Chapter 9 #3
I'm shifting my weight from foot to foot, uncertain of where I go from here, when I notice a woman slipping into the room as the others leave.
Her greying hair is slicked back into a severe bun.
Her frame is small and delicate, but she moves with the confidence of someone who knows exactly how much power she wields.
She wears the same dark red uniform as some of the other servants I've seen, only hers has additional gold braiding along the collar and cuffs.
A higher-ranking member of the household staff, I assume.
Her sharp, beady eyes focus on Princess Kestrel. “You summoned me, Madam?”
Kestrel gestures flippantly in my direction. “We have a guest who will need a room, it seems.” The princess rises to her feet like a cat stretching after a nap, all languid grace and flexing claws.
I look away while she loudly gives her orders.
“Scrub and disinfect her relentlessly before you let her so much as touch one of the pillowcases,” she tells the servant.
“Because once this little game my brother is playing has ended, and we kick her to the gallows or wherever else, I'd prefer it if our guest accommodations didn't permanently smell like dirt and desperation.”
“As you wish, Your Majesty.”
I feel the two of them turn to me, expectant, but I don't move.
I'm too busy studying the king, his elderly council member, and the vast array of interesting things behind them: the full bookshelves; the hanging maps and charts; the collection of sealed letters and documents stacked neatly on a desk in the corner.
It all makes this seem much more real, somehow—evidence that I've stepped into a much more complicated kingdom, where survival suddenly isn't the only thing I have to worry about.
King Reave must feel me staring, because he tilts his head toward me.
“What is it?” he asks. “I assumed you'd be eager to get away from me by this point.”
“I am,” I assure him. “But there are still details we need to discuss. Things that can’t wait until later.”
He studies me for a long moment before nodding to his council member—a wordless dismissal, which the man doesn't question.
His sister and the head servant leave as well, but they only go as far as the hall outside. They linger by the door, the princess talking rapidly under her breath. Probably giving more instructions on how to make my stay here as miserable as possible.
The king moves to the desk in the corner of the room, settling into the chair behind it.
He takes a pair of glasses from a drawer and slides them on.
Yet another symbol of his wealth; no one in the Burn could afford such a luxury—particularly not a pair so finely-crafted as these.
He wears them devastatingly well, too, the round frames only enhancing the sharp angles of his face and the arresting color of his eyes, while adding a hint of polish to his otherwise rugged, sleep-deprived appearance.
I'm now hyper-aware of my own lack of polish. There's nothing to be done about it, though. After a deep breath, I take a few steps closer to the desk.
He’s searching through the contents of another drawer, not really looking at me, as he says, “The details you want to discuss are those regarding your friend, I assume. Her arrival, and her accommodations.”
“Yes.”
“And the details regarding the dragon, too?”
I don't care about the dragon, I want to shout.
But that isn't the answer he wants; this feels like a test, an attempt to see if I'm truly willing to care, to forge any sort of connection with the creature.
“I just want to know how things unfold from here,” I say, carefully.
“That depends.”
“On?”
“On how this first week of training goes.”
I clench my jaw, trying not to think about Briar being locked away somewhere in this godsforsaken palace for an entire week. My obvious concern for her aside, she's never going to let me hear the end of this.
“In the meantime, let's just see if you can stay out of trouble, and resist the urge to try and stab me or anyone else.”
I can't help darting another look at the princess when he says anyone else.
“You should ignore her insults,” King Reave says, taking out a quill and inkwell, as well as several sheets of parchment. “She just doesn't like outsiders.”
“And I don't like vapid, judgmental, bitchy princesses. So at least we're even.”
“…Do you ever think before you speak?”
“Rarely.”
“Noted.”
“I like to think I speak purely from the heart.”
He smiles slightly. I see no fangs, this time, but it looks monstrous all the same.
“Do you know that human hearts are allegedly a dragon's favorite thing to eat?” He dips the quill into the ink, tapping it against the well a few times, his expression darkening.
“When I was little, my father used to tell me stories about great rulers who would secure the favor of the creatures by offering them part of that vital organ.”
I swallow hard. “And do the dragons in your skies frequently go scavenging for the hearts of your palace guests?”
“Not unless we forget to feed them.”
I think he's joking, but I'm noticing that it's infuriatingly hard to decipher this man's true intentions.
“Guard your heart—and your words—a little closer, Ashwalker. That's my only advice.” Those pale eyes pierce through me one last time before he turns his focus fully to the pen and parchment. “Your training begins tomorrow morning.”