Crown of Iron (Book 1 of the Crown Trilogy)

Four

The door to the study creaks when I ease it open, echoing throughout the dark, quiet house. My mother has made only one request since my father went missing—we refrain from going into the space which was solely his. Not knowing how long he will be gone; she wants to ensure that he has a familiar place when he returns to us. It's a simple request, which I've abided by until tonight.

I walk around the cherry wood desk and place my crown with an envelope addressed to my mother on the top. It would be easier just to slip out of the house without a trace, but it would also leave my mother to wonder if I left my family and my duty to run away to Stigian. I can't do that to her.

My fingers glide along the arm of my father's high-back chair and I ease into it. The black leather has molded to his stalky frame, and I lean into the indentations and close my eyes. I imagine being a little girl, sitting on his lap while he worked. He would let me "help him" stamp the wax seals on his correspondence to the king or one of the many military camps scattered throughout Lucent. The job was simple, but I felt like I was doing something noteworthy when I was with him.

It couldn't have been easy to juggle children and his duties to the king, but he did. In the middle of the day, he would join us outside. We learned to wield weapons, how to make the most of nature, and at night, he would tell us the most spectacular stories. He never turned me or my siblings away when he was home, saying he served the crown but belonged to his family.

My chest tightens at the thought. He doesn't just belong to us; he belongs with us.

I carefully open the bottom drawer of the desk and reach to the very back until I find a small compartment with a key inside. I move to the cabinet across the room, my boots feeling like iron, thumping against the wooden floor. It takes my trembling hands several tries to slide the key into the lock, and I cringe as the door squeaks open. Lined inside are different weapons—axes, bows and arrows, spears, and swords. I remove a black sheath engraved with daisies, fasten it to my waist, and search for a particular sword. The pommel is a silver flower and the blade narrow and light. My father had the weapon crafted just for me after I showed discipline in wielding a sword. I take the beloved gift and secure it to my side.

After relocking the cabinet and placing the key into its hiding spot, I stand in the middle of the office. I soak in all the details which are a perfect representation of my father—the old map of one kingdom before it split in two, the medals representing the battles he fought in, and the gorgeous painting of my mother hanging over the hearth. I long to smell wood burning as it warms the room and miss the scent of the cinnamon sweets he kept on his desk lingering on his clothes. Our home is a shell of what it once was without him in it.

Brushing the backs of my hands over my eyes, I slip through the door and gather my satchel from the hallway floor.

"And just where do you think you're going?"

I stifle a yelp as my brother steps out of his room and crosses his arms over his naked chest. "Statera curse you, Rowan," I hiss, placing my hand over my heart.

He cocks a dark eyebrow and looks down at me like his height gives him some authority. He outgrew me two years ago and soon after took on the muscular frame like our father's. The obnoxious giant forgets he is not the highest-ranking person in our home, and Mother can put us both to shame with a simple glare.

"So, where are you off to before sunup...with a sword?" he asks.

I shift side to side and purse my lips. It was foolish of me to think I could sneak away with no one catching me. Like me, my siblings have become light sleepers, hoping every click and snap in the night is our father walking through the door. As time as passed, we've rationalized the sounds, blaming it on the settling house or the wind. Every new excuse has smothered our hope until it is nothing more than coals smoldering deep inside us. I'm happy to add kindle to the flame and renew the possibility of Father returning to us.