It almost made her laugh. She had just murdered her own father and his guards, burned their bodies and stripped down in front of her brother’s lover. And still Bart was concerned with propriety, though it was far too late for that. She was a murderess and a monster. But she didn’t fight it—the gesture was well meant, and she didn’t want any of her father’s servants catching her at anything less than her best.

No.

Her servants now.

“Time for the next step, then?” Bart asked.

Shan nodded. “Yes, let’s make it official. Before Anton gets home.” She saw the look of worry in Bart’s eyes, the fear that perhaps they had gone too far. But she forced herself to ignore it. She could handle her twin, and he’d understand soon enough.

All of this was for him.

It was already past midnight when Shan arrived at the Parliament House, solemn in its grandeur, a high ceiling raised over the marble floors as the sounds of Shan’s heels echoed in the vast, empty space. Perhaps it was designed to make her feel small, but as she strode through the atrium, she only felt the calm sense of belonging.

She had made it, at last.

Despite the hour, she was freshly bathed and dressed in one of her finest gowns, one that she had picked for its modestly designed square neckline and pure black color. A perfectly proper choice for a young woman mourning the sudden death of her father. With false tears in her eyes, she told the poor aide who worked the night shift that her father had passed, and he had shuffled her off to a waiting room while the Royal Council was called, left alone with her conscience and an ever-cooling pot of tea.

By the time the Council had been roused and had arrived, the night had slipped away into the early morning, and Shan was summoned to their hearing chamber. It was smaller than she had expected it to be, just large enough for a curved table that they sat around, an impressive piece of dark mahogany with five large, upholstered chairs, nearly grand enough to be thrones, each covered in deep green velvet. There were no windows, perhaps for privacy, and the walls were filled with paintings, a history of Dameral painted from portrait to portrait as it grew from the small seaport of antiquity to the grand capital it had become.

The air was heavy with history and solemnity, and Shan couldn’t help but wonder what mark she would leave.

She stood with her back as straight as a rod as the Royal Council entered, her hands folded in front of her, the silver of her claws glittering under the soft, red shine of the witch light.