Chapter 2 #4
The princess perched delicately a few seats away from him, leaving room for the masters of coin, war, and trade closer to the king.
Royal guards stood on either side of the door as it shut, their long, curved swords readied for any dangers that might lurk nearby.
Their capes were a gleaming shade of jade, pressed with the royal crest: a rare Vemon dragon eclipsing the sun.
It was a great symbol of power, as Vemon were the largest, and often most powerful, of their kind.
It was fitting, she supposed, for the biggest kingdom on the continent.
After all, Aren held eleven districts within its borders, whereas Mise held only five and Meesling three.
“There is more to this agreement,” King Johannas began.
Princess Cion was ramrod straight in her chair, and Soren, with the other slaves and servants, kept to the shadows at the edges of the room, only stepping forward if wine was requested.
“I understand, Father,” the princess replied quietly. “Will you expand?”
The king chuckled dryly. The sound sent a small shiver up Soren’s spine.
“You have always been the most headstrong and passionate of my children,” he said thoughtfully. “Which makes for a good warrior. You will do well on the battlefield, especially once you are astride a dragon.”
“But?” Princess Cion dared, raising a single, sculpted brow.
Soren curled her fingers into a fist, hating that she cared what the king said next.
She wanted to loathe these people, but she had known the princess since they were children, serving her since they were practically just playmates.
And now, Princess Cion Livii, with her easy smiles and snarky quips, was going to ride into battle and murder hundreds of Soren’s people astride whatever terrifying beast chose her.
For the briefest of moments, King Johannas paused, and in the hush of that breath, his gaze dragged over to the shadows where Soren stood. His amber-speckled eyes narrowed as they snagged on her.
Soren had never considered herself remarkable, and she had done her best to never catch the eye of the king. Up until this moment, she had been invisible, but she wondered what he saw as he looked at her now.
Like most from Mise, she had tawny skin that grew a shade darker in the heat of the summertime.
She was short and slight but not overly muscular, since her work for the princess was not particularly labor-intensive.
Her clothing was simple, just twisted pieces of fabric that crossed over her torso and fell to her bare ankles.
The only adornments she was allowed were the small bronze studs in her ears and the single, gold-tinted ring in her nose, and even that was only permitted because she served in the royal household.
None of her jewelry or clothing was truly fine; it was made to look presentable to reflect properly on those she served, but at the end of the day, she was often left with ripped bits of fabric she had mend herself or tarnish on her nose ring.
The only feature that had ever pinned her as different was her silver hair, tucked back into two long braids. A birth defect, she had been told by her parents.
Even so, there was no reason for King Johannas to be looking at her, but there was no mistaking the heavy weight of his attention. When the king singled a person out, they knew it, and it was almost never a good thing.
Soren resisted the urge to duck her chin or shift her feet.
It would be over soon, and he would look away.
She was nothing and no one, simply another orphan picked up from a burning village in Mise.
There were many who had come before her and many who would surely come after her if this war continued the way it was.
King Johannas did look away, and she was entirely certain the whole exchange only lasted a few seconds, even if it felt much longer.
Still, those brief moments left a feeling of acrid heaviness behind, as if his fathomless stare had been branded into her very being.
She tamped down her fear as he began to speak again.
“But you are my heir now. That comes with certain duties and responsibilities, including marriage.”
Princess Cion opened her mouth, but the king lifted his hand before she could speak. “I have let you carry on for too long, Cion, like a child with a plaything they have outgrown. It is time to take on your true responsibilities as a member of the royal household.”
“Father, please—”
“Perhaps, if you were not such an essential piece in carrying on the royal bloodline, you could dally as you pleased with scribe’s daughters. But this is your role, Cion.”
Soren watched the princess’ face slowly drain of color at the mention of Lady Anabeth, but she said nothing this time, letting her father continue.
“This is what will occur, my daughter. You will attend the coming Choosing ceremony and bond to a dragon. Your term as a rider will run three years, or until you are injured in any matter of severity. Upon that time, you will return here and marry Prince Kellmere Hale, heir to the throne of Meesling. Your dragon can remain in the capital if it wishes.”
Soren could not help the small puff of air that escaped her. Several other servants in the room had similar reactions. Prince Kellmere was currently engaged to Princess Hessa of Mise. The marriage pact was a large part of the reason Mise still held any real chance against Aren and their dragons.
Meesling had wyverns in their ranks. They were smaller than Aren’s dragons, and there were fewer of them, but without Meesling’s support, without their extra resources and wyverns, Mise was lost. King Johannas had to know this.
King Nektas, Prince Kellmere’s father and Meesling’s king, had to know this, which meant Soren was privy to a secret betrayal.
To her credit, Princess Cion did not react with much shock or surprise. Perhaps she was just used to her father carrying out such acts of cruelty.
She bowed her head and said in a low voice that was anything but submissive, “As you wish, my king.”
Soren knew the princess well enough to know this fight was far from over. She wondered if King Johannas knew that too. By the tick in his strong jaw, Soren ventured to guess so.
“Know,” the king said as he stood, his gravelly voice thick with the promise of violence, “that if any one of you spills the secrets laid out in this room today before they are ripe to the world, you will not simply be executed.”
And with his threat hanging in the air, he swept from the room, his heeled boots clicking against the stone floor. The other small council members stood too, and for a brief moment, Soren memorized their faces.
The Master of Coin, a small man with a white goatee, tiny circular glasses, and quizzical brow.
The Master of War, with his hulking form, shining bald head, and terrifying thin-lipped smile.
The Master of Trade, with his opulent jewels, long black braid, and sparkling green eyes.
They were as much responsible as King Johannas for what was sure to be the end of the war.
Someday, if Soren was ever free, she might describe these men to an assassin.
It was a fool’s dream to even hope for freedom now.
Not ever before today.
But now.
Now, with her kingdom’s princess in danger where she stayed in Meesling, unaware of the end of her engagement. Now, with the coming end of the war and the taste of defeat a bitter sting on her tongue. Now, she finally felt something after years of numbness.
The dream ended, though, the moment Princess Cion said, “Come, Soren.”
Soren dipped her head, reality crashing down upon her in violent waves. She was no warrior, no spy or assassin.
She was what these people had made her.
Nothing at all.