Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Alethea tried to push away from Nakir, but his grip was unbreakable. His demeanor shifted to suspicion.
“What are you doing out here all alone, Your Highness?”
The way he spoke the words had her skin prickling. Would he kill her here and now, or would he wait to make a spectacle of it?
She made another futile attempt to push away from him, terrified of saying the wrong thing. Nakir seized her by her shoulders, holding her tightly at arm’s length as his gaze bore into hers.
“Tell me, Princess. Do you know who I am?”
Anyone else would lie. Staring into his darkened eyes now, she sensed he was giving her an out.
Offering her mercy. Perhaps if she could play the na?ve little princess, he would escort her back to the city gates and let her return to her life.
Or perhaps he would let her go, to fend for herself in this savage, deadly forest. Because if he were just another man in the woods, she would have nothing to tell her mother upon her return.
But she did know who he was.
And she could not lie.
His grip on her tightened when she didn’t speak. “Answer me.”
“Yes,” she breathed, squeezing her eyes shut.
Bal sighed. Even Nakir blinked in surprise, but something mischievous glinted behind those burning eyes. A dangerous game. A challenge.
“And who am I?”
“You’re Nakir Hasan.” His name hung on her lips, magic buzzing underneath her tongue.
He regarded her as if she were a puzzle he could not solve; as if she were playing a game he had not been given the rules to. But the truth was far simpler: she could not lie.
Silence fell over the group, everyone watching the horned man as he considered his options. When he finally spoke, her stomach dropped.
“You’re coming with me.”
“Uh. What the fuck?” Kerrigan questioned, but Nakir silenced her with a glare.
His grasp on Alethea’s arm wasn’t exactly painful, but it was firm enough for her to know there was no breaking free. Better tell Talia to add “unbelievably strong” to her list of traits to describe the man Goran Arranil had given his life for.
Nakir strode confidently ahead, while Alethea relied on the faint illumination from the fire in Kerrigan’s palm behind her as she stumbled on roots and stones.
Still, Nakir kept his grip on her and lifted her back upright each time.
A part of her was grateful he wasn’t letting her eat dirt, but a quieter part reminded her he was currently holding her captive.
It took ten minutes of awkward, tense silence before they reached a small campsite.
Sure enough, her horse was tied alongside several others, calmly munching on a patch of grass.
Traitor. She saw one large tent and a small fire tended to by a fourth party: an older, fair-skinned man in his forties, with salt-and-pepper hair, a dark beard, and a long scar down his brow, narrowly missing his eye.
His metal ring-studded leather armor appeared to have seen a battle or two, and he was polishing a long, deadly sharp blade by the firelight.
If these were the members of Nakir’s Dark Court, she could see why they were feared. Each one was more terrifying than the last.
“What’s this?” the man asked warily, eying Alethea and the way Nakir was holding her upper arm.
Shame heated her cheeks as she stared at the ground.
“This is the princess,” Nakir Hasan told his fourth companion. “We’re bringing her back to camp.”
Camp? Wasn’t this camp? Alethea’s eyes widened at the news.
“The princess? As in—”
“Yes. Though I’m realizing now I’ve failed to make proper introductions. What a terrible host.” Nakir gestured to the man. “Princess, meet Perrin Dawes. I believe you know Kerrigan Arranil.” He pointed to the redheaded mage, who scowled. “And this handsome fellow is Balthasar Corvinus.”
“The pleasure is mine,” the large man stated, giving her a gentle bow that felt so out of place she could have laughed in his face. How dare he treat her so warmly when they were kidnapping her?
“And I’m... well, you know who I am.” Nakir met her gaze, and her breath caught as his stare pierced right through her.
He addressed his colleague without breaking eye contact with her.
“Balthasar, leave word for your contact that we’re not going to be meeting tonight, but they are to proceed as planned. We’re going back to the encampment.”
“What about—” Kerrigan started, but Nakir cut her off with a pointed glance.
“Not now.”
They wouldn’t discuss whatever it was in front of her. Smart.
Dawes set to breaking down the campsite, all the while grumbling about how he’d just gotten everything the way he wanted it.
She could only wait around helplessly as they prepared to leave, trying not to startle at every sound that came from the pitch-black forest surrounding them.
It was a small comfort to know that every moment they wasted, the further the castle guards would get in their search for her, if they even knew she was missing at all.
From one captor to another. At least the scenery had changed.
Nakir, meanwhile, procured some rope to bind her wrists.
He probably wouldn’t bother if he knew how useless she was at putting up a fight.
Something like humiliation prickled Alethea’s cheeks as he bound them tightly—at her own helplessness, at being handled like a prisoner, at all of it—while the others worked to ready their horses.
He made it clear she was meant to ride alongside them, but when it came time to leave, she simply held her bound wrists up to him with a raised brow.
How was she meant to mount her traitorous steed this way?
Nakir smirked as he lifted her easily, setting her in the saddle without even a grunt of effort. She squeaked at the force of his grip, quickly attempting to situate herself—and her dress—as heat rose in her cheeks. He tied the rope around her wrists to the pommel of the saddle and took the reins.
The others quickly broke down the rest of the camp and mounted their horses, each eyeing her carefully. Suspiciously.
She was determined to keep quiet, and she could tell by the glances the four exchanged that they were intent on doing the same.
The only semblance of conversation happened just before they set off into the night. The man named Dawes approached Nakir, and Alethea felt his eyes on the back of her head.
“Emi is not going to like this,” Dawes said with a touch of disdain. “This is bad business, Nakir.”
His statement astonished Alethea. No one would dare speak in her mother’s court that way. If Nakir responded, she didn’t hear it.
Alethea had to wonder who Emi was. The name wasn’t familiar.
Perhaps she was Nakir Hasan’s wife, or his lover.
If she were, the princess imagined she might not take kindly to Nakir bringing another woman back to the encampment, which also left her wondering...
was she about to come face-to-face with an army of Nakir’s soldiers?
Surely they weren’t just camped close enough to the capital to ride there in a single night?
What were they even doing so close to the castle?
Did this have to do with Goran Arranil’s execution?
Knowing better than to ask questions, she kept painfully silent as she rode alongside Nakir, trying to keep her eyes open; to stay awake through the ride that may not end for days. She kept her mind occupied by studying her captors.
Dawes was the easiest to read. He carried himself like the officers in her mother's armies, leading the group through the forest and navigating the game trails with the ease of someone who had spent a lifetime doing exactly this.
His silvering brown hair was piled in a knot atop his head, his fair skin weathered and lined from years in the sun.
His eyes, sharp and watchful, never stopped moving—sweeping the tree line, the trail ahead, the shadows between the trunks.
Whenever his gaze landed on her, it didn't soften.
Grief sat plainly on Kerrigan's face, raw and unguarded, but her eyes were something else entirely—steely and unyielding.
Her shoulder-length red hair flew wildly behind her in the wind, her complexion a rich tawny beige, darker than her father's.
The way she handled her horse brooked no argument that this was a formidable woman.
Alethea wanted to relate to her, remembering the acute pain of losing her own father, but this felt too different.
Aikat Onasis had died peacefully in his sleep after a prolonged illness; Goran Arranil had been executed for treason.
There was little she could say to Kerrigan even in the best of circumstances.
She half-expected her to turn that fire on her at any moment in retribution.
Despite his imposing stature, Balthasar moved with a deadly silence, appearing at her side without warning more than once throughout the journey.
His eyes, impossibly dark, caught hers whenever she dared look at him, and he kept his pale locs tucked beneath his hood.
She couldn't explain why, but whenever he rode nearby, her shoulders dropped half an inch.
Nakir Hasan was either ignoring her or was somehow capable of forgetting her existence entirely, despite the fact her horse’s bridle was tethered to his saddle.
He was the hardest to study, partially because looking at him terrified her, and it had nothing to do with the horns that curled back behind his head, the same shade of midnight as his hair, and everything to do with the intensity of his gaze.
The rest of him was easier to look at. His shoulders were broad and muscled, his long black hair pulled back to reveal the sharp angles of his face.