Chapter Eight #2
Sterling inclines his head. “If the girl were lying to you about having magic, she most certainly would have manifested her wielder’s mark. Given she was just nude before you, and there was no mark…” he trails off, allowing King Alastiar to put the pieces together himself.
Which he does, his brows furrowing as it clicks into place. His head swivels from Sterling to me, back to Sterling. “So how would you explain this, then?” He speaks to Sterling, thank the gods.
Because I sure as hell don’t have an answer.
Sterling’s voice is smooth and neutral. One would never know he just suffered a bout of…of…
What did happen to make Sterling collapse like that? The king pinned the blame onto me, but surely I hadn’t been responsible.
Right?
Sterling clasps his hands. “It would appear that the girl unexpectedly falls into the rare category of late-bloomers.”
King Alastair wrinkles his nose at the words. “A wielder comes into their magic at puberty. Everyone knows this. If after maturity they still do not wield, they were simply born without lakt?. Those are the known ways.”
Sterling nods his head, agreeing. “You speak true, Your Majesty. However, there are recorded cases of wielders that came into their magic late in life. It is a phenomenon known as the Surge. The magic quietly builds beneath the surface, only to suddenly surge into existence with remarkable force.”
The king looks back to me, assessing me through narrowed eyes as if he is only now seeing me for the first time. “Is that so…” He begins pacing, rubbing his chin in thought.
I flick my eyes to Sterling, whose gaze is now fixed on me. My brows twitch, and I squint to catch the word Sterling is mouthing at me while the king’s back is to us.
Bathara.
Bathara?
The academy Gray departs for in the morning? The one known for its deadly entrance exams. The place where Jurafen are trained—where those with magic go to become something great. If they can get admitted.
Why is he…
The gears start turning in my head, and suddenly, I see a new path emerging from the shadows. One where gilded bars are melted down into molten gold, and dreams of a better existence do not die of suffocation.
I now possess the ability to wield. Which means I can access magic. Flora magic at that. Which means…
Subtly, with a newfound understanding, I dip my chin at Sterling. He lets a near-imperceptible smile flicker across his lips in response.
I glance over my shoulder and am just barely able to glimpse Gray.
He remains shackled, his head still slumped, his body slack.
As if sensing my attention, he slowly drags his eyes from the ground, his exposed chest raking in wheezing breaths.
When his glassy eyes meet mine—when I glimpse all the pain, the silent terror and rage, all the stubborn resilience still simmering in his eyes—a fire ignites deep in the pit of my stomach.
Two things happen simultaneously.
The first is I swear a silent vow to myself.
Someday, I will take revenge on King Alastair for all he’s done.
And the world will be a better place because of it, allowing the Rivara Kingdom to flourish under the reign of an entirely new king.
For King Alastair has yet to produce an heir—rumored to be barren and incapable—which means his bloodline’s reign will end with him.
The second is a flood of determination that washes through me so forcefully, it temporarily numbs the pain.
And as my eyes bounce from Gray, to Sterling, then back to the king, I am suddenly reminded that I was raised by both a cunning mother and the Nightenjoys, and though my tongue may not be coated in fine silver like Gray and Sterling, it certainly has a silver edge.
And I see my opening with undaunted clarity.
“If I have magic, that means I could become a Jurafen.” The guard gripping my hair jerks me back, and I grit my teeth against the jolt of sharp pain, flicking my eyes down at the cool metal still positioned at my throat.
The king spins on his heels, a mocking sneer already twirling his lips.
“ You ? A Jurafen?” He claps his hands together and barks a loud laugh.
“Oh, my ignorant little pet. Just because you have suddenly manifested your ability to wield does not mean you are even remotely capable of becoming a Jurafen.”
Words I buried long ago suddenly surface within me.
I will not cower. I will not yield. I will not falter.
I lift my chin as much as one can with a blade at their throat. “You’re wrong.”
The guard tightens his hold on me, and the king raises a disarming hand in response.
He lowers the dagger and releases me, throwing my head forward.
When I reorient myself, glancing up at the king, his eyes are brimming with cold amusement, and his arched brow climbs even higher when I look up at him.
“What’s this?” he asks, his tone deceptively calm.Your ability to wield appears, and suddenly you think you can refute a king?”
I shake my head. “No, My King. But…” Moment of truth. “I’d wager that, if you permitted me, I would pass the upcoming entrance exams and gain entry into Bathara.”
The king tips his head back and laughs—deep from his gut, as if I just told a crude joke in a tavern.
“Your disconnection from reality humors me, truly. But you know nothing, girl. You possess no chance of passing, and even if you did manage to somehow skirt through the exam, they’d never permit you entry.
You are a servant. No, you are a king’s entertainer—a whore.
What business do you think you have in receiving the honor of being titled Jurafen? ”
I bow my head. “All the same, I’d wager otherwise. I believe I can.”
I’ve dangled my bait carefully, wrapping it in a skin most appealing to the king—something he can never resist.
Wagers.
King Alastair loves to make wagers .
He hums with patronizing amusement. “Is that so? And what would you wager on this delusion of yours?”
Leaving my head bowed, my eyes still glued to the marble floor, I alter my voice to his liking. “What is it that would entice My King?”
“Well you see, pet, the thing about enticing a king is you must offer him something he does not already possess. Something he desires. And seeing as I already own you—that you are blood - sworn to me—there is little you can offer me that I simply cannot already take.”
I speak on instinct. “An heir. I will promise you an heir.”
“No.” Gray’s broken rasp barely penetrates the sound barrier. And it is a struggle to not turn to face him—to keep my feet from lifting with their own mind, stumbling to his aid.
“Silence, boy, or I’ll take the whip to you again.” The king refocuses on me, a malicious curve tugging at the corner of his lip. The realms of hell burn within his eyes. “And how is it you can promise such a thing when no one else has been able to?”
I clamp down on my bubbling anger and give the performance of a lifetime. “Before her death, you had my mother working on an elixir that could aid you in your quest for an heir.”
His annoyance grows palpable. “I do not make a habit of discussing those in the grave.” King Alastair cocks his head, a wry smirk spreading across his lips. “One might think you’d avoid such topics as well.”
I will not cower. I will not yield. I will not falter.
And I sure as hell am not backing down here.
I maintain the illusion of submission. “She discovered a viable elixir that could ensure you an heir with your next… release. She left all the instructions behind in her work journal—a journal I still possess. She had just successfully finalized the recipe around the time of her passing, so you were never made aware of it.”
King Alastair flexes his jaw. “And why am I just now hearing of this?”
“I only recently discovered the journal in a pile of her old work aprons.”
Lie.
All of it—every last bit .
The king is silent for a long moment. For a very long moment.
He rubs a finger over the top of his lip, humming with thought.
Finally, he huffs a laugh—seemingly more amused with himself than anything else.
“I do love a good wager,” he muses. “Very well. I will indulge this silly game. You may depart for Bathara and participate in their entrance exams. Then, when you fail, you must swear that you will return to me immediately, and you will fulfill your promise in providing me with an heir.”
I raise my eyes from the ground and lift my chin. “If I pass, you must swear to release me from my blood-oath to you.”
The king’s smile is baleful. A patronizing condescension sings in his eyes as a smug expression settles on his face.
“If you pass the exam and are offered a place at Bathara, I wouldn’t even really have a choice, now would I?
” He chuckles, and my bones begin to hum with the anger lacing through my filaments at the sound. “But very well. I will swear it.”
He smiles, but I do not return the gesture. “Then it would seem we have a wager, My King .”
His brows jump at my sudden boldness, but it seems he’s presently too amused with the recent turn of events to be angry.
“What a convenience that we have a Sealer in our midst to finalize this sweet treat.” Still smiling, King Alastair peels his eyes from me and glances back at Sterling. “Would you mind?” he sings.
Sterling inclines his head. “Of course, Your Majesty.” He steps down the dais and halts directly between the king and me. He unsheathes a dagger from his hip and meets my eyes. “May I?” He nods toward my hand.
Swallowing back any lingering hesitation, I lift my hand and place it in the palm of Sterling’s. With the cool tip of the dagger, he knicks my finger, drawing blood. After, he does the same to the king, pressing our fingers together, coalescing the tiny pools.
Sterling’s palms warm, and that warmth funnels around the king’s and my connected fingers.
Hazy white light appears, cocooning our hands—the small pool of crimson dribbling from our skin.
“This wager will be sealed in blood. If one forfeits the terms, they forfeit their life.” He turns to face the king.
“Your Majesty, do you agree to the terms that, if Lyra completes the entrance exams and is offered a place at Bathara, you will release her from her blood-oath, thus relinquishing her from her servitude?”
King Alastair’s silver eyes do not break away from me. “I agree to those terms.”
Sterling swivels his gaze to me. “Lyra, do you agree to the terms that, if you fail the exams or do not receive a formal offer of admittance into the academy, leaving you Unselected, you will return to the king without delay and fulfill your promise to ensure that he receives an heir?”
I lift my chin. “I agree to the terms.”
“Very well,” Sterling says. “Then the blood wager is sealed.”
The light intensifies, and with it comes a wave of tingling heat.
It boils the small pool of blood gathering on the pads of our still-touching fingers.
Feeling something like a creeping insect, the blood seeps beneath our skin, forming a small crimson tattoo of a blood droplet on the corners of both King Alastair’s and my index finger.
Which means the seal is final—there is no going back now.
King Alastair pulls his finger from mine and inspects his new mark. Once finished, he flicks his eyes up at me and huffs a laugh. He leans forward, his lips grazing the skin of my ear. “I look forward to watching you fail, little pet. And receiving an heir in the process.” He pulls back and smiles.
And it is an act of the gods that I do not spit in his face.
The king reorients his attention to the two guards posted beside Gray. “Unshackle the boy. I’m done here.” Without so much as another word, the king saunters away—as if he’s just finished a mundane meal on an ordinary evening—whistling low and rhythmically as he goes.
When the two towering doors are pulled open, revealing a luxurious hall lined with priceless paintings, arched windows, and relics, King Alastair halts and turns his chin over his shoulder.
“Oh, and pet? I demand you have salt rubbed in your wounds before allowing any healers or remedies to touch you. Do not think I have forgotten how you spoke to me a moment ago.” He pauses, and the corners of his lips tighten with anger.
“And now, as you depart from this kingdom, I will not let you forget it, either.”
Then he’s gone, the doors groaning to a close behind him.
I don’t realize I’ve been biting the inside of my lip so forcefully until the tangy, metallic taste of blood swims along my tongue. I unclench my jaw, blow out all the air and tension that’s built up in my chest, and I race for Gray—
Not stopping for even a single moment to think about what the hell I’ve just done.