Chapter Twenty-Four
My thighs ache. We’ve been riding for hours at a breakneck pace. I’ve tried to maintain an appropriate distance between my chest and Zev’s back, especially with his soldiers surrounding us, but I gave up forty minutes ago when my fatigue outweighed propriety.
Now, I’m pressed flush against his muscular back, leaning against him for support. Irritation bubbles inside me, and I’ve been waiting to unleash my rage on him. It’s been too loud with the thundering of hooves for a proper conversation.
He raises an arm, signaling his men to stop.
Finally.
The horses slow, then halt. He dismounts easily before helping me down, large hands bracketing my waist.
The words spill from my lips. “You shouldn’t have made Sulon bow like that. The men will resent me for it. You’re not doing me any favors.”
His lips twitch, gray eyes scanning my face, lingering on the crease between my brows. “I lost my temper. I’m sorry.”
His quick apology catches me off guard, and his earnest face cools my simmering rage. I wanted to argue with him more, but I’m forced to just nod stiffly.
“I need to sit with the men,” he murmurs, an apology in his eyes. “I’ve been gone for so long, it’s important to rebuild rapport. Do you feel comfortable sitting with us?”
I’m nervous around Arbinji soldiers. It’s strange, given how comfortable I am with the man who leads them. “I’ll come. But I won’t tolerate disrespect,” I warn.
His lips quirk into a half-smile. “I’d be disappointed if you did.”
I follow him to where the soldiers sit in a small circle. An earthwielder has grown stalks of corn, and the men roast them over the fire. What an amazing ability—to never be without food, never worry about depleted reserves. Never go hungry.
The soldiers grow quiet as we approach.
First, Zev asks each of the soldiers about themselves and their families. The soldiers keep their responses short—and clean—as their eyes flick to me.
“Any trouble with the Rebellion?” Zev asks, finishing off a stalk of corn and grabbing another.
“No, sire. They’ve been quiet since the attack on your party,” one of the men says. He laughs, adding, “Probably nursing their wounds after facing your wrath.”
The other men chuckle in agreement, the ones closest to Zev slapping him on the back. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Zev glances at me, as he has every few minutes, and I must not conceal my expression well enough because his lips curve into a soft smile, one brow arched in amusement.
My stomach flops, and I tear my gaze away, forcing myself to stare at my betrothal ring gleaming in the firelight.
“What about the palace?” Zev adds.
“Er, just a rumor, sire,” the same man continues. “But the Volcans might be sending an emissary. There’s been whispers about a battalion being sent to the coast to accompany them.”
The Volcans? Why would they send an emissary to Arbinj?
Whatever it is, it can’t be good for Tundrayn.
My pulse thunders in my ears as the capital of Arbinj rises before us—tall brick buildings, paved roads, green and brown banner flags flapping in the breeze.
We enter through the main road, wide enough for ten horsemen abreast. Citizens crowd the sides, pressed back by guards bearing the Arbinji crest.
Eyes track me from every direction—green, gray, brown—all as foreign as the cobblestones beneath our horse. Some glimmer with curiosity. Most brim with hatred.
None offer warmth.
As we ride farther into the city, I spot a middle-aged man elbowing his way to the front of the crowd. In his hand is something small and round. A fruit of some kind?
His eyes are hard.
Zev sees him, too. His grip tightens on the reins until his knuckles blanch. Above us, the sky darkens. Thunder rumbles.
“Zev,” I whisper in warning. This can’t be like Sulon all over again. I need these people to accept me. Not see me as their enemy.
“He means to throw it at you,” Zev growls. “He’ll die for it.” A bolt of lightning splits the clouds, bright and blinding.
“Please, Zev,” I implore, squeezing his hand.
Zev inhales deeply, then pins the man with a glare that could turn stone to ash. The color drains from the man’s face. He stashes the fruit behind his back.
I breathe a sigh of relief.
Minutes drag by. My heart beats in my throat. Until finally—the palace looms ahead.
It’s a monstrosity. A fortress of gray stone and steel, with metal spires jutting from every tower. Tall wrought-metal gates surround the sprawling structure, and I catch a glimpse of greenery tucked behind its stark walls.
We ride into a vast courtyard. Where I might have expected a fountain, there stands a massive statue of King Varad—arms raised in triumph. Disgust coils in my gut at the sight of it, a monument to arrogance immortalized in stone.
Zev slows the horse to a stop and helps me dismount, handing the reins to a lanky blond stablehand. A cluster of servants scurries around us. None of them meets my eye.
I count the cobblestones beneath my boots, willing my hands not to tremble as we walk to the palace. I want to reach for Zev—but I don’t. I can’t. Not anymore.
I’m marching toward my future, but it doesn’t feel like mine anymore.
We cross the threshold, and another wave of servants descends, swarming like anxious birds. Zev waves them away with a flick of his hand. They scatter instantly. One hurries ahead to announce our arrival.
Grim-faced statues line the winding hallways as an equally grim-faced Zev leads me toward what I assume is the throne room. My steps are weighted, as if I’m wading through knee-deep snow instead of striding across gleaming marble.
My heart lurches as we halt before two towering doors, the Arbinji crest seared deep into the dark wood.
Four guards flank the entrance, their silver armor polished to a bright shine.
The sight makes me acutely aware of the grime clinging to my skin, the wild tangle of my hair, the dirt crusted beneath my nails.
We’ve been trudging through wilderness for over a month.
When the weather warmed, I stole moments to rinse in streams, but it’s been nearly three weeks since the last true wash.
“Hey,” Zev says softly. “You look perfect.”
I don’t, but I offer him a weak smile for his kindness. There’s a tangible sense of grief shadowing his eyes, though he tries to mask it with a smile of his own. It frightens me how well I’ve come to know him. How well I can read him.
And how well he can read me.
His hand hovers on the handle, face twisting into a pained grimace. His head swivels as he scans the hallway on either side, almost as if searching for an escape. His hand tightens. His shoulders drop. He must’ve realized what I already know in my heart—there is no escape. Not from this.
Zev opens the door, and we enter.
The floor is polished marble, veined with silver and charcoal like storm clouds frozen in stone. In the center of the room is a long, raised platform—dark and smooth. I do a double-take. From the center, two large, leafy trees erupt, reaching toward the vaulted ceiling.
Twin thrones are carved directly into the trunks.
Burned into each side are jagged lightning bolts, scorched into the bark.
One throne rises slightly higher than the other.
In it sits King Varad—my mother’s murderer.
Fractured light from the stained-glass windows glints off his dark hair, thick brows set over narrowed green eyes.
His face is lined with age, yet traces of Zev’s striking features still break through.
My stomach curdles at the sight.
Standing beside Varad, one arm braced casually against his father’s throne—though nothing else about him is casual—is a tall, lean man. Long blond hair cascades over his shoulder, a large crown perched atop his head. He has his father’s green eyes, and his lips are curved in a cruel smile.
Crown Prince Faramir. My betrothed.
He hasn’t taken his eyes off me since we entered.
“Father,” Zev nods to Varad. He doesn’t bow. “Faramir.”
His brother doesn’t even get a nod.
“Zevayr,” his father drawls, mouth stretched into a tight smile. “You can’t imagine how pleased I am to see you home safely.” His lips turn down in a scowl. “The rebels grow too bold.”
Then, his sharp emerald gaze slices into me. “And Princess Mayah. What a relief to see you delivered safely. Your father will undoubtedly be pleased. Perhaps he’ll stop threatening to flood my kingdom.”
I hide my glare by dropping into a low curtsy.
Faramir snickers. “I’m surprised,” he sneers. “Who would have guessed they teach manners in that backwards wasteland?”
I stiffen, a frigid tide of anger rising in my chest.
Zev’s fists clench, knuckles whitening. There’s a distant rumble of thunder.
Faramir sighs dramatically, examining his nails. “So glad you’re home, brother. I’ve missed your moody little thunderstorms.”
“Faramir,” Zev growls, low and dangerous. “You’re being incredibly rude to … your betrothed.” Zev’s mouth twists like the word tastes vile in his mouth. “She’s traveled a great distance, at great risk, to come here. Find your manners before I rip them out of you myself.”
In one breath, the crown prince’s expression morphs from casual boredom to seething anger. His face reddens, lips bared in a snarl. His left eye twitches uncontrollably. “How dare—”
“Yes, about the betrothal…” Varad interjects, casting a hard glance at Faramir. “The plan has changed.” His tone is casual, dismissive. As if the bastard were discussing the weather.
“What do you mean?” The words tumble from my mouth, sharp and sudden, before I can stop them.
“When you and my son disappeared, I had to make other arrangements for Arbinj’s succession.” His voice is cold like steel, eyes glittering with malice. “Faramir will wed the Volcan princess—after we secure an alliance, of course.”
A beat passes.
“You will wed Zevayr.”