Chapter 21
Derian
My office is frigid. The window hangs open and wind tears through it haphazardly, wild enough that it just might rip the shutters off their hinges.
My powers haven’t been this difficult to control since I was a boy.
And it’s pissing me off.
This Conclave was a bad idea. I should have married the damn Mortal princess, left her in one of my lavish homes in Bridgemond, and gone back to the training yards in Amberhull.
Had I just done that, my life would be back to normal by now.
Nothing has been normal since the second I called for this fucking contest.
No, that’s not quite right.
I sigh heavily and rip a hand through my hair. The strands are already slightly tangled from me repeating the action over and over since I’d sat myself behind my desk.
It’s not the Conclave that’s fucked everything up. It’s the fact that nothing has been quite right since Huntyr Lachlan walked into the dark room I was hiding out in.
Kaia’s arrival is an anomaly. No Eshari has ever chosen to stay with a Conclave competitor. Fuck, I’ve never even seen an Eshari before.
But suddenly there she was, standing next to Huntyr Lachlan of all people. Defending her. Claiming her. Placing herself between Huntyr and anyone who might wish her harm, myself included.
Of course, it was Huntyr who had been chosen.
The woman is an anomaly herself, a girl who acts wiser than her years. A noblewoman who can’t shoot an arrow straight but somehow seems more intelligent and quick-witted than any of the other Mortals. Why wouldn’t the Eshari choose her?
I push out from behind my desk and stand, walking five paces to the window and back. Then to the window. Then back.
Maybe it was simply curiosity.
Maybe the Eshari also saw what a conundrum she is, and now the beast is just as desperate to figure her out as I am.
A knock at the door halts my movements, an eerie sense of precognition settling over me that my day is about to get worse. I move to open the door, a growling creak filling the space as I do.
Parker is standing with tight shoulders and a wary expression, a letter clutched in his palm. Without a word, he simply extends it to me.
Fuck me.
I have a very strong suspicion of who that letter is from.
“What?” I bark.
Parker clears his throat, clearly uncomfortable having to be the messenger of this news. “It’s from Bridgemond.”
Of course it is. Once again, I run a tired hand through my hair, waving at him to get it over with. “And?”
“The King is on his way here.”
Lightning cracks outside, and Parker glances at it nervously.
Control, I remind myself, before breathing deeply and pushing down that power once more. The storm seems to settle a little outside. As much as I can settle it, at least.
“Tell him to stay exactly where he is.”
It’s not safe here. Not for a King. Oxhurn is far too close to the Wastelands. And with the Velkai coming closer and closer to our territory, with their numbers seemingly growing, I cannot allow my brother here. If Luceron wants to lecture me for calling the Conclave, then I can simply go to him.
“He’s already en route.”
So much for control over my magic. The storm outside intensifies, thunder booming so loudly that even Parker flinches. I don’t bother quieting it.
Of all the stupid, reckless fucking things my brother has done, this might take the cake. How he managed it is beyond me. I can practically hear Deanna nagging him from here, insisting her mate stay with her and the children.
Guess that mate bond doesn’t stop a man from making idiotic decisions.
“Move,” I command Parker, pushing past him and making my way towards the dining hall, where the celebratory dinner is being held for the victors of the first trial.
If I have to suffer through this Conclave and my brother’s wrath, I can at least do so with a drink in my hand.
The dining hall is already buzzing with energy and the rush of survival, so no one thinks twice about the strangely intense storm raging outside the fortress walls.
Candles flicker against the stone walls, and plates are piled high with roasted meats and golden fruits.
Both the fortress warriors and the Conclave contestants are drinking heavily, celebrating, and enjoying themselves.
I can’t wait for the evening to be finished.
Without a second glance at anyone in particular, I stalk towards my seat at the head of the table. A full glass of wine has already been poured and sits waiting for me. I pull it to my mouth and drink deeply, running the back of my hand against my mouth once finished.
Appearing from the throng of people, Cal drops heavily into the chair beside me and folds his hands behind his head. I feel his eyes on me even as I avoid his stare.
“You look fairly unhappy for a man who has seven beautiful women fighting over him.”
“Shut up,” I practically growl, downing the rest of my goblet.
Cal simply refills my glass, more than accustomed to my moods. “What’s got you so testy?”
Only one word is needed.
“Luceron.”
His eyes flash in understanding. He knows my brother well enough to have also known this was just a matter of time. “I suppose we should prepare the finest room in the fortress for him.”
I glare at him. “The finest room in the fortress is my own.”
He nods, brows raised pointedly. “That’s because this fortress is no place for a King.”
“You don’t have to explain that to me!” I reply sharply. “I’m not the one who invited him.”
“I don’t think a King needs to be invited to travel within his own kingdom.”
I’m silent for a long time, simmering in my irritation, until I finally mutter in response. “Yes, well, while I would have cautioned him against those travels, my brother hasn’t considered my wishes in some time now.”
I think there’s a flash of sympathy in Cal’s eyes. Either that or pity. I need neither.
Cal and I watch the revelry for some time before he finally turns back to me, head cocked sideways. “Well, not to risk making your bad mood worse, but I did some investigating on your favorite Mortal.”
My heart rate spikes as I arch a brow.
“She isn't who she says she is, Derian.” His voice is low and laced with caution.
“Meaning?”
He begins piling food onto his plate, talking subtly out of the side of his mouth. “Her father was, in fact, a nobleman. He managed a rather large province in Velia. Mother died in childbirth, and he remarried shortly afterward.”
“That doesn’t sound all that suspicious.”
If anything, it’s rather… common.
Cal narrows his eyes at me before continuing. “The suspiciousness started after his death. From what I can discern, it’s as if she disappeared. The stepmother was never seen with a daughter. There was no governess employed at the manor. She never attended any society gatherings.”
I take it in, considering his words. “Until the masquerade.”
He nods. “The stepmother died and she suddenly re-emerged, claiming her title and spinning a story that she’d been sent away for schooling after her father’s death.”
I frown. That is a slightly less common turn of events, but it’s also not entirely unbelievable. The idea that a widowed stepmother sent away her husband's daughter to avoid having to raise a young girl is certainly not impossible.
“You don’t believe it?” I ask him.
He pauses for a moment at the sudden cacophony of laughter and swelling music from the revelry. “I couldn’t find a record of her education or what school she attended. I used all the resources I have, but I haven’t the slightest idea where she has been since her father died.”
I tap my fingers against my goblet, considering his words. After decades of friendship, I’ve come to trust Cal’s instincts. I’ve grown to rely on them as carefully as my own. If he doubts the story, it’s because there’s a good reason to.
Still, there’s a strange feeling coiling inside me, a mixture of suspicious apprehension and undeniable… interest.
“She’s dangerous, Derian,” Cal says, watching me closely, as if he can sense where my thoughts have turned. “I can’t put my finger on it exactly, but there’s something unnatural about her. And I think you know that.”
I scoff, drinking deeply again.
He only shakes his head in frustration. “You really think she was locked away in a finishing school for all those years? Because I don’t.”
Where else could she have been? And what difference does it make, anyway?
She is a Mortal woman for Gods’ sake. Oxhurn sits on the edge of the Wastelands.
It’s home to the fiercest, deadliest warriors in the entirety of the Fae kingdom.
Even if Huntyr is the one who managed to kill Kai at the masquerade, a Mortal woman stands no chance against me or the warriors here.
Cal sighs, his exasperation evident as he runs a hand through his auburn hair. “Look, I get it.”
I turn to face my best friend, annoyed by the way his voice sounds cajoling, as if he’s trying to calm a child throwing a tantrum. “You get what?”
He pauses. “You want to bed her, Derian. Practically everyone in this room does.”
A snarl rips out of me before I even realize what I'm doing, along with a sudden rush of… possessiveness. I clutch the goblet too tightly as the storm outside intensifies for a brief moment before calming.
He only grins at me knowingly. “And if I’m going based on how she responds to you, you might be the only one who actually stands a chance with her.”
“She’s a contender in the Conclave.” I’m not sure if I’m reminding him or myself of the rules. “And she’s unlikely to live through the next trial, anyway.”
“Even still, she—”
I don’t mean to stop listening to him. I don’t mean to turn away.
But I do.
My attention snaps to the door just as she steps across the threshold.
She moves through the room easily, confident and assured. Dressed in deep red, her leathers have been replaced with something smoother. Sleeker. The gown clings to her figure, the slit along her leg revealing just enough to stir something deep inside me.