3. Soren
Chapter three
Soren
I am the paragon of power, sweating in a pair of linen pants.
The seat of my mother’s throne grows harder against my ass with every passing minute. I shift, trying to find a better position. My stiff muscles protest, forced to assume a formal posture when I should be slicing a trident through the water in the reef’s training ring right now. This duty belongs to my mother, the queen. But she’s not here, and the throne cannot remain empty on the day of supplication. I will not allow it.
So I sit here, drenched in sweat. Like the rest of the palace, the Coral throne room is hot and humid—the most egregious downside of perching a palace atop the sandbar instead of beneath it. As I question the decisions of my ancestors, I survey the large, gilded door of the chamber and wait for the next supplicant to enter and state their complaint.
A dull ache forms at my temple. I rub the spot and groan, leaning against the back of my seat. The vaulted ceiling arches above, the sloping arcs of gold meeting in a domed center. A gilded frieze depicts scenes of my ancestors conquering the reef territory generations ago. Each figure is lined in gold paint, reflecting the light of the room. The prevalence of fangs and claws in the figures gradually lessens in their procession to the epicenter, showing the path of my lineage from vicious conquerors to reigning monarchs as we earned the civilized seat of power.
One image always catches my eye—the lead couple from the first generation. A strong, dark king wields his magic to seduce and subdue the terrain, while his warrior female mate brandishes a crooked knife. The female, Amura, is terrifying and cunning, whisking through the battlefield like a wraith, leaving fallen enemies in her wake, while the male, Eero, leads the charge against the dredgebeasts of the reef with a single trident and a brave heart.
They’re like midnight and morning; opposite, complements that would not exist if not for the other.
Annoyance scratches the edges of my mind, as it does every time I study this painting. Eero and Amura’s example of unity is the very reason I must marry before I can take the Coral Throne. The crown is stronger when two rule as one.
But the odds are slim of finding a female who meets my standards. In my three and a half decades, I’ve yet to find one who even comes close. It shouldn’t be this difficult. All I want is someone who balances my power without hungering for more—equally intellectual, humorous, and passionate. And as much as I desire a mate who will love me for me and not for the throne I sit upon, I drowned that hope long ago.
The longer I procrastinate my selection, the less choice I’ll have in the matter. With each roll of the tide, my mother grows more anxious to pass the throne. One of these days, she will appear with one final candidate in tow and put the whole thing to rest.
I swallow the thought with a frown, then tuck one ankle under the other and lean on the armrest. The soft fabric of my pants slides over my skin, wicking the sweat beneath my thighs.
Beside me, my late father’s attendant—now mine—tuts his disapproval. The familiar sound conveys his reprimand for unfit posture of a future king. He pinches his long, thin nose.
I’m here only because my kingdom requires it of me. I’ve been trained from the day I hatched to fill this seat, doing my duty with a practiced smile.
To save Hugo and I both the argument, I stiffen into the proper position and raise my hand for the next supplicant.
The royal treasurer bows when he reaches the steps. “Ah, Your Highness,” Lord Varik says, greeting me before I greet him. The treasurer has never respected my authority. His eyebrows knit in feigned confusion. “I was expecting—”
“My mother?”
“My business is with the queen.” His voice is slippery as an eel.
“I am hearing the requests today.” I focus my stare, unblinking, as if I could dissolve him with a mere look. He has distinct eyes—yellow, with thin black slits—and a round, dark green face. His smooth siren ears signal magical blood in generations past, but he is no magic-wielder.
“She’s dealing with matters of state,” I say. “Lord Varik, state your business with the crown.”
“Yes. Well. This eliminates the middleman, doesn’t it?”
“Speak plainly, Lord Varik. You waste the crown’s time.”
He bows his head, then flashes a devilish smile. “Your Highness, I hear you are still in need of a wife.”
I drum my fingers on the armrest. “I am. But certainly not from one of your caves, my lord.” The treasurer oversees many financial sectors, most prominently the underbelly of the reef.
“She’s not from my caves, Your Highness.”
Hugo eyes my twitching fingers, and I force them to lay flat against the marble.
“Your Highness, I’d like to introduce you to an eligible young lady for your consideration.”
It was not a question of permission, but I once again ignore his slip in decorum and nod my assent.
He gestures to the gilded door behind him, and a tall female walks through.
I lean forward and press my fingertips together. She’s young, not more than two decades old. The female is pretty, her youthful skin a glowing spring green. Curly brown hair styled in an exquisite Coral fashion. Bits of shell and pearl weave in elaborate patterns. A stray curl has worked its way out of the knot and dangles over her forehead, much like my own curls. I smile at that.
When my assessment reaches her eyes, yellow with rounded irises, the resemblance to Lord Varik is undeniable. The female appraises me with admiration, lingering on the lines of my physique. She flicks her gaze to the floor, but not before I catch the flash of ambition there, a burning lust I’ve seen all too often.
Lust not only for me, but for the throne.
Disappointment twists in my gut. It’s a pity I must reject her—she has the natural poise of a queen.
“Your Highness,” Lord Varik continues. “May I present to you my daughter, Miss Francesca Varik.”
Miss Varik steps forward and curtsies. She holds her posture, waiting for my response.
I need a wife. I cannot claim my right to the throne without one. But here stands yet another female, ready to sink her fingers into my power.
“Miss Varik,” I say. “How lovely to meet you.” At that, she straightens and flashes her perfect teeth. Her eyes shine with triumph.
“Thank you for your generous offer, Lord Varik,” I say. “I decline.”
Francesca’s nostrils flare. The smile dissipates, her mouth contorting into a snarl to match her father’s.
Lord Varik clenches his jaw. “Your Highness—”
I hold up my hand. “You are dismissed.”
“Your Highness, please. If you’ll schedule me an appointment with the queen directly, I’m sure she’ll hear my—”
“You are dismissed,” I repeat, waving him away. The guards lurch forward, grasping Lord Varik and escorting him from the chamber.
Miss Varik raises her chin with a jerk and follows him out.
Hugo scribbles in his notes.
I slump into my seat. “How many more, Hugo?”
He checks his list. “Fifty, Your Highness.”
My subjects bear the same requests every time I hear them: higher salary for the harvesters, more restrictions for careless magic-wielders, more parties for the notoriously drunk. No more marriage proposals, thank the gods. I drum my fingers on the armrest with each passing one, impatiently waiting for the line to dwindle. And yet the requests kept pouring through the door.
Between supplicants, I motion for Hugo. He bends down so I can reach his ear. “Make a note for me.”
He readies his bone quill.
“My mother will be pleased to hear she’s relieved of her duty. I will hear our subjects more often.”
He hesitates with his quill in the air, considering my request. My lips twitch. He tucks the pad back into his robe.
“Very funny, Your Highness,” he says. “Her Majesty would disapprove. You’re not king yet.”
“Her Majesty isn’t here to laugh at my jokes. Her absence is the reason I’m doing this at all.”
“Only a handful more until low tide, and then you can kick them out.”
Sighing, I motion for the next request, the ache in my temple now pounding in a steady rhythm.
Five minutes before low tide, as if summoned by my irritation with her, the chamber doors swing open unannounced, and my mother breezes through.
The queen marches down the aisle. Her thick silver hair is knotted atop her head in a towering display. Her soft pink skirts hiss over the floor. The chained weave of her whitesteel chest piece softly clinks with every step, adorned with shells and colored glass that complement the glowing deep tan of her skin. Firm jaw, flashing eyes. At her sides, her hands flex open and closed. The room grows silent and still.
“Out,” she says. The guards file out of the room.
“I’ve found you a queen,” she announces.
“Hello, Mother,” I say, rising from her throne. “How go the matters of state?”
She ignores me. “Since you’ve been so slow to secure a suitable bride, I’ve made the decision for you.”
“Slow? Why, I heard a proposal just this morning.”
This catches her off guard. “And?”
“Unworthy of your appraisal, Mother. I dismissed Miss Varik.”
“No matter. The Abyss has offered a match. Their youngest princess, Aris.”
My eyebrows twitch. From what I’ve known, the reclusive dark-dwellers don’t deal with the surface kingdoms often, preferring to stew in their murk and nurse a centuries-long grudge against us for chasing the dredgebeasts into their territory.
“The princess arrives within the week. You’ll court her, and we’ll hold the wedding at the end of this moon. You’ll be king, and I’ll be in Cresway, sunning myself on the beach and enjoying my long-earned retirement.”
I swallow past the tightness in my throat. “Just one moon?”
My mother massages her temples and closes her eyes. “Yes, Soren. Do keep up.”
My fingernails dig into my palm, and I force my fist to uncurl. If she only knew how much I keep up with the mess she’s leaving me, she wouldn’t be making demands.
“Clio.” She snaps her fingers, and her quiet attendant rushes forth, carrying a notepad. “We need to arrange for the escort, lodging, wardrobe, meals, royal balls…”
Clio’s bone quill scratches, and I slump into my chair. I knew this day would come eventually—my mother would tire of my hesitation; I would be forced into an arranged marriage—but I wasn’t prepared to face it quite so soon.
I didn’t expect to feel this way when it happened. Empty. Like the vast chaos of my future has punched a hole into my stomach and sucked me into it.
I clench my teeth, fists, and toes—anything to keep me grounded in this room. There are things to be done; a kingdom to run. And, hell, I don’t even know if I will like this Abyssal Princess. What if she has a third eye? What if she, like Miss Varik and the rest, only wants me for the power I represent?
“No,” I declare.
The whine of my mother’s voice cuts off, and she blinks at me. “Yes.”
Clio stops scribbling.
I shake my head. “If I’m going to marry this princess, it’ll be because I find her worthy. Not because you’re telling me to. I’m not merely your subject to command, Mother. I’m your son.”
She blinks again, as if I’m speaking to her in screamerfish. “This is not open for discussion.”
“Hugo, what time is it?” I ask.
“Low tide, Your Highness.”
“Good.” I step toward the door. “I’m late for the practice ring.”
Mother crosses her arms, and a low hum of magic fills the air. When she speaks, her Voice stirs the room, thick with persuasion. The strength of her magic tests the defenses of my mind. My thoughts soften and lift. A foreign willingness prickles at the back of my mind. “Soren, you will do what’s best for the kingdom.”
Her magic tugs me, but I cut it off with a short bark of my own Voice, slicing through the spell’s mental chains. I push past her. The ache in my head roars now, loud as crashing waves.
“If you want your word to mean something,” she thunders after me, “then marry the princess and earn your spot on that throne.”
As if I haven’t been trying.