Chapter 31 Wake of the Black Rose #2
He was stripped to low-slung ceremonial trousers, every inch of his chest and arms marked in streaks of black ash that traced the ridges of muscle and the breadth of his shoulders.
Even bound and still healing, he looked as if he could tear the mountain apart with his bare hands, like he could hurl her over the peak and still catch her on the other side.
The tea in Ella’s veins transformed the world into vivid, perilous color, the blue-white torchlight spilling from the arena walls turning the sheen of sweat on his skin into molten silver, sliding over the thick line of his throat and the cut of his jaw.
His hair was loose today, dark waves brushing his shoulders, and the sight of it unbound tightened low in her belly.
Then he saw her. His gaze swept from the braided crown of hair to the shimmer of ritual oil glinting at her collarbone, lingered for a scorching heartbeat at her hips, and then locked with hers.
The crowd roared again, but all she registered was the slow, deliberate heat in his stare.
A muscle ticked in his jaw, and his hand flexed at his side.
Though the ceremonial trousers were meant for freedom of movement, they did nothing to hide the sudden, unmistakable evidence of how he was looking at her.
He didn’t seem to care that thousands were watching their future king stare at her like that.
She should’ve been mortified. She wasn’t.
Fuck. What is in that tea?
Whatever it was, it had stripped her of every last sense.
He didn’t look away when her chin lifted, or when a slow blush crawled up her cheeks. Her pulse tripped so hard that she could feel it in her throat, and the corner of his mouth curved, not quite a smile, but something that told her he was promising things he could not give right now.
Ash clung to the tattoos on his arms and chest, turning the ink into something feral.
The crowd might’ve been here to witness a ritual, but she could barely breathe past the truth that every line of him was built to ruin and remake.
Even wounded, he moved like a man born for violence.
The bindings across his ribs only emphasized the strength beneath.
And gods help her, if he looked at another woman the way he was looking at her now, she might burn the whole arena to the ground.
Shit. Where is this jealousy coming from?
No doubt Jakobav was to blame.
Maeren’s hand closed around her elbow, guiding her through a narrow break in the crowd to a raised platform of stone along the arena’s right flank.
Thane and Soren were already there, dressed far finer than usual.
Thane wore dark formal leathers embroidered in silver.
Soren stood beside him in deep forest-green, the tailored coat cutting a clean, severe line across his shoulders.
They stood like sentinels beneath the Dravaryn crest carved high into the stone behind them. From this vantage, the entire arena opened beneath her: the black tent standing at its center, the sea of Dravaryn citizens in the stands, and the cathedral balcony high above.
“This is where we hold,” Maeren murmured, her voice pitched low enough to be swallowed by the roar.
Ella glanced between them, realizing she wasn’t just standing with his friends. She was in the place reserved for his blood and battle-bound family, the thought making her spine straighten.
Ella swallowed and leaned toward Maeren. “Where’s the king?”
Maeren’s jaw tightened. “He isn’t coming.”
Ella opened her mouth, but Maeren shook her head once.
A ripple moved through the crowd as a woman in black robes stepped into view, emerging from the tent’s shadow.
The hem of her garments whispered along the ground, and her face was marked with dark ink patterns.
In her hand, a staff of black Dravaryn glass caught the torchlight.
The energy of the crowd shifted, as if acutely aware of the power she carried.
Before Ella could confirm who she was, Maeren leaned in. “The High Vexari. She speaks for the realm.”
The Vexari lifted her staff, and the noise of thousands died to a charged silence.
Her gaze swept the arena tiers, solemn as a severed vow.
“By blood, by realm, by rite,” her voice rang out, deep and resonant, carrying to every last ear. “We call forth the truth of this mortal realm. Let it rise in the one chosen. Let it burn away falsehood. Let it claim what is his.”
But then, instead of turning to Jakobav, she addressed the crowd.
“This is no ordinary Claiming.” Her tone was reverent, threaded with iron. “Today, the rightful heir to the Dravaryn Throne stands before you, not just as your future King, but as the commander of the military resurgence keeping this kingdom whole.”
A ripple went through the audience, and the High Vexari’s staff lowered slightly, as if to punctuate each word.
A sudden chill skated across Ella’s skin.
“You’ve heard the rumors,” she continued. “You’ve felt the strain in your magic. You have seen the signs: breaches in the Veil, the unmaking of our wards. Your Prince and his First Guard are facing these horrors to protect you.”
Her voice held a current of fierce pride.
“So it should be no surprise that today’s rite carries greater weight than any in living memory. If the ritual succeeds, it may not only bind his power, but it may steady the realm itself, and restore the full strength of your magic. Watch closely, Dravaryn, for you stand witness to history.”
The crowd erupted, fists pounding against stone and weapons striking in rhythm until the sound became thunderous, rolling through the arena.
A realization shot through her, halting her mid-thought.
He hadn’t hidden it from them.
Not the breaches. Not his role in stopping them. The entire kingdom knew, and still they cheered for him, not from fear but from vehement, unshaken loyalty.
When she looked at their faces, she saw the truth clearly: they would die for him—and kill for him without hesitation.
She still held far too many secrets for that to be comforting.