Chapter 39 #2
I nod, standing with my arms slightly extended to my sides so she can dry my arms and torso.
She slides my arms smoothly into long sleeves, tightens a strap around my waist, and guides my feet into clean trousers, but she allows me to pull them on myself.
I smile at her precise movements. They are like how Bear dressed me when I was younger.
The thought reminds me of the past I’ve lived, how it had never meant to prepare me for now.
Her hand is light but firm against my back as she guides me to a stool. She uses a fresh towel to dry my hair. A low melody hums mindlessly from her lips, slightly out of tune.
“What is your name?” I ask when she removes the towel. She leads me to an area where the air is cooler and thinner, then lifts my arm so my hand lands on the door’s latch.
“Constance,” she says quietly. With a light clearing of her throat, she helps me push the door open. “Good luck today, Your Highness.”
I beam, but before I can thank her, the door snaps shut, and the soldier’s hand tugs my elbow.
He leads me to a room with a familiar smell—that of old food and metal. The air is thin and stale. We must be in the castle’s grandest ballroom.
Voices murmur all around. I hear my name. Alongside it, I hear my title.
Not the royal one.
Their conversations turn to whispers when they realize I’ve entered.
“Your future king would like approval from his allies,” the soldier says firmly.
“You’ve no allies here, boy ,” one of the men scoffs. I note the timbre of his voice. Tinny, like a thin metal vessel clattering across an abandoned street.
Of course, I am aware I have no allies here. Why the soldier has brought me to them, I am unsure. If it’s to humiliate me, I ought to play the part.
“Be glad you’re being given this rare chance,” another nobleman remarks with a huff. “This position is earned . If you wish to receive our support, you must prove yourself worthy of it.”
There’s a pause, and then another chimes in. This voice is the most familiar to me. It belongs to Viktor Perri.
Ronan’s father.
“I will speak for all of us when I say this. Never before has the Feast been advanced to an earlier date, when the stars of the gods aren’t yet aligned. This is not meant for you, boy. The gods know it. We all know it.” He clears his throat. “This duel tonight will be your end.”
Heat floods my palms, but I say nothing.
None of them will give me their support. But I don’t need support to win. None of them offered to help me from the start, so why would any help me now?
“I’ll take that as a warning,” I reply with a stiff bow, my voice cold.
“Don’t get too comfortable,” Viktor spits, his tone mocking. “You face a dragon tonight. Wasting time on us is pointless. Go prepare. Not your body, but your mind. If you aren’t prepared physically, well, damn us all.”
A tremor threatens to shake my shoulders from their tall confidence. I summon the soldier with a lift of my forearm and allow him to take me from the room. I nod toward the crowd once before he leads me away into the hall.
If they’ve noticed my lack of sight, none have commented on it.
“Are you hungry, Your Highness?” he asks as we briskly walk through long corridors. I’m not sure where we are headed. Perhaps the kitchens?
“Yes, I should eat,” I admit.
“Then I’ll take you to your aide right away. He’s to prepare you with the crown prince’s armor before your duel. You may eat with him.” His words are rushed, with an almost hopeful timbre to them. He may not be entirely against me as I thought. He seems to want to reunite me with Ronan.
I nod, careful to keep my expression neutral, even as relief simmers beneath the surface.
It’s strange—I was with Ronan and Ether only yesterday, and yet it feels like it has been weeks. I’ve already grown too comfortable with their presence.
There is nothing wrong with comfort , I remind myself. I’ve gone too long without true friends, and in the fairy and the elf, I have found just that.
When we arrive, the soldier leaves me, passing me off like a baton to Ronan, who takes my arm and helps me sit at a table.
Ether is not here. I don’t “see” her anywhere.
I fight against a frown.
Ronan silently feeds me a blend of rice and sausage. I chew it mindlessly and swallow before he nearly gags me with a sloppy spoonful of soup.
I swallow it, coughing. The cold edge of the spoon hits my lips again, and I turn away.
Ronan sighs.
“Tell me, what is on your mind?”
“What isn’t?” I retort.
His hand pats me on the back twice. Afterward, he is quiet again.
“This is all happening too quickly. I… I can’t do this… I?—”
“Shh,” Ronan hisses. “Not here. You must be confident here. There are too many listening ears.”
I suck in a breath, annoyed that he’s right, and nod as I exhale. “You’re right. I… I misspoke. The nobles just told me they don’t believe I can do this.”
A half truth. They never said it exactly, but the implications were there.
“I’m glad I’ll be able to spend the day with you,” Ronan says casually. He always makes remarks that are genuinely kind, enough to revive my spirit, and yet he says them with such passivity, it’s hard for me to differentiate from his usual snark.
“Me too,” I say with a smile.
My hand fingers the table until Ronan supplies me with a fork.
We finish eating, trading conversations that are more or less unimportant—the words of import will surface when we have more privacy.
When I ask him about Ether, he tells me she’s cleaning the horse stables.
Bernadette must be keeping her busy. I can imagine how stressed she feels not being near me for this.
Strangely, the mark on my arm doesn’t seem to mind her absence.
Ronan collects our plates for the kitchen servants and retrieves me shortly thereafter.
We remain silent as he takes me down hallways and up stairwells until we stop outside the royal armory.
Once we are inside and the doors are secure behind us, Ronan guides me to a stool and begins scouring the room for weapons and gear for me to wear.
As casually as he’d been before, he begins to list off the types of weaponry and armor. Every word flows evenly from his lips, and I almost tune them out.
Then, after describing the mighty gold hilt of a majestic longsword, he says, “As a member of the Faundor bloodline, it is your right to know I am under oath to serve you, an oath which forces me to do whatever you desire. Not only you…but anyone sharing Faundor blood.” He pauses.
“This one is a hand-wrapped pair of three-pronged throwing stars…”
I wait. After he describes a few more weapons, he resumes where he left off.
“I am sworn to secrecy most of the time. Bound by a magical truth-binding magic. I have, however, discovered a way to tell you something you must know. I’ve been spending night after night trying to devise a way to give you this information, and I’d be damned if I’m too late. ”
There’s a pause, then the clanking of metal.
“Longsword. It’s mightier. And pretty standard for Xavelor.”
The heavy weapon rests against my knee.
“The king,” he starts again, but something feels off about his words. With a huff, he says, “Not everyone wants you to win this fight, but those who do may have other reasons they’re supporting your victory. Especially now that your magic has awakened.”
There’s a pause.
A long pause.
I swallow.
Then, “Cursed oath. It won’t let me say anything more. Ramiel, be vigilant.”
I nod once. Though the phrasing of his words only adds to my unease and confusion, I’m grateful for his attempt at a warning.
He doesn’t speak again, instead searching for the right pieces for my armor’s composition. The clamor of metal grinds across the stone floor, and he releases a few long-winded breaths as he slides the parts closer to me.
He clicks his tongue at last, then yawns. “Let’s get you dressed, Your Highness. Can’t slay a dragon in cloth and skin now, can we?”
After an hour and some struggle, Ronan manages to fit me into a full suit of armor.
The heaviest bits are on my arms and legs, while the thinner areas are the breastplate and cuisse.
I’m not sure why my vital organs don’t receive as much protection, but I suppose it might be detrimental to my mobility if the largest pieces of the suit are heaviest.
He claps my back, and the sound of the armor’s tinniness rings in my ears.
“And your weapon,” he mutters as he guides my hands to the hilt of a sword. I’m thankful it’s similar to the weight of the longsword I’d been practicing with. But the blade on this one is much thicker and flatter.
I run my hand along the fuller and stop when I reach the point. It’s long, but slightly shorter than the sword I’m used to.
“And with that... I think you’re ready.”
An appreciated silence passes between us.
It allows me time to breathe. My hands sweat in the gauntlets, and my heart reaches for the metal plate guarding my chest as though trying to escape.
I repeat Ether’s words to myself over and over, forcing myself to obey them.
To not let thoughts deter me. To stay strong. To feign confidence.
That’s all I can do.
Ronan pulls me into an uncomfortable hug.
My armor crunches in on my skin and pinches me in places, but I don’t make a sound.
My sword clangs to the ground, echoing into the vaulted ceilings of the keep, and I swear I can hear the ripple of other swords skimming against the walls where they hang, singing their lament.
“Is everything alright?” I ask.
My aide sucks in a shaky breath and sniffs as he pulls away. “Damn it all,” he groans. The emotion in his words fills me with cold. “I swore I wasn’t going to cry. If Ether finds out, she will never let me forget about it.”
I move forward to return his hug despite the pain it causes, and I smile as tears drip down my cheeks. His supportiveness moves me, and for once, I’m not embarrassed to let it show.
“If not for you, I wouldn’t be standing here at all.” I laugh. “You’re the best aide I could’ve asked for. And the curious thing is, I didn’t even ask for you.”
Ronan snorts lightly. “That’s true. But I’ve been honored to serve you. Even despite, you know...”
I nod and offer a brief, reassuring squeeze before pulling away.
“You must defeat the dragon,” he says, his voice grave.
His words from before ring true in my head: Not everyone wants you to win this fight.
I puzzle at the meaning he meant for me to grasp, how it might relate to the desperation in his current plea.
“It’s either you kill it , or you become its next meal.
No one will intervene. This is you proving to the kingdom that?—”
“I know,” I say, resting a hand where I think his shoulder is. With a pat, I smile. “I won’t let them down.”
I raise my hand and he clasps it, warbled laughter bouncing between us.
“Go slay yourself a dragon, Ramiel.”