Chapter Two
The Arbinji palace rises up before me as I dismount from my horse.
It’s a fortress of dark stone and looming towers, each topped with a metal spire.
As an adolescent, I’d practiced hitting each one with lightning—twenty-seven strikes in sixty-three seconds was my best time. I immediately fainted afterward.
A yawn stretches my mouth as I trudge toward the entrance.
I barely slept after receiving the missive about the ceasefire.
What a colossal fuck-up. But one thing has plagued me the entire ride: why would my father agree to an alliance?
He despises Tundrayn. Has sent me deeper and deeper into their freezing territory each year to take more and more lives.
The massive wooden doors swing open before I reach the top step.
“Sire!” greets a servant dressed in customary brown trousers and a forest-green tunic. His energy signature hums around him in a frantic pulse. “Welcome home. Your father and brother await in the council chambers.” The lean man remains bowed until I grunt in acknowledgement.
Faint signatures pulse around me at various distances, and Skies, I miss the serenity of the ride. I wish I could say it’s good to be home, but Arbinj hasn’t been my home in years.
Not since my father murdered my mother.
Bitterness sparks across my tongue. I swallow it down, as I always have. My boots thud against the polished marble floor as I head toward the council chambers. I’ve scarcely taken three steps when an airy, feminine voice stops me in my tracks.
“Prince Zevayr! You’ve returned!”
My stomach plummets. A slender woman with long, blond curls rushes over, her precariously tall heels clacking on the shiny floor.
Fuck.
What was her name again? Lyra, I think. Third daughter of the middling House Ferapilt.
I made the mistake of sharing her bed a few months ago, and she’s since clung to me like a lost puppy.
I typically avoid entangling with noblewomen for this very reason—but clearly, I hadn’t been thinking with my head that particular night.
I manage a tight smile and a curt nod, hastening my stride toward the council chambers. Lyra manages to keep pace with me, each furious clack against the marble grating at my nerves.
“Prince Zevayr.” She lowers her voice to a husky whisper, fingers curling around my bicep. “I’ve missed you terribly. I’ve thought about you every day since our … night together.”
My neck prickles.
I grit my teeth. When Mother discovered my secondary ability, she’d kept me ensconced in her chambers for days, telling everyone I was ill, when really, we were practicing concealing my truthwielding.
She’d tell me lie after lie after lie until I could refrain from scratching my neck—which was extremely difficult for an eight-year-old who felt like there was a swarm of bees stinging his neck.
In Arbinj, truth- and heartwielders are put to death upon discovery. It’s a gruesome task—one not assigned to me, thankfully. Mother ensured I understood my secondary ability was to be guarded with my life—because it would mean my death if it were revealed.
When I don’t respond, Lyra keeps lying. “I’ve not taken anyone to bed since. I think—I think, we’d be perfect together.”
The prickles sharpen into jabbing needles piercing my neck and shoulders.
She glances at me, long, pointed nails digging into my arm. “Or … if you wish to remain unmarried, I could—I could bear your child. It would bring honor to my family. I’m a powerful earthwielder.”
My neck prickles again, and I clench my fists.
Is she not an earthwielder? Or just not a powerful one? It doesn’t matter what the lie is—I want nothing to do with her.
I extricate myself from her grip. “Listen, Zyra.” She flinches, her energy signature huddling around her. “I don’t need a wife or a broodmare. I’ll put in a good word for you with some of the unwed noblemen.”
Before she can answer, I stride away.
The irritating sensation dissipates by the time I reach the council chambers.
My hand hovers over the handle while I savor the momentary respite.
Undoubtedly, the prickling will return with a vengeance within minutes of Faramir or my father speaking.
I live in perpetual discomfort when I’m not alone.
Everyone is a liar.
The energy signatures are faint through the door, but I still recognize my father’s quiet, thrumming currents and Faramir’s manic energy. No advisers.
The door creaks open as though it’s just as reluctant as I am.
“Brother!” Faramir’s prattling voice greets. Sunlight cascades through the large windows behind him, limning his blond hair. And his near-permanent sneer. “You’ve made waves with my future in-laws.” He grins, eyes as sharp as his smile.
I settle into my seat with a grunt. My father regards me with a displeased expression, mouth turned down at the corners.
Fuck him and his displeasure.
“What happened, Zevayr?” he asks evenly, fingers steepled beneath his bearded chin. “I am in the position of explaining to the skiesdamned bastard why we broke the ceasefire mere days after agreeing to it.”
“I didn’t receive the missive in time.” I grab a handful of grapes from the golden platter at the center of the table. “Why did we agree to a ceasefire anyway?”
Open, unseeing eyes. Icy, rigid skin.
Cold juice bursts across my tongue, but I don’t taste it.
“Given the increasing Rebellion numbers, Tormik proposed an alliance. Their princess will wed Faramir. Along with the ceasefire, we agreed to support each other against the rebels.” He taps a long finger against his cheek.
“Oh, and they want food stores. Starving heathens.” His lip curls with disgust.
“When do they arrive?” I ask, popping another grape into my mouth.
My father and brother share a covert glance. Faramir snickers, and I resist the urge to throw something at him.
“I won’t allow waterwielders in Arbinj,” Father says slowly. “Never again. You will retrieve her.”
Wonderful.
Hot anger roils in my gut. Now, along with being Arbinj’s sword, I can also don the title of errand boy, tasked with delivering some spoiled princess.
Even with our fastest carriages, the journey will take at least a week and a half.
That’s far too much time alone with Faramir.
I’m bound to kill him before we even set eyes on snow.
“When do we leave?”
The two men I despise most share another secretive glance.
“What now?” I grit out through clenched teeth.
“Faramir isn’t going. You will perform the betrothal in his stead and return with the girl for the marriage ceremony.”
Relief sparks through my chest even as a fresh wave of irritation surges through me.
“Why isn’t he going? She’s his betrothed.”
“It’s too dangerous for him. Especially now with the ceasefire broken.” My father shoots me an annoyed look.
The back of my neck prickles. The asshole is lying. More likely, he’s worried about my unhinged brother embarrassing us in Tundrayn.
Or provoking a waterwielder and getting himself killed.
“Be careful with my betrothed, little brother,” Faramir purrs. “I want her in pristine condition.” He takes a deep swig of wine, wiping his mouth before muttering to himself, “What do princesses taste like? Better than…?” He trails off, lost in his dark thoughts.
A brief flash of pity flits through my chest for his betrothed. It’s a bleak future for her—though if she’s anything like the vapid, power-hungry noblewomen in Arbinj, perhaps she’d tolerate anything to be queen.
And she’s a Tundrayni princess.
Tormik’s daughter.
Maybe she deserves someone like Faramir.