Chapter 5
Merrit
The world beyond the Divide was too bright, too neat.
Fields rolled out in ordered lines; each one bound by low stone walls carved with wards so deep they hummed in my bones.
Villages clung to the hillsides, chimneys coughing smoke, while banners—the Veyntheir raven clutching a coiled serpent—whipped against the pale dawn.
Everything felt sharpened, disciplined. Even the magic in the air marched in rhythm, drilled into step instead of pulsing wild and unbound like it did in the Divide.
And the voices—gods, the voices were worse.
At the province gates, the guards straightened fast when they saw Kieran, dipping into bows that didn’t reach their eyes. Their thoughts slashed clean through me:
Not his usual type.
Another bed-warmer, then. She doesn’t look frightened enough.
Pretty throat, though. Bet she doesn’t last the week.
The words sliced, leaving raw edges I couldn’t cover.
I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper, fighting not to flinch.
They weren’t speaking to me, not really.
Just careless thoughts leaking out of closed mouths.
But they pressed against my skin all the same, seeping into places I couldn’t shield.
Kieran didn’t so much as glance at me. His warmth stayed steady at my back, his hand easy on the reins as though none of it mattered.
But it mattered to me.
The guards’ thoughts clung to me long after we passed, sticky as cobwebs.
Pretty enough, but what’s she hiding?
He’ll tire of her fast. He always does.
My throat ached with the effort it took not to react. Not to flinch. Usually the elixir dulled it, smoothed the edges until the world was only a background hum. But I hadn’t had a drop since the ambush, and now every stray suspicion, every careless cruelty, bit into my skull.
And worse? I had no fucking clue what I was supposed to be doing.
Kieran thought I was a seer. A prophet. Someone who could point to the shadows and name which one would strike first. I was none of that.
I was just a bar owner who knew how to pour drinks without flinching, how to read the thoughts of men too drunk to guard them.
That wasn’t a gift—it was a curse. One I’d hidden my whole life.
But now Kieran Veyne, a prince with too many knives at his back, thought I was the answer. That I could stand at his side and keep him breathing. As if I wouldn’t fold under the first real test. As if I wouldn’t shatter under the weight of their whispers, their eyes, their thoughts.
How long before he realized what I really was?
How long before the lie I’d agreed to got me killed?
I shifted in the saddle, just enough to ease the ache between my temples.
Kieran’s hand tightened briefly at my hip, steadying me as though he thought I wavered from the ride, not from the panic rattling my ribs.
His chest was a wall of heat at my back, too close, too steady, and for one fragile breath, it held the rest of it out.
Then the road bent, and I saw it.
The castle of Morathen didn’t just rise from the city, it consumed it.
Black spires bit into the sky, walls etched with runes that shimmered faint as veins of silver in the stone.
Wards crawled over the outer ring, prickling my skin worse than the guards’ thoughts.
The air thickened the closer we came, every stone humming with old magic.
It pressed in on my skull, louder than tavern noise at its worst, every stray thought around me swelling until I could barely separate mine from theirs.
This was no ramshackle Divide, rough and half-forgotten.
This was control laid in mortar, centuries of power pressed into stone.
And it loomed like a predator waiting for blood.
The road funneled us straight into the castle’s shadow where a young woman stood waiting in the archway, her skirts brushing stone.
Her gown was deep violet trimmed in silver, her hair braided into a crown that gleamed bronze when the sun caught it. Too polished for this early hour, too alive for a place built on blood and silence. Most vampires were nocturnal creatures, but this woman seemed ready to take the day by storm.
Her thoughts reached me before her words did, quick and bright as sparks: She’s tiny. Beautiful, though. Wilder than the last one. Maybe trouble enough to survive this place.
When her gaze landed fully on me, her smile curved like a secret. “So it’s true. You’ve dragged something interesting home, cousin.”
Kieran signed and spoke at once, his hand flicks clipped and precise: “Serenya.”
She swept into a bow meant more for show than deference, her skirts sighing across the stones. Then she stepped close, bold as brass, and gave me a once-over that wasn’t cruel—just curious. Like she was taking inventory.
“Well, aren’t you a surprise.” Her grin tilted sideways, almost conspiratorial as she signed. “You don’t bow like the courtiers. You don’t simper. You’re either brave or stupid, and either way, I like it.”
I should have flushed, should have shrunk. Instead, I lifted my chin a notch, meeting her gaze like I’d done a hundred drunkards in the Lock & Key. I’d been stared down before. Survived worse than that.
Solis snorted as he dismounted his horse. “She’s more trouble than both of us combined. Don’t encourage her.”
“Oh, I plan to,” Serenya said, her tone low and delighted, like mischief was a language she spoke fluently. She circled me once, skirts swishing, braid bouncing, eyes dancing as though she wanted to laugh. “The Court won’t like her. But then, they never liked me, either. That’s what makes it fun.”
Something in my chest loosened at her words. No pity. No judgment. Just kinship, sharp-edged and a little wild. Kinship was dangerous. I knew better than to want it. But gods, for the first time since leaving the Lock & Key, I almost let myself.
Her thoughts brushed mine again, warmer this time: She looks steady. Good. He needs steady. Vireth knows the rest of us aren’t.
I swallowed hard, her kindness almost unbearable.
Then another voice carved across the courtyard, cool, clipped, and irritated.
“Is this some kind of joke?”
A tall man strode from the archway, every line of him pressed and perfect. Hair like spun gold bound at the nape, his doublet black as midnight and stiff with embroidery. His bow to Kieran was shallow, perfunctory. His eyes, when they slid to me, were hard as flint.
His thoughts hit harder than his words: Saints save us. He’s barely kept Tobias breathing, and now he brings a stray through the gates?
Kieran’s hand shifted against my hip, steadying me as he said, voice cool, “This is Merrit Locke. She’ll be standing at my side until the Crown’s safety is assured.” His fingers moved, too, signing so I could follow: “She sees what others miss. I’ll have no more blades at my back.”
The man’s mouth tightened into a thin line, his jaw clenching hard enough to break teeth. “You mean to tell me after Tobias nearly bled out on your floors last night, you think this”—His gaze struck to me again, voice dripping disdain—“this ragged girl from the gutter is your solution?”
The words flayed, but his thoughts were worse: She smells of horse. No silks, no jewels, not even a trunk to her name, and he waltzes into the castle with her? Does he mean to parade her like this? I’ve met drowned rats with a better chance of surviving.
Solis straightened from the wall, his grin all bite. “Careful, Elias. You forget yourself.”
“Do I?” Elias snapped, eyes hard on Kieran. “Because I remember nearly losing your right hand, and instead of shoring your defenses, you ride out to fetch—what? A silent girl with no pedigree? And at any point is she going to speak up for herself? Are you playing charades or are you just stupid?”
The courtyard went taut as I fought off the urge to rip Kieran’s blade from his belt and play pincushion.
Kieran’s hand slid from my hip as he dropped from the saddle, boots cracking against the stones. He closed the space between us and Elias, not loud, but lethal.
“Enough.” The word sliced the courtyard in half. “You forget yourself, Elias. You advise me like you advised my father, but unlike him, you do not command me. And you will not insult the woman who has already saved my life twice while you were still catching your breath.”
Elias stiffened, but Kieran pressed harder, his voice cool as frost.
“You pride yourself on diplomacy, then practice it. Because if you cannot keep a civil tongue in your head, you will find yourself very quickly shut out of every conversation that matters. And when the Court asks why, I’ll tell them my advisor thought it wise to spit on the one weapon keeping me alive. ”
His gaze flicked toward me, then back to Elias, sharp enough to draw blood. “She stands at my side because I chose her. That makes her untouchable. Remember that.”
Untouchable. He made it sound like fact, but I’d lived too long to believe in safety and had a scar across my throat that reminded me when I forgot.
Elias tensed, his thoughts burning hotter than his words. Reckless. Foolish. She’ll break and drag us all down with her.
Elias’ sneer lingered, that taunt about charades still hanging like smoke.
Sliding from the saddle, my boots found stone.
I closed the distance until Elias couldn’t look away with showing cowardice.
I lifted my hands, then stilled—not in hesitation, but in decision.
Slow, deliberate, I pushed my cloak back from my hair, fingers sliding to the velvet ribbon at my throat.
His gaze tracked the movement, curious, faintly scornful.
But if he wanted a game, I’d play.
One tug, and the fabric slipped loose, sliding down my chest as I bared the skin I never showed in the light. A single scar cut clean across the base of my throat—one cruel line, pale against my skin, the mark of a blade that had stolen my voice forever. One I couldn’t remember and didn’t want to.
The courtyard held its breath, even Serenya’s bright expression fading to shock.
I let the silence stretch, let him see it, let them all see it. Then I raised my hands.
“As it turns out,” I signed, each stroke of my fingers measured, “I’m very good at charades. Better than most.”
Kieran’s mouth curved in something that wasn’t a smile—more like the shadow of a weapon unsheathed.
Serenya let out a breath that trembled into laughter, edged with disbelief.
Solis went still—not the lazy stillness he'd worn in the saddle, but something harder, fiercer.
His eyes locked on my throat, then snapped away too fast, jaw tightening like he'd bitten down on something that made him bleed.
Recognition. Fear. Both flickered across his face before he caught them, dragged that easy grin back into place like a mask that didn't quite fit anymore.
Elias went rigid, the blood draining from his face before fury crashed back in. His jaw ticked hard enough to crack teeth, and his thoughts beat against me like fists.
Insolent. Dangerous. What has he brought into our house?
I tugged the cloak back across my shoulders, the velvet ribbon still dangling useless from my fingers. Their eyes felt like claws on my skin—too many, too sharp. I’d bared the truth, and it hadn’t made me stronger. It had just given them another wound to aim for.
Untouchable, Kieran had said. But every heartbeat screamed the opposite. If this was what it meant to stand at his side, then I was already bleeding.
Then Serenya clapped her hands once, bright and mocking as a bell. “Well,” she drawled, grin tilting wicked, “that was more fun than breakfast. Come inside before the servants start wagering who bleeds first.”
Her eyes flicked to me, softer in the wake of the jest, carrying something that felt dangerously close to comfort.
The courtyard exhaled. Guards shifted, Solis grinned, Serenya swept toward the archway like she was tugging the tension with her. For a fragile breath, I almost let myself believe the hard edges had dulled.
But Elias lingered. His bow was shallow, his smile thinner than glass.
“If she is to stand at your side until this crisis is resolved—as you say—then surely, she’ll attend tonight. A proper introduction, before every watching eye. By all means, Your Majesty”—His gaze slid back to me, acerbic as frost—“do bring her. The Hunt begins tonight.”
The courtyard shifted, unease rippling like wind over water.
Serenya’s grin faltered, Solis’ easy smirk thinned, even the guards’ minds went brittle with sudden hunger as the words clung to my skin like iron shackles.
My stomach dropped, though I kept my spine straight, my hands steady at my sides.
I didn’t know what “the Hunt” was, not exactly, but the weight in the air told me enough.
Whatever it meant, it sure as shit wasn’t survival.
Especially not mine.