Chapter 6
Six
T he dining hall was quiet save for the sound of Veros idly pushing food around on his plate.
Atlas watched his oldest friend, taking note of the way Veros poked at the hash and eggs with his fork, not realizing the yolk was running over the edge of the dish.
Dropping the fork, he propped his elbows on the arms of the plush chair and interlaced his fingers together.
His dark brows were pulled down and his gaze was drawn toward the arching windows where frost etched the shimmering panes of glass.
Gossamer drapes of gold framed the windows, doing very little to keep out the chill, the lengths of thin fabric whispering against the slate floor.
Veins of gold ran through each stone, splintering off in different directions like streaks of golden lightning.
Onyx pillars, so glossy one could see their reflection perfectly, rose to the towering ceiling to support beams of smooth ebony.
Situated above the expansive length of table were two massive chandeliers—the crystals dangling from them tinkling lightly like an enchanting melody.
The corner of Atlas’s mouth curved.
He reached for an apple from the overflowing fruit bowl set in front of him, ran his thumb along its ruby flesh, then returned his focus to Veros.
Usually, conversation was easy between them.
But the line of consternation had deepened across his brow, and there was only one faerie who was always the cause of Veros’s disquiet.
Everinne.
Atlas tossed the apple into the air, caught it, then took a bite. “I take it you went to see your sister this morning?”
Veros nodded once, though his gaze remained trained on the gardens beyond the windows, where winter roses of ivory and silver bloomed, where stark trees stood, the remnants of their ruby leaves clinging to them.
“Yes. After your enlightening revelation last night, I figured something had to be done.”
It made no difference if Everinne had asked him to keep quiet on the matter.
Atlas refused to keep secrets from Veros, and when they pertained to the well-being of his younger sister, then all bets were off.
If it had simply been her performance on the chandeliers at the Grand Cru, he might have kept his opinions to himself.
But the moment he’d caught her in the arms of Jarek Zima, he knew there was no way he could remain silent.
Veros had to be informed—better he hear it directly from Atlas than some snobbish noble with nothing better to do with their time than spread rumors.
He bit into his apple again, chewing slowly. “And what did you decide?”
Veros adjusted the sleeves of his sweater, slowly rolling the cuffs. “I did the only thing I knew would get through to her. I took away her financial privileges.”
Atlas almost choked.
He grabbed a glass of water, chugging the cool liquid down to help dislodge the chunk of apple. Pounding on his chest with one fist, he cleared his throat. “You what ?”
Finally, Veros glanced over at him. But there was no humor in his gaze. “She’s spiraling, Atlas. You know it just as well as I do. I can’t sit back and watch her destroy her life while I provide the means to do so.”
He ran his fingers along the bottom of his jaw, easing back in his chair as a sense of melancholy fell around his shoulders, dragging them down. “If she wants to party and drink herself into oblivion in an effort to escape her fate, then she’ll do so on her own. Without my help.”
Atlas dropped his apple onto the table. He scrubbed both hands over his face, then raked them through his messy hair. He hadn’t expected Veros to take Everinne’s discipline so far. Truth be told, he thought he’d hand her another slap on her wrist, and she’d continue with her reckless ways.
“Veros, as much as I commend you for taking a stand, this will be a huge change to everything she’s known. Everinne hasn’t worked a day in her life.”
“She’ll learn.” His voice was cold and lacking empathy.
Atlas rubbed the back of his neck, glancing up at him from beneath a swath of his unkempt blond hair. “You don’t think that’s a little harsh?”
Veros turned to face him, rapping his knuckles against the hardwood of the table.
“What would you do if you were watching your sister become a shell of herself? If every day and every night, she was getting worse, becoming damn near unrecognizable? All because she’s too afraid to accept the magic coursing through her blood? ”
Damn.
He made a valid point.
But still…
Atlas scooped his apple back up, pointing it casually in Veros’s direction. “You know she does it to avoid her nightmares.”
Veros slammed both of his hands on the table so abruptly, and with so much force, that the plates of food rattled and more than one grape tumbled to the floor.
“Nightmares she wouldn’t be having if she controlled her magic instead of allowing it to control her!” His chest heaved and he slumped in his chair, roughing a hand over his face. “Forgive me, Your Highness. That was out of line.”
Atlas scoffed. “Don’t you give me that royal title bullshit, Veros. You’re afraid for her. I get it.”
Hells, he was afraid for her, too.
“I did what I thought was best.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, then straightened his spine, something he always did whenever he refused to back down from anything.
“Everinne is stubborn, but she’s also determined.
I have no doubt she’ll be able to find employment decent enough to keep herself afloat.
Whether or not she stays in one place for more than a few weeks is another matter entirely. ”
Atlas couldn’t imagine Everinne working anywhere. She wasn’t exactly known for her…pleasant disposition. “I can make a few calls on her behalf and?—”
But Veros shook his head. “While I appreciate the gesture, this is something she needs to do on her own.”
Lounging in his chair, Atlas slung one arm over the back. “You’re really throwing her to the wolves this time, aren’t you?”
Veros stared at him, lifting one mirthless brow.
Wolves were the Skye family crest, the crown jewel of the Korvny fae.
A lone wolf was emblazoned upon their seal and coat of arms—sleek black fur and slate eyes—and could be found in almost every room of the palace as well as scattered about all of Prava.
Its image was woven into uniforms, sewn onto tapestries, carved as figureheads lining every entrance of the palace, and its likeness was mimicked with thousands of mosaic tiles on the floor of the ballroom.
Atlas shifted, tugging on the stiff, formal collar of his dark green shirt. He even had the wolf tattooed upon his flesh. One on his forearm, its jaws open like it was ready to snap through his veins, and another that wrapped around his left shoulder to the center of his chest.
He reached for his glass of water, downing the rest of the contents in an effort to ease his suddenly dry throat. “She’ll hate you for it.”
“No more than she does you,” Veros replied. “If the Prince of Prava can withstand my sister’s hatred for so long, I’m sure I can as well.”
His tone was light, but the words somehow twisted through Atlas like a sharpened blade.
The door to the dining hall swung open and a guard entered, dressed in the svelte black and gold of Korvny fae. He bowed, his movements stiff.
“Your Imperial Highness.” The guard’s gaze slid to Veros, and he inclined his head. “Lord of Time.”
Veros returned the gesture.
The guard puffed out his chest as though he was preparing to make a proclamation. “His Esteemed Imperial Majesty, Kralv Oldrich Skye.”
Atlas silenced a groan, rolling his eyes where rainbows danced and flickered around the chandeliers. His father, the Kralv of Prava, was a pompous asshole. Only he would find it fitting to use his excessive title when entering the same room as his son.
A moment later, his father strolled into the room.
Oldrich had been on the throne for nearly three hundred years, and though fae aged far differently than most and lived an immensely longer life, he’d gained a few faint lines around his eyes.
His hair was a dark brown and threaded with strands of gray at the sides, and his beard was trimmed, though longer than Atlas’s mother would’ve liked, were she still alive.
He was a boulder of a male, large and intimidating, with a broad chest and meaty fists capable of crushing a windpipe.
Dressed in black pants and boots, with a deep gray shirt and a vest stitched in gold, he carried himself like a male who knew the world he ruled bowed to him.
Atlas, however, imagined it had more to do with Oldrich’s magic than any real kind of fortitude. His father’s magic allowed him to sense and prey on someone’s fear, and he used that ability to his advantage by forcing others to bend to his will.
He tried not to recoil at the sight of his father, but he stood from his seat out of habit, not out of respect. Veros followed suit, bowing before the kralv.
“Veros, I hope the prince isn’t wasting too much of your time.” Oldrich gave him a hearty clap on the back and to Veros’s credit, he didn’t even falter.
“Not at all, Your Imperial Majesty.” He clasped his hands behind his back, straightening.
“Good, good,” Oldrich muttered, already disinterested. “You wouldn’t mind giving us a moment? I need to speak with my son .”
Contempt dripped from his voice.
Atlas’s relationship with his father was strained beyond measure.
It had been that way since he was born and had only amplified following the death of his mother.
Oldrich loathed the fact that he resembled his mother, claiming that because of his looks, Atlas would never be threatening.
Coupled with his “sex magic” as his father so aptly described it, Atlas was relegated to a disgrace of an heir. A disappointment. A mistake.
Skepticism lined Veros’s face but he nodded once. “Of course, Your Imperial Majesty.”