet. Her cobalt eyes that nearly duplicated his mother's narrowed with concern. "Are you all right?"

"Frederick, what the hell were you thinking?" Urnald demanded.

He was thinking that he needed to leave this room an engaged man. His way of thinking had worked. He didn't have to explain himself now—not even to his father.

Everything became still, silent, and only then did Frederick notice that every table, vase, and sculpture was painfully positioned to perfection here. The vines on the stained-glass cast thorn-like patterns over the cream furniture that emphasized the hue of dusky light. He wanted to put distance between himself and all the red, not staying a moment longer there than he needed to.

"It worked," Frederick muttered. "I'm getting married. I suppose a toast is in order ..."

"I hope you're happy," Urnald snapped. "You realize you will have to keep it satisfied now, don't you?"

Frederick didn't need a lecture in seduction. Women were easy. Politics were not. Not once did he give any thought that these subjects might overlap for him despite knowing very well that they tended to for most men of his acquaintance. "That's not your concern."

"Satisfied in more ways than one."

"Do they—" Queen Dorothea swallowed. "Do they really feast on flesh?"

"Blood," Urnald said grimly, casting his gaze toward him. "They feed on blood."

"How do they ..." She shuddered. "I don't want to know."

"It's best that you don't."

Frederick bit back his annoyance. It was none of their damned concern.

"Oh, Frederick," she said, reaching for him. "How are you standing it?"

Frederick didn't move to receive her, choosing to stand up and view the place the shadows left.

There would be no alternative to this union. There was no other plan. For Thescan to call off another engagement would be a detriment to every citizen that resided in it. They would not understand now, but maybe they would understand later.

Maybe.

It doesn't matter.

"Is it true what they say about her?" Queen Dorothea asked.

Urnald shushed her gently. "They are rumors, darling. Just rumors."

"What are?" Frederick asked, turning to view them as they joined hands. He hated that Queen Dorothea was the paramour to her dead sister's husband. Hated his father for carrying on in such an illicit, public, and degrading fashion with his late wife's sister. He hated them both for reducing his mother to nothing more than a whisper of pity from other members of the court. She'd gone from Strong, steady Lady Henrietta to Poor Henrietta—she'd be rolling in her grave. "What are the rumors?"

Queen Dorothea glanced between Frederick and his father. "I shouldn't have said anything."

"Your Highness, you are, of course, referring to her last four husbands," Frederick said. "Correct?"

Her eyes lowered to the floor. "Do you really think she killed the four kings she was married to?"

Urnald shook his head, focusing on Queen Dorothea's wax-white knuckles. "That will not happen to Frederick." His eyes hardened. "I will not allow it."

A harsh note of laughter sliced through Frederick's teeth. "And just what will you do to stop it, then?"

Urnald kissed the back of Queen Dorothea's hand and rose. "You think you are so clever, boy, then tell us what you plan to do now?"

Mild humiliation burned beneath his collar as he remembered how he had been lorded like chattel for the amusement of three vampyres mere moments ago. If he married this thing, he could expect to enjoy many episodes similar to this one.

Frederick removed his sword from his scabbard, catching his cool demeanor in the silver. He would have to approach this as methodical and meticulous as a battle strategy, his opponent unaware of the impending ambush. "I marry it. I use it to end Hendlemark. I secure Thescan." He winked at Queen Dorothea—earning an eyebrow raise from his father. I behead your husband and end your son's claim to my throne. "And then I kill it, of course."