30. The Winter’s Eve Ball
30
THE WINTER’S EVE BALL
GAbrIEL
T he king’s soul may be black, and his fists may be coated in blood, but he knows how to throw a party. Even I cannot deny that.
I lean against a column, the Winter’s Eve Ball unfolding around me.
A ten-piece string orchestra is on a raised platform, their bows flying as they fill the ballroom with music. Masked dancers are a study in the rainbow as they swirl across the floor in the arms of their partners. Candles sit in large tapers, illuminating the festivities. Tables laden with copious amounts of food line two walls.
Across the ballroom from me is a dais where two vacant black thrones sit. The twinkling rubies that give the Ruby Thrones their name stand out among the carved obsidian. I suppose my half-brother isn’t planning on attending. At least I don’t have to face him tonight.
Following Hunter tradition, I’m wearing a mask honoring my familiar—a tribute to the animal I’ve tied my soul to. Covering my eyes and the bridge of my nose, it leaves the bottom half of my face bare. Usually, I don the panther’s mask with pride. Tonight, it’s just another reminder that I’ve failed as a Hunter.
The thought makes my blood run cold. I’ve tried to mentally prepare for my impending punishment ever since I let Wren go, but it turns out there’s no real way to ready oneself to have one’s soul ripped in two.
“Would you like some sparkling wine, sir?” A servant wearing crimson livery stops in front of me, balancing a tray of crystal glasses on their fingers.
“I’d love some.” Liquid courage will be necessary for dealing with my father.
Taking the glass, I toss back the contents in one go before placing the empty flute on a nearby table. Although I’ve garnered a few looks, no one has tried to talk to me. Most people know I’m the king’s bastard, and the members of the court delight in showing me the same kind of disregard as my father.
Ignoring the nobles, I take in the ballroom. It looks the same as it always has. As a child, I used to love coming in here when it was unoccupied. This was the perfect hiding space, with its massive domed glass roof and dozens of pillars. I would find refuge here for hours, studying the tapestries that line the walls and hiding from the king.
Grabbing another glass of wine, I wander, studying the artwork. The Gods’ War is the tapestry closest to me.
The black-and-red tapestry depicts a bloody battle between the celestials before mankind was created. It is a tribute to death as much as to the gods’ power.
Next to it is Helios . The artwork, which celebrates the suns, shimmers in the candlelight. It’s like the artist imbued the threads with sunlight.
I sip my drink, strolling past several other tapestries. Esyn’s Lovers, The Making, The Hunter’s Moons, and Adros’s Journey.
And then I see it.
A new tapestry is hanging to the right of the thrones. I didn’t notice it earlier, but now that I’ve seen it, I can’t pull my eyes away.
Kneeling before an altar, wearing a fur-trimmed cloak the color of snow and a lace robe that’s a green so pale it’s almost white, is a young woman. Even though her hood is up, covering her blonde hair, it doesn’t hide the faint purple glow emanating from the swirl on her cheek.
A Mark.
The Given’s eyes are upturned. Her hands are clasped in front of her, pleading with an unseen being. Emotion radiates from the tapestry—pain and despair and a desire to live.
My chest tightens as I stare at the artwork, questions swirling in my mind. What in Esyn’s name is this doing here? Moreover, what does it mean?
The longer I study it, the more questions I have. I’m not sure how much time passes before a hand touches my arm.
“Do my eyes deceive me, or has the Hunter finally returned to Rosebridge?”
The speaker is familiar, and I turn around, a small smile playing on my lips. “Ladybug, it’s good to see you.”
I place my right hand on my left hip, bowing to the lady in front of me. Maia Villeneuve is a friend—one of the few I have in my father’s court.
“No one calls me that but you and Theon, Gabe,” she chuckles, waving her hand at me. “Get up.”
I do as she asks, my smile widening. “I wager it’s because we’re the ones who watched you eat a ladybug when you were four.” Smirking at her gasp of mock outrage, I ask, “Is your brother here?”
Maia adjusts the sleeve of her gown. “No, Father sent him away on business a few weeks ago. I think he’ll be back soon, though.”
I nod. Maia and Theon’s father, Samir, is the Hand of the King. The three of us spent many hours together as children, since our fathers were often working.
Severus, my half-brother, never joined us. Even though he’s only five years older than me, he’s always made it clear he’s above me. Why should he play with me when I’m just a bastard?
“It’s good to see you,” I say, pulling my mind from the Crown Prince. “How’s court been?”
Maia frowns, brushing a lock of her wavy black hair over her shoulder. Silver glitter shimmers on her ebony skin, matching the fox’s mask over her eyes. Her sleeveless gown is exquisitely tailored, and long gloves reach past her elbows. “Exhausting, as always.”
“Oh?”
“Every time I come to these, I hate them more. May I?” Before I can answer, she takes my half-empty glass of wine. She drains it before placing the empty flute on the tray of a passing waiter. “Father has decreed that I must find a husband.”
I stare at her, trying to figure out how we got from hellos to discussing marriage. “Oh, gods.”
She nods solemnly. “I’ve tried fighting him on it, but I don’t think he will forget about it again.”
Maia has been trying to avoid marriage for years. She’s loved her freedom ever since we were children. Theon has fought for her to have a choice in her husband, but it seems their father has run out of patience.
“I’m sorry,” I say, meaning it. No one should be forced to do something they don’t want to.
“That makes two of us.” She smiles sadly up at me, stepping closer. “In another life, I’d ask you, but you know Father would never allow it since…”
I’m a bastard.
“I understand,” I say.
This is the story of my life. I might share the king’s blood, but I’m not fully royal.
I don’t have magic, unlike the king and his “real” family. Therefore, I’m not worth anything. My father, his wife, and their son have all made that perfectly clear to me over the years.
That said, I’m not sure I could marry Maia, even if she was asking for my help. At least, not if she wanted something more than a marriage on paper.
My friend is objectively beautiful, but she isn’t the woman who has been haunting my dreams. Wren is a few inches taller than Maia, curvier, and there’s a spark in her eyes that I don’t see in the brown gaze looking up at me. The Hand’s daughter is beautiful, but the little bird is stunning.
Not only that, but Wren has a kind heart. She saved me twice. Her compassionate soul rivals her external beauty…
And she’s gone.
Fuck, something is definitely wrong with me because there’s a pang in my heart at the thought of never seeing Wren again. I shouldn’t be thinking of her at all.
Not only has she left the country, but I was hunting her. There will never be anything between us, and thinking of her in this way isn’t beneficial at all.
“So, who are the lucky contenders for your hand?” I ask, desperate to get my thoughts away from the one person I can never have.
Maia pinches her lips in a line. “Crusty old men,” she says after a moment. “Apparently, that’s all I’m good for at the ripe old age of twenty-four.”
I open my mouth to reply, but before I can, the door behind the thrones opens. The orchestra music halts, and a herald steps onto the dais. A hush blankets the space as he raises a trumpet to his lips, the resulting sound echoing through the now-silent ballroom.
The king’s herald swaps his trumpet for a scroll. “Ladies and gentlemen of Myreth. Welcome to the Winter’s Eve Ball.”
He pauses, and a smattering of applause fills the ballroom. Maia claps, arching a brow in my direction when she notices I don’t follow suit. I’m not here by choice, though, and I won’t pretend to be happy. After all, tonight will likely be the worst night of my life.
“It’s my pleasure to announce the arrivals of their Royal Majesties, King Andreas, and Queen Lucille, and their honored guests,” proclaims the balding man.
It’s tradition for the honored guests to join the royals on the stage. They won’t be introduced until the clock strikes midnight and the giving season officially ends. It’s happened this way for as long as I can remember.
The queen is the first to appear, heralded by thunderous applause. She’s wearing a crimson gown that’s so large she has to turn sideways to make it through the door. A ruby necklace hangs from her throat, and a black tiara sits daintily on her head.
The picture of a dutiful queen, Queen Lucille smiles and waves at the gathered crowd. After a few moments, she makes her way to the smaller throne and stands in front of it.
The crowd’s roar becomes deafening as the king strides through the door. He’s dressed in crimson, like the queen, although his outfit is lined in black. A midnight crown embedded with rubies sits atop his raven hair, and his eyes seem angrier than normal.
Or maybe it’s my imagination. A product of the fear running through my heart.
Walking behind the king, hands clasped together, are two young women. Identical twins, by the looks of them. They move to stand next to the queen. Like Her Majesty, the twins are unmasked. Unlike the queen, the girls are radiating nerves. Wide-eyed, they’re practically trembling as they look over the crowd.
King Andreas steps to the edge of the dais, welcoming Myreth’s upper class to the ball. I barely hear him, unable to pull my eyes from the honored guests. There’s something strangely familiar about them, but I can’t quite put my finger on what it is. I’m sure I’ve never seen them before.
The king’s speech ends and the royals take their seats. Not the twins, though. They remain standing next to the queen, clutching each other’s hands. They seem more nervous than before. No one else seems to notice—or more likely, they don’t care—and the orchestra begins playing another set.
My father’s eyes narrow, sweeping the room. A chill crawls over me, and I suppress a shiver. He’s looking for me. I’m not sure how I know it, but like my gut that is always right, this feeling rings with truth deep within me.
I’m not ready to speak with him yet. Even though it’s only delaying the inevitable, I ask Maia to dance. She readily agrees, eager to get away from her ancient suitors—her words, not mine—and we make our way to the middle of the dance floor. Her hand rests on my arm, and my palm is on her back, holding her just close enough that no one should bother us.
Elegant music swells around us. Despite the dread in my heart, I fall easily into the familiar steps.
Dancing, like fighting, has always come naturally to me. The acts are similar—one can dance with a partner as easily as one can spar with a sword.
The only thing I like more than fighting is hunting. Being a Hunter gave me freedom and introduced me to an entire world I’d never known existed. It allowed me to escape the palace and the evil man who fathered me.
It gave me a purpose, and it gave me Mist. And now that I let Wren go, I’ll lose all of it.
The thought causes me to stumble, and Maia gasps as I miss a step.
“Sorry, Ladybug,” I murmur, tightening my grip around her waist.
She frowns, her knowing gaze sweeping over me. We’ve shared many dances, and I’ve never stumbled. “What’s wrong?”
Where do I fucking start? I met a woman whose very presence spoke to my soul, only to find out she was gods-blessed and the one I was supposed to be hunting.
As if that’s not bad enough, I gave her one day’s head start, only for her to drug me when I caught up with her. On top of all that—as if that’s not fucking enough—the Giving is a gods-damned lie.
“It’s too much for right now,” I tell her, unable to sort through it all and put it into words. “Maybe another time?”
The music speeds up, and I spin Maia around. When she faces me once more, there’s an understanding look in her eyes. “I’m always here if you need me, Gabe. All you need to do is ask.”
Perhaps one day, I’ll take her up on it. But not tonight.
After that, very few words pass between us. We lose ourselves to song after song, swirling across the ballroom for hours. Before I know it, the clock is striking eleven, and a faint sheen of sweat dots Maia’s brow. I’m sure mine looks the same.
I lead her off the dance floor to a table of refreshments, procuring two glasses of water.
“You mentioned your father is requiring you to marry?” I ask as she sips the water.
“Well, you know how it is. He says I’m practically a spinster and a dishonor to his name.” Maia laughs, but real pain shines in her dark brown eyes. “He’s upset that I turned down the last three proposals, and I’m afraid he’s not going to give me even the illusion of a choice this time.”
Grimacing, I squeeze her hand. “I’m sorry, Ladybug. I…”
My voice trails off as she stiffens, her eyes looking over my shoulder. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle. The moment I spot the vacant throne, I know who’s standing behind me.
Maia drops into a low curtsey, her silver gown brushing the floor. “Your Majesty,” she murmurs.
“Lady Villeneuve.” The king’s baritone voice at my back has goosebumps exploding on my flesh. “You are dismissed.”
Just like that.
My heart drops to my stomach as Maia rises from her curtsey. Keeping her head down, she brushes past me with a murmured, “Good luck, Gabe.”
I don’t blame her for leaving me with the king. No one should be subject to his cruelty any longer than necessary.
Long, seemingly never-ending seconds pass in silence as I wait for the king to approach. Using silence to make his opponents uncomfortable is one of the king’s favorite tactics. He loves to unsettle people, and gods help me, it’s working.
Even though I can’t see him, I can feel the king’s eyes drilling into my back. The dancers start another waltz before he steps closer. A hand clamps down on my shoulder.
It takes everything I have not to react. My father’s touch has always been cold, but now it’s entirely devoid of warmth. Even the gold ring on his left hand feels like it’s made of ice, the massive ruby inlaid within it glinting in the candlelight.
“Gabriel.” His low voice is laced with traces of darkness, and it sends shivers down my spine. “I’m very disappointed in you.”
His fingers tighten on my shoulder, forcing me to turn around and face him. I’m sure that to anyone else, this looks like a fatherly embrace. The king, greeting his bastard son who has been gone for months.
I know the truth.
Crimson embers flash in the king’s eyes, and he drags me away from the dancers. I follow his lead, keeping my head up high. Hatred seeps off him, and it’s bitter at the back of my tongue. My fingers twitch at my sides. The desire to grab my sword and slam it into my father’s heart before he can break my bond with Mist is so strong that it’s nearly overpowering.
We round a column, and the king waves his hand. His skin glows a muted crimson as he erects a ward around us. The other attendees can see us, but they won’t be able to hear a word we say, even if I scream at the top of my lungs.
Fucking fantastic.
The king lifts his hand from my shoulder and glares at me. I remain immobile. I should be relieved that he’s no longer touching me. I should be able to breathe more easily. I can’t, though. Tension courses through me as I wait, dreading the hellish storm that is about to be rained upon me.
“Where is she?” King Andreas growls, low and menacingly.
The hairs on my neck lift, and cold sweat drips down my back. Fucking hell. I hate that even now, as I near my third decade of life, the king is still capable of instilling such great fear in me.
I’m not a helpless child any longer. I shouldn’t flinch whenever he speaks to me in that tone that says he knows how dangerous he is. But I fucking do. I may be a Hunter and a trained soldier, but he’s the gods-damned king and the one with all the power.
Despite the fear coiling in my stomach, I hold my ground and refuse to cower in the face of my abuser.
I stare at my father’s dead eyes. “I couldn’t locate her.”
The lie slips off my tongue as smooth as silk, like I practiced.
The embers in the king’s eyes darken, and the ground trembles. A rumbling starts in the king’s chest, and my flesh crawls at the predatory sound. Unmasked malice glimmers in his eyes as he steps towards me.
“I told you to retrieve her,” he snaps. “She must be Given before the season ends at midnight.”
“I understand, Your Majesty, but I couldn’t find her.”
Lie, lie, lie.
The memory of Wren’s violet eyes widening as I shoved the tip of my sword through the sailor’s throat flashes through my mind. Thankfully, although the king’s magic is vast, he isn’t capable of reading minds. It’s a small blessing, but I’ll take it.
He growls my name in warning.
I lift a shoulder. “She must’ve left the country.”
His hand moves so quickly, I don’t even see it before it connects with my cheek. The blow sends me stumbling, and my back slams against a column.
No one looks my way as King Andreas stalks towards me, his fists balled at his sides.
“You failed, Gabriel,” he seethes, crimson sparks rising around him. “You had one job. Find the missing girl and bring her in. That’s all I asked of you.”
My chest tightens, and I brace myself for a blast of his magic. I’ve experienced this enough in my nightmares to know what’s coming next.
Grabbing my bond with Mist, I grip it with all my might.
I’m sorry, I tell my familiar. Gods above, I’m so fucking sorry.
We’ve been together for nearly a decade, but it’s all about to come crashing down.
“I should’ve killed you the moment your whore of a mother dropped you at the foot of my throne.” The king makes no effort to moderate his tone as he screams his cruel words. They’re for me, and me alone, thanks to his magical ward. “Your whole life, you’ve been nothing but a fucking failure. A gods-damned disappointment. You call yourself a Hunter?”
His eyes widen, and spittle flies from his mouth as he shouts, “You couldn’t even bring in a single girl.”
He’s conveniently forgotten the forty-nine other hunts I’ve successfully completed. His hateful rampage continues. I’m not worthy to share even a drop of his blood. I would’ve been better off never being born. If only he’d stuck his dick somewhere else.
I steel my heart against the king’s words, forcing a blank mask over my face. I’ve heard these things countless times before, and I let his hatred slide over me like water over rocks.
Instead, I gaze into the crowd.
The hour is growing late, and I’ve been to enough of these parties to know that the longing glances, whispered words, and hands brushing against arms will soon result in countless couples and small groups running out to the gardens to find some privacy. A few more brazen couples embrace on the dance floor, in full sight of everyone.
Maia spins by in the arms of Lord Clearwater, a balding, wrinkled old man nearly three times her age. The King’s Hand watches nearby, a calculating grin on his face. Theon would want me to step in and stop this, and I would if I wasn’t currently dealing with the king.
Then, something stirs deep within me. An awareness. A tug in my gut. A call to pay attention.
The king is still raving, his usually pale face taking on a red tinge as he screams in my face. It won’t be long until he punishes me for my failures, but I can’t find it in me to care right now. Not when that tug is getting stronger.
My eyes slide through the ballroom with more purpose than before. Left to right, from the orchestra to the thrones, where the twins remain, to…
Blessed fucking burning suns.
A stone lodges itself in my stomach, and my breath catches. My eyes widen for a fraction of a second before I remember it’s a tell. I force a mask of blankness over my face once more. It’s like dragging a blanket of steel over my body, and the act takes far more effort than it should.
It takes me one second too long.
The king stops mid-sentence, his eyes narrowing. “What did you just see?”
I clamp my mouth shut. My actions earn me a stern glare and a muttered, “Useless bastard,” before he turns.
“No—”
It’s too late.
I can tell the moment he sees the same flash of indigo I did because he curses. I saw the Wanted poster the king commissioned. There’s no way he doesn’t know who that hair belongs to.
The stone in my stomach sinks as the king waves his hand and dismantles his ward. I should feel relieved that he hasn’t broken my bond yet, but I don’t. Dread is a curling, icy mist in my veins.
Why is she here? Why didn’t she leave?
There’s no time for questions because the king pins me with a glare. “We’re not done yet, Hunter.”
He murmurs a spell and twists his fingers, disappearing in a crimson mist.
When I look up, the little bird has vanished.