Chapter 4 To Dance with the Devil
CHAPTER FOUR
TO DANCE WITH THE DEVIL
The wine swirled dark and heady in my goblet, offering more comfort than any of the elaborate dishes arrayed before me.
I had been drinking steadily since the feast began, seeking to dull the edges of my thoughts as I watched King Valen from beneath lowered lashes.
The grand dining hall of Vareth Palace rose like a cathedral to excess.
Gothic spires climbed the walls, their shadows dancing with each flicker of flame.
Ancient stained glass caught the light, casting pools of color across stone floors and white tablecloths.
The hall breathed with Vareth’s history, every carved column and vaulted ceiling a testament to generations who had feasted here before me.
Tonight, those same walls witnessed yet another unholy bargain.
My father selling me to the Blood King.
I tipped my goblet back, draining the last of the sweet Varethian red.
A servant materialized at my elbow, refilling it with practiced efficiency.
I offered a faint nod, grateful for the refill, and the information I knew she brought me.
This particular informant had proven useful in the past. Her plain face and quiet demeanor rendered her invisible to most nobles.
They didn’t know she’d once served as a handmaiden to a Nocthari noblewoman before fleeing to Vareth.
She was exactly who I wanted to see.
Nodding toward the far wall, I slipped away from my seat at the high table, glass in hand, drifting through the crowd with unassuming grace.
The gown I wore tonight was slate blue—not the defiant black from earlier, but still somber enough to make my feelings clear to any who cared to notice.
The heavy silk whispered against the stone floor as I walked, my posture perfect despite the wine warming my blood.
Years of rigid instruction had at least given me the ability to appear composed, even when rage and fear warred within me.
I wove between clusters of courtiers, their laughter too bright, their voices too loud as they performed their rehearsed merriment.
They parted before me like water around a stone.
None met my gaze, yet all watched with hungry eyes.
I was the spectacle tonight, the sacrificial bride, and they devoured every nuance of my bearing with the same appetite they brought to the feast.
The servant girl—Elara, I recalled—stood near one of the smaller doorways, her back pressed against the cold stone as if hoping to melt into it.
Even in Vareth’s livery, she carried herself differently.
A certain rigidity to her that spoke of Nocthari upbringing.
That peculiar blend of subservience and constant vigilance that marked those raised in the Blood Kingdom.
“My princess,” she murmured as I approached, barely lifting her gaze. Her hands trembled around the silver pitcher, knuckles white with strain.
“Walk with me a moment,” I said, keeping my voice light enough that any onlookers would see only a noblewoman issuing instructions to a servant.
I gestured toward a shadowed alcove where we might speak more privately, though still within sight.
To vanish entirely would invite speculation I could ill afford tonight.
“Tell me of your wedding customs,” I said, slipping a small pouch of silver into her palm. “Tell me what to expect.”
She blinked at the pouch, then closed her fingers around it. Her voice came halting, cautious.
“Yes, Princess. Nocthar weddings—they’re... different than yours. Meant to last. Even after—“ she hesitated, “—after death.”
“After death?” I asked, trying to keep the alarm from my voice.
She nodded, quick and jerky, before looking away.
“You speak your vows and exchange blood. From the palm or finger, normally. Not much. Just enough to… to bind.” Her voice dropped lower, thick with warning.
“It’s not all for show, Princess. Blood’s got.
.. weight. Power. Once shared, it can’t be taken back. ”
I suppressed a shudder, the wine suddenly bitter on my tongue. “And if I refuse this... blood exchange?”
Elara’s eyes snapped to mine, wide with fear. “You can’t, Princess. No one refuses the King. Not if they wish to stay breathing.” She risked a glance over my shoulder, and her face lost what little color it still had. “He’s watching you even now.”
I didn’t need to turn. I could feel Valen’s gaze burning into my back, a physical weight between my shoulder blades. The hair at my nape stood on end, my body recognizing the predator even as my mind fought to maintain composure.
“Thank you, Elara,” I said quietly, fingering the stem of my goblet. “You’ve been most helpful.”
With a curtsy, Elara melted back into the crowd, leaving me alone with knowledge that chilled me far more than the night air seeping through the stone walls.
A blood exchange. A bond meant to last beyond death.
I had never believed in life after death. Not really. The priests spoke of the eternal light of the Void, of peaceful reunions and golden fields, but their words always rang hollow. Too polished to be true. Pretty myths to comfort the dying. And I had never found comfort in lies.
The people of this kingdom seemed steeped in superstition, clinging to old magics and older fears. But fear has roots. It does not endure so long without cause.
I sipped my wine to hide the tremor in my hand.
Across the room, I felt Valen’s eyes again.
He sat at my father’s right hand, the position of highest honor.
The two kings could not have presented a more striking contrast. My father, aging and austere in traditional Varethian white and gold, and Valen, vibrant and deadly in the deep crimson of Nocthar.
The Butcher leaned forward, saying something that made my father nod gravely.
Whatever bargain they had struck, it clearly pleased them both. My fate, sealed with handshakes and treaties while I stood by, powerless.
A flash of ceremonial gold caught my eye—Darius, moving through the crowd with military precision.
His uniform gleamed in the candlelight, meticulously pressed and adorned with the captain’s insignia he had earned through years of loyal service.
Service that would end with his death if Valen so chose.
I wondered if the Blood King could detect a mere touch…
or if Darius would have to commit something truly scandalous to be separated from his life.
I watched him approach, his steps slowing as he neared. His face revealed nothing—years of court training evident in his neutral expression—but I knew him well enough to see the concern in the slight furrow between his brows, the tension in his shoulders.
“Princess,” he said, bowing with formal precision. “I trust you are enjoying the festivities?”
I offered only a quick nod, my gaze deliberately lowered. “Captain,” I replied, loud enough for those nearby to hear. “The palace guard has outdone itself with security this evening.”
His eyes flicked, almost imperceptibly, to the high table where Valen sat watching us. “It is our duty to ensure the safety of the royal family and our... distinguished guests.”
Then, so subtle it could’ve passed for a slip of balance, he stepped closer—just enough for me to catch the faint scent of steel and smoke on his collar. His voice dipped low, meant only for me.
“You look beautiful tonight,” he murmured.
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. What would I say? Keep your distance, for my soon-to-be husband will kill you?
“Meet me,” he continued softly. “After the feast. In our usual place.”
An ache bloomed in my chest. Not in pity for him, although I did feel saddened our final interactions required such distance.
No, it was because I no longer had the freedom to say yes. After so many years of fleeting—but freely chosen—intimacy, I could no longer allow him to touch me.
Because I knew, with certainty, Valen would make good on his threat if I did.
I stepped back, restoring the proper distance between us. Straightening my spine, I lifted my chin and focused on my new role—the Blood King’s future bride.
“Your diligence is noted, Captain,” I said. The words were colder than he deserved, but necessary. “I am certain my future husband appreciates your commitment to protocol.”
A pained glint flashed in Darius’s eyes, there and gone in an instant. He heard my meaning, the warning beneath my dismissal, but I knew he didn’t want to listen.
“Of course, Princess,” he said, bowing again. “I shall continue my rounds. Good evening.”
I forced myself not to watch him go. I couldn’t dwell on him any longer. I was not his, and I never would be. I needed to keep my focus on the most dangerous predator in the room.
I turned my attention deliberately to my fiancé, studying him with the detached curiosity I might give a venomous serpent behind glass.
He was, I had to admit, unbearably handsome.
The stories of the Butcher had conjured images of a monster in human form, but Valen’s appearance offered no sign of the cruelty beneath.
High cheekbones, a strong jaw, lips perpetually on the verge of a cold smile.
He had a raw beauty that stunned even me.
But it was his eyes that betrayed him. Black as a moonless night and just as depthless. They revealed nothing while seeming to see everything.
I hated him. I hated his perfect face and the power he wielded so casually. I hated how he had reduced me to a token in a political exchange.
And most of all, I hated the heat that flared in my stomach when he looked at me. The traitorous way my body responded to his presence.
“Admiring your future husband?”