Chapter 3 Locke #2
Behind the king, my father stands like a statue carved from granite and disappointment, his silver armor polished to mirror brightness and his expression carved from stone.
General Erron’s gaze finds me immediately across the crowded room, the barest narrowing of his steely eyes.
The only acknowledgment that I’m late and that he’s noticed, catalogued, and will remember this transgression for future reference.
King Rhys Ayla leans forward on his throne, and I’m surprised to find he doesn’t look angry.
Instead, he watches me with curious silvery blue eyes and a knowing smirk that suggests he’s seen right through whatever mask I think I’m wearing.
Yeah, even he knows I’d rather be anywhere but here, breathing recycled court air and pretending to care about whatever political theater they’ve staged for my benefit.
The question of why I’m so reluctant, though.
. .well, that’s my little secret. One I’m going to have to come clean about whether I want to or not.
“Approach,” he says, his voice carrying easily across the sudden hush that’s fallen over the room.
I do. Slowly. Every step echoing like a funeral march as I cross the polished obsidian floor. Courtiers part before me like a sea of silk and judgment, their whispers following in my wake.
I kneel at the base of the dais, head bowed with the proper show of respect. “My king.”
“What news of Kasamere?” His voice is deep and slow, carrying the weight of genuine interest rather than mere formality.
“Minor goblin infestations near the east glade,” I begin, falling into the familiar rhythm of a report I’ve given dozens of times before.
“Three nests cleared, no casualties. Whispers in the roots again, stronger than last month. Something about old blood rising, old debts coming due. Nothing conclusive yet, but the magic feels unsettled. The trees are restless.”
There’s a murmur in the court at my words. That always happens when I mention the roots and their whispers. No one likes to think about what sleeps beneath us, what ancient powers might be stirring in the deep places where even fae magic fears to tread.
I pause, knowing what comes next and dreading it.
“And?” the King prompts, leaning forward slightly. He knows there’s more.
I glance up, meeting his gaze for just a moment before looking away. “Mageetha came through the portal.”
That gets their attention like a thunderclap in the sudden silence.
The volume spikes immediately, whispers, gasps, half-formed questions that die on lips as people remember where they are.
Queen Lucelle’s fingers stop toying with her hair to grip her armrests as she leans forward, her opal necklace flashing like warning lights.
King Ayla lifts a hand, and silence returns like a curtain dropping. “Alone?” he asks, though something in his tone suggests he already knows the answer.
I want to respond with something sarcastic. If she was alone she would have come directly to you and my father because that’s her duty. Of course, I think better of the clapback. I think I have need to keep my tongue in my mouth if I want to keep it at all.
“No,” I reply, the word falling into the silence like a stone into still water.
“She brought two with her. At first I assumed they were mortal refugees, seeking sanctuary. But. . .” I hesitate, unwilling to say it.
I don’t want to give voice to what I’ve seen, what I’ve felt, but I have to, and that pisses me off more than I can express.
“But?” the king presses, his eyes sharpening with an intensity that makes my skin crawl.
“One is a shifter. Wolf-born. Male. Elemental Magic.” I grit my teeth, forcing the next words out. “The other. . . a witch. White hair like starlight. She was unconscious when they arrived, barely breathing. Mageetha took them directly to Cashira’s home.”
The room erupts in a cacophony of noise at my reply, voices rising in shock and speculation.
Cashira’s name is a spark to dry kindling, and I watch the fire spread through the court like wildfire through dead grass.
Queen Lucelle’s expression curdles like spoiled milk as she cuts her eyes toward the king, her blue gaze blazing with something that might be fury or fear or both.
My father stiffens behind the throne, his hand moving instinctively to rest on his sword hilt.
It’s the King’s reaction that catches my attention though, I see the flicker of something more in his eyes, something complex and carefully hidden that he masks before anyone else can catch it.
Something that looks suspiciously like hope.
“Cashira,” he says softly. Not a question. A statement that somehow sounds like both relief and pain at the sound of her name, like he’s been holding his breath for years and can finally exhale.
I nod. “Yes, my king.”
The murmurs rise again like a tide, speculation and gossip flowing through the crowd in waves. My father steps forward and bellows for order, his voice cutting through the chaos like a blade.
King Ayla waves them all off with a gesture that brooks no argument. “Leave us.”
“But—” Queen Lucelle starts, scowling down at me like his dismissal is my doing, like I’m personally responsible for her exclusion from whatever comes next.
“Now.” The single word carries enough power to make the air itself tremble.
The room empties in a rush of fancy fabric and wounded pride, courtiers filing out with indignant expressions and backward glances.
Rue catches my eye as he’s ushered out with the rest, mouthing something that might be ‘don’t die’ or ‘good luck’ before the doors slam shut behind him with a finality that makes my chest tight.
The king rises from his throne, the movement fluid and predatory. “Walk with me.”
I follow without question. So does my father, of course, because he’s incapable of letting me breathe without his supervision, let alone have a private conversation with the king.
We move through a side corridor, leaving the grandeur of the throne room behind for something more intimate and infinitely more dangerous.
The walls narrow until we’re walking single file, past tapestries that depict the Night Court’s greatest victories and portraits of long-dead kings whose eyes seem to follow our progress.
The temperature drops as we move deeper into the castle’s heart, away from the warming spells that keep the public areas comfortable.
We emerge into the king’s private solar, a room I’ve been in exactly three times in my life, each visit marking a moment of significant consequence.
Sunlight filters through stained glass windows, casting strange colors on the floor, deep purples and midnight blues, silvers and golds that shift and dance as clouds pass overhead.
The room is smaller than the throne room but somehow more imposing, filled with the weight of decisions that have shaped our realm.
King Ayla doesn’t waste time with pleasantries or political dance.
“Bring her to me,” he says, turning to face me with an expression I can’t read.
I blink, certain I’ve misheard. “What?”
“The witch. This Esme, you said her name was?” His voice is careful, controlled, but there’s something underneath it that makes my skin prickle with unease.
My eyes widen but I quickly school my expression because I didn’t utter her name, not once during my report. The slip feels unintentional, but he continues like this bit of important information isn’t a significant bomb drop. Does he know her? How?
He turns, eyes sharp as blades. “And bring the wolf. . .and Cashira.”
Yes. I think the king knows more than he lets on, has always known more than the rest of us combined. I want to asks questions, but I give nothing away on the matter.
“I don’t think she’s well enough to travel,” I say, carefully choosing each word like I’m walking through a minefield. “She hasn’t left the house since they arrived. I haven’t seen her conscious, haven’t heard her voice. For all I know she’s still hovering between life and death.”
“Then wait. But when she rises, she comes to me. No court presentation. Not yet. I want to speak with them first, alone.” His tone leaves no room for argument, but something in his expression suggests this isn’t entirely about royal curiosity.
My father opens his mouth then, no doubt to object or offer his own counsel, but the king raises his hand to stop him before he can speak.
If only I could shut him up like that.
“And if Cashira refuses?” I ask, my voice tighter than I mean it to be. The question carries weight. We all know Cashira’s history with the court, the reason she’s been granted sanctuary, hidden away with the forest’s depths.
He gives me a look I’ve seen before, one that says don’t test me, don’t push, don’t mistake my patience for weakness.
“She won’t,” he says with absolute certainty. “She’ll come.”
I say nothing, but my fists clench at my sides hard enough that my knuckles pop. The leather of my gloves creaks in the sudden silence.
This is exactly what I didn’t want. I knew this would happen the moment the court caught wind of her existence, knew they’d want to drag her into their web of politics and power plays.
I don’t want her paraded before them like some exotic curiosity to be poked and prodded and judged.
I don’t want their whispers following her, their hungry eyes dissecting every word she speaks, every breath she takes.
I don’t want their poison touching something that might still be pure.
I want her to stay hidden in the forest’s embrace.
To stay untouched by court corruption.
To stay mine, even though I have no right to claim her.
I haven’t even seen her since that night when she lay unconscious in the wolf’s arms. Haven’t heard her voice or looked into her eyes or discovered what color they are when the light hits them just right.
Haven’t learned if she laughs easily or if her smiles are rare and precious things to be earned.
Now I’m supposed to deliver her to the very place I swore to keep her away from, hand her over to the sharks in silk who will tear her apart with honeyed words and poisoned smiles.
Fuck that.
“I’ll wait until she’s stronger,” I say, meeting the king’s gaze with what I hope looks like dutiful compliance rather than rebellion. “Then I’ll bring them.”
King Ayla nods once, seeming satisfied with my answer. “Do not delay longer than necessary.”
I nod in return and leave without the customary bow, my boots clicking against the stone with perhaps more force than strictly necessary.
My father glares at me the whole way out, his disapproval radiating like heat from a forge, but I don’t care. Let him disapprove. Let him think I’m being insubordinate or careless or whatever other character flaw he wants to assign to my behavior.
The longer she stays tucked away in that cottage, protected by Cashira’s magic and the forest’s embrace, untouched by the rot of this court and its endless machinations, the better.
The Night Court infects everything it touches with its poison, turning beauty into weapons and innocence into currency.
I’ll be damned if I let it ruin her before I even get the chance to see what she truly is beneath whatever trauma brought her here.
Not before I decide whether or not I’ll let her go.