Chapter 11 #2
“I don’t respond well to orders,” she says, a wry look in her eyes that makes me want to laugh.
“Hasn’t anyone told you I’m a prince? You have to do what I say.”
“As you said, two things can be true. You can be a prince and a Fae bastard.”
I lean forward, grab the plate, and push it closer towards her. “Ah, but I’m a Fae bastard you might just marry.”
Then I turn and leave her there, still watching the sea.
The ship glides into the harbor at Oxhurn under a thick veil of mist, the hull slicing cleanly through the water. The fortress rises from the cliffs ahead, its jagged towers clawing at the gray sky.
Already, the dock is teeming with activity.
Soldiers, merchants, and dockhands scurry about, their movements precise and deliberate.
Unlike the Mortal harbors in Velia or Covia, which bustle with trade and luxury, Oxhurn operates like a well-oiled machine.
People move with purpose, all of them aware of the dangers that exist just beyond the borders of this fortress.
I lean on the railing at the bow, arms crossed, watching the organized chaos below.
The sharp bite of salt in the air mingles with the faint metallic tang of weaponry being sharpened somewhere in the distance.
My gaze sweeps across the dock and lands on a familiar figure.
Caldren. My oldest friend stands with his hands on his hips, his broad shoulders stiff with tension.
Sunlight glints off his auburn hair. Even from here, I can see the frown etched onto his face.
He looks pissed. But then again, when is he not?
As the ship bumps gently against the dock, I make my way down the ramp, boots thudding against the wood. Caldren’s frown deepens as I approach, but there’s a flicker of relief in his dark eyes.
“You’re late,” he grumbles, his voice rough. The sound of it grounds me in a way I hadn’t realized I needed.
I clap him on the shoulder as I pass, leading the way toward the fortress without slowing. “Aw Cal, did you miss me?” I tease.
“I’m considering throwing you back into the ocean.” His tone is flat, but I catch the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Please tell me the rumors aren’t true.”
“Unfortunately, they are.” I glance back at him with a grin. “I am as devilishly handsome as I am menacingly powerful.”
Caldren groans, exasperation rolling off him in waves. “You called a Conclave. Here.”
He doesn’t phrase it as a question, and the weight of his words lingers between us as we pass through the gates of the fortress.
The stone walls rise around us, cold and unyielding, but the familiar clang of steel from the training yard offers a strange sense of comfort.
The air here is warmer than the sea breeze, heavy with the scent of sweat and damp earth.
I breathe in deeply, luxuriating in the smell of home.
Fortresses like this, and that of the one in Amberhull, will always be more of a home to me than my brother’s castle.
“Where else would I have it?” I ask, keeping my tone light.
“You shouldn’t be having it at all,” Caldren snaps.
His voice drops lower, his frustration barely restrained.
“People are already on edge. The Wastelands are growing. We’re fighting back more Velkai every day, and you think dragging Mortals into our kingdom, involving them in our sacred traditions, is a good idea? ”
We step into the training yard, where rows of soldiers spar in pairs, their movements precise and controlled. A blacksmith hammers away at an anvil in the corner, the rhythmic clanging punctuating Caldren’s words.
“I think I was placed in a difficult situation,” I say evenly, my voice hardening. “And I made the best decision I could.”
Caldren falls silent, his lips pressing into a thin line. He knows better than to push me too far, but I can feel his disapproval radiating off him like heat.
“The Fae won’t like it,” he mutters after a moment. “They’ll object. Your brother—”
“The Conclave is law,” I interrupt sharply. “Let them fight. Let them object. I’ll deal with it.”
He follows me through the stone corridors of the fortress, his boots echoing against the floor. The tension between us is palpable as we make our way to my quarters and I shove open the heavy wooden door.
The room is exactly as I left it. Weapons are scattered across the floor, their edges dulled with disuse. I’ll have to send them for maintenance. The bed is unmade, the blankets tangled. Papers clutter the desk in the corner, their contents long forgotten.
“It’s not just me you’ll need to convince,” Caldren says softly, leaning against the doorframe.
I turn to him slowly, narrowing my eyes. “What does that mean?”
He hesitates, his gaze flickering away from mine. “Seraphina’s here.”
For fuck’s sake.
I drag a hand through my hair, irritation bubbling just beneath the surface. Of course, she’s here. Because dealing with the Conclave wasn’t already enough of a headache.
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Caldren says after a long pause.
“I always do,” I mutter, though the words sound less convincing than I’d like.
He raises an eyebrow, but he doesn’t push. Instead, he nods toward the corridor. “She’s in the war room. I believe she’s expecting you.”
Of course, she is. Where else would Seraphina be?
I exhale sharply, already bracing myself for the conversation ahead. “Thanks for the warning.”
Caldren smirks, the tension in his posture easing ever so slightly. “Good luck. You’ll need it.”
I shoot him a withering look before stepping out into the hallway, the weight of the Conclave, and everything it represents, settling heavily on my shoulders.
Ican already hear the voices as I near the war room, irritation bubbling beneath my skin. That room is meant for strategy, not idle chatter. Seraphina has never cared much for rules, though, least of all the ones that don’t serve her.
My boots echo faintly against the stone as I step inside, taking in the scene.
A map of the Wastelands sprawls across the war table, littered with tiny wooden markers denoting strategic locations. It’s supposed to be one of our most valuable resources.
And Seraphina’s ass is on it.
Perched on the edge of the table, she flicks a dagger between her fingers, laughing at something one of her warriors has said.
Her fire-bright hair catches the torchlight, making her seem even more untouchable, even more dangerous.
The three Fae warriors before her look up immediately as I lean against the doorframe, and the air noticeably warms when Seraphina glances over her shoulder and meets my gaze.
Her smile vanishes.
“Out. Now!” she snaps.
The trio hesitates for half a second too long.
“Did I stutter?” she growls, and the torches lining the walls flare with her temper. “Out!”
They scramble to their feet, hurrying past me as I shut the door behind them.
I turn back to her, crossing my arms over my chest as she stands slowly, deliberately. The air crackles with the scent of smoke. She’s dressed in her usual training leathers, though she’s notably carrying fewer weapons than usual. Not because she needs less, but because she doesn’t need more.
“I can see you think we have some things to discuss.”
She shrieks, hurling the dagger at my head.
I dodge, frowning when the blade thunks into the wood above my shoulder.
“Was that necessary?”
A wooden marker follows. I step aside, watching it sail past.
“You called a Conclave,” she hisses, grabbing another marker and chucking it at me.
This one I catch midair, setting it back onto the table where it should have stayed in the first place.
“You seem upset,” I observe drily, stepping around the table just as she grabs a metal letter opener and lunges for my chest.
I catch her wrist before the blade can pierce the skin, my grip tightening just enough to still her movements.
“You didn’t even tell me you were going to the Mortal Kingdoms,” she accuses. “I was gone for two days and came back to find you’d vanished. And then I find out, secondhand, might I add, that you’ve called a Conclave and invited Mortals to compete?”
I let my voice drop into a suggestive hum. “Yes, well, I do regret that we didn’t get a proper goodbye before I left.”
Her nostrils flare, and for a moment, I think she might actually set something on fire. Cal is going to kill me if she ruins another set of curtains.
“How could you do this?” she snaps, yanking her arm free. “The Conclave is sacred, Derian! It’s for warriors! Not a bunch of simpering court girls who wouldn’t know the difference between a pommel and a blade!”
“I’m aware of what the Conclave is,” I reply smoothly. “It’s my family’s tradition, after all. Not yours.”
She steps closer, invading my space like she always does. She’s toe-to-toe with me now, her chin tilted up in that defiant way that would make most men flinch.
“I’m not going to just accept this, Derian.”
A slow, dangerous smile tugs at my lips. She likes to play this game with me. She likes to see just how far she can push me, and she even likes when I have to remind her she’s no match for me when she goes too far. “I wasn’t aware I needed your acceptance.”
Her jaw tightens. “If this were a real Conclave, I’d already be the winner. You know it. I know it. Everyone knows it.”
There it is.
I arch a brow, waiting.
She doesn’t disappoint.
“I’m entering.”
I purse my lips, glancing away as if considering. “I’m not sure if—”
“Any interested party is permitted to join the Conclave,” she cuts in, voice sharp as a blade. “Unless, of course, you’re planning on changing more of the rules while you’re already breaking our traditions.”
I chuckle, leaning against the table. “You want to join the Conclave, Seraphina? Compete for my hand?”
She scoffs, crossing her arms. “Don’t flatter yourself. I couldn’t care less about your hand.”
I press my lips into a line to hide the building grin.
Seraphina turns pensive, twirling a blade between her fingers. “I’ve sacrificed everything to become the warrior I am. I’ve killed more Velkai than I can count in service of you and my king. I deserve the respect that comes from winning the Conclave. That honor is mine.”
“No one said your service to your kingdom hasn’t been appreciated.”
“You appreciate me.” She gives me a bitter smile. “But you expect me to simply stand aside for this?”
A throat clears from the doorway.
I glance over my shoulder to see Caldren standing there, his arms folded, frowning at the blade sticking out of the wood next to his head and the wooden markers on the floor.
“This is why I hate it when you two are in the same room together,” he mutters.
It’s not uncommon for Seraphina and me to leave a space in ruins. Usually, though, we do so in much more entertaining ways.
She doesn’t bother looking at Cal, her attention still fixed on me. “I’ll kill them all, you know.”
She slams her second blade onto the table, slicing through the map beneath it.
Cal exhales sharply. “That was important.”
“You can leave if it bothers you,” I say over my shoulder.
Part of me hopes he does. Bedding a contestant in the Conclave might be forbidden, but Seraphina hasn’t officially joined. I could take her right now, work off the heat that Huntyr caused in my blood.
“I’d rather not return to find the fortress in flames.” Cal sighs, unmoving from his position. The glare he levels at me tells me he knows exactly what I was thinking and disapproves.
“You’re right,” I acknowledge with a sigh, turning back to her and watching the satisfaction flicker across Seraphina’s face. “If you want to join the Conclave, I can’t stop you. But the Mortals stay.”
Her grin is slow and vicious. “That’s fine.”
She yanks her blade from the table, spinning it idly between her fingers. “If you insist on putting them in the same arena as me, I’ll simply have to remind them where they belong.”
I tilt my head. “And where is that?”
Seraphina flashes a wicked smile.
“Lying on the ground, dead, of course. At my feet.”
With that, she turns on her heel and stalks toward the door.
“Careful, Sera,” I call lazily after her. “Would be terribly embarrassing if you lost after all those grand declarations.”
She flips me off over her shoulder without missing a step, and I swear the torches flare hotter as she leaves, but I’m too distracted watching her hips to say for certain.
Cal watches her go, then bends down to start gathering the fallen wooden markers from the floor. “You’ve really got a death wish, don’t you?”
I shrug. “She’ll calm down.”
“I don’t see why you put up with her.”
Wordlessly, I arch a brow. I would have thought it’s fairly obvious why I put up with her.
He sighs with all the exasperation of a Fae three times his age. “There are millions of other women you could bed, Derian. Surely you can find someone who doesn’t set things on fire when she’s angry.”
“She sets things on fire other times too.” I grin cheekily.
“That is exactly my point. You should find someone else to work out your proclivities with.”
My thoughts drift to another stubborn woman, a Mortal in leather pants who I’m fairly certain had a blade hidden in her blouse.
I smirk. “You might be right about that.”
Cal’s hand wraps around my bicep as I move to walk past him, an expression of warning on his face. “She’s right. She will kill them all.”
I know that. I’m counting on it, actually.
If Seraphina enters, the Mortals will all die. Including the assassin.
I'd been planning on it since the second I called for the Conclave.
“What happens to this alliance then?” Cal continues.
“The Mortals want our lands. I don’t see why we need wedding rings to ensure that happens.”
“Still, you should be careful with her. It’s not just your reputation at stake, now. It’s the treaty.”
I’ve kept Seraphina under control for years. This Conclave will be no different.