Chapter 22
I’ve been undercover for weeks. Coco is drained from using our Mark for such long periods, but it paid off this time. We discovered a secret library hidden behind King Tigous’s throne during one of their parties. It’s warded with ancient magic from the time the four kingdoms were founded. Only the King of Zo and his bloodline can open it. After failing to get through the wards, I returned to the festivities to ask drunken scholars about the secret library. Apparently, Rebellia made an appearance tonight. That goddess must be as pretty as the stories claim because she was the only thing the scholars would talk about.
I’m standing in the shadow of the black archway, taking in the intensity of the Winter Rave before I’m spotted. Dae swirls above in the tangle of spirits near the domed ceiling, darker and colder than the others.
Music pulsates through the floor, and the ballroom is alive with writhing bodies cast in a red glow. Noble ladies in tight suits, short dresses, or body paint toy with partners throughout the dance floor, spinning, dipping, and grinding. Acrobats roll and slide up and down fifty-foot streamers throughout the room and the walls glisten with gems.
When a dancing couple in matching miniskirts stops midspin, having spotted me, another couple follows, then another, and another, like a wave of paralysis. Until the entire ballroom is as still as a whispering graveyard.
They are in my Father’s territory, and he’s proved many times why his rules are to be followed, especially with me. Even King Tigous and King Rajim dip their chins in acknowledgement.
The music stops and Father sends an announcer with slick black hair and a crisp, Zarr uniform over to escort me to the dais. “Nizzara Glindella,” the servant proclaims in a loud voice. “The chosen heiress to the Zarr Kingdom.”
The room bows as one, and I keep my chin raised, not meeting a single hateful gaze lurking from the bottom of their exaggerated bows and curtsies.
Beside mother, Tarella rises with the rest of the room then breaks for the pool of rich noblemen mingling from all three kingdoms.
Mother is straight-backed in her throne, wearing a white gown, representing her Zo heritage. It’s a stiff dress that comes to a dangerous angle on one shoulder and leaves the other side bare to her tawny skin.
I smile at her, but she looks away.
“You are free to roam,” Father says from his throne, his black military uniform every bit as intimidating and ruthless as Sorren’s. “You know the rules.”
He already appears to be at the bottom of a wine glass, and for once I’m happy about it. Because I will definitely be breaking said rules.
Tarella’s already grinding with a Zo nobleman, draping her arms over his shoulders, their hips speaking a language of their own, in sync with the demanding music. He lifts her in a sensual glide and spin, her leg artfully wrapped around him.
Father leans closer to me and says, “Watch your face, Nizzara.”
I scowl.
“Much better.”
Tarella and the nobleman slip further and further into the crowd, spinning around couples, until I lose sight of them.
When my stilettos hit the dance floor, the crowd breaks apart at my entrance.
Liha’s essence brushes against my arm. “Look how they respect you. Especially now as a level-six dueler.”
I ignore her, my mind on the only person here my plan will work with—the heir of Zem—because the King’s Law prevents my father from hurting him.
Slowly the sea of people adjusts to me, and bodies begin twirling again.
I’ve only danced twice. Once with a nobleman from Zo who refused to touch me. The time before that, a distant cousin of the Zem family who—liberated by wine—touched me too much and found himself with my father’s sword protruding from his chest. That was five years ago.
Since then, I pretend I don’t want to dance with anyone.
A break comes in the music so guests can mingle before the next song. And by mingle, I mean find a partner and a dim alcove.
Conversations begin to bubble as I move through the crowd. Some flaunt their money, status, or lineage, but I’ve learned a lot by sticking to the sidelines. Those people are the rookies.
I brush a red uniform, and barely acknowledge its owner’s blue eyes on me as I pass. He doesn’t follow me right away as I continue toward an exit.
He escorts another woman on his arm and after a few moments, he falls lazily behind me. I continue toward the back, where Father won’t see until I want him to.
The Zem heir asks the woman at his side to fetch him a drink before his steps come faster behind me.
I slip around a massive black column, disappearing into a dark alcove just in time to watch him round the pillar. He summons a stream of red smoke and a set of goblets arrive on a phantom wind with him, both brimming with wine. He takes one in each hand.
“You better be careful with those eyes of yours.” He saunters forward. “Someone might think you are Rebelia attending one of our parties to have some fun.”
“Stories,” I say, inspecting my perfectly manicured nails. “Besides, no drunk nobleman has spotted her in years.” I make a point to look Kazem up and down. ”She must be bored with our selection of men.”
“I doubt that,” he says, glancing at another woman before sliding his gaze back to me. The woman smiles and fans herself. ”I have it on good authority that the men at this party are quite desirable.”
His muscled form fills out his burgundy uniform in wonderful ways, tightening around his arms as he lifts his drink to his lips.
“And you’re confident in the desires of goddesses?” I ask.
“I’m confident with the desires of all women.” He lifts the second goblet out, and hands it the other woman.
She blushes and her red-faced partner ushers her away from the prince. His blue eyes cut back to me, roaming.
“That’s not what I’ve heard,” I say.
Kazem closes the rest of the distance. “And what have you heard?”
I shrug. “I’ve heard your family is disappointing in bedroom matters.”
His eyes darken as he swirls his wine. “Is that why you tapped my shoulder on the dance floor? Because you think I’d be disappointing?” He shakes his head, smiling. “I don’t think so.”
I study my nails. “I believe you’re confusing me for a brunette with a lip ring.” Nodding toward the dance floor, I add, “She went that way.”
His eyes simmer. “She’ll find me later.”
I push a finger into his firm chest, right above his black Zem crest. “You should go find her now.”
He looks down at my chest that’s rising a little too quickly to feign nonchalance, and whispers, “You know, I have a theory.” His blue gaze is locked on my lips.
“And that is?” I say, ignoring the scent of wine I’ve come to hate so much.
“What are you doing?” Liha hisses.
I bat her away.
A kiss. That’s all I want. A single, blissful moment before I belong to someone else. And a reason to get sent to my rooms for the night.
A song starts, sensual with a demanding beat.
He passes his goblet back to a server and tugs my waist, pulling me tight against him.
Dae is hovering behind me, turning colder by the second.
“I think your father has declared you off-limits,” he says, his breath hot on my ear, “to weed out the cowards.”
I tilt my head up to him. “Hmm. Are you brave enough to test that theory?”
“Nizzara! You will be punished—”
“Go away if you do not wish to watch.”
She does.
A devilish grin splits Kazem’s lips before he dips his head toward mine.
I’m leaning into him when a giant hand of black smoke rounds the pillar and takes hold of Kazem. His hands go rigid around my waist.
My father’s power yanks him back, walking him out from behind the giant pillar, and into the crowd.
Kazem’s hand jerks to the handle of his sword and slides it from its bejeweled sheath. He fights against his own blade, and I feel as if I’m watching the innkeeper’s execution all over again.
He can’t.
The music stops and people around us back away, gasping, making a spectacle of Kazem as his own blade is forced up until it’s firmly against his neck.
Father’s black eyes gleam as his arrival parts the crowd far and wide, his fur cape—and Brunar—trailing behind him.
Another break in the crowd forms in the opposite direction as Kazem’s father, the king of Zem emerges with a trail of burgundy uniforms.
King Rajim reaches for his gem-studded sword. “Release my heir.”
Father clasps his hands behind his back, accentuating his powerful chest, as he paces around Kazem, his jaw working.
“Your son tried to kiss my daughter—an act I’ve declared punishable by death.”
King Rajim’s light face reddens as he points a crooked finger at me. “What is so special about your daughter?”
“If I were a guest in your home,” my father says, his voice a lethal calm. “Then I would follow your decrees, Rajim.”
Kazem grunts against the blade, the force behind it growing.
Rajim straightens, arranging his lips into a firm line. “Kazem is my heir, protected by the Law of Kings. You cannot harm him outside of a duel ring.”
I refrain from nodding.
Father smiles at me—a silent command to fix my face. The promise of punishment is clear in his hard eyes, but if it earns me a window to help Palko . . .
Kazem grunts as the blade pinches tighter against his neck. It’s Father’s silent threat of what he will do if I don’t wipe the weakness from my expression now.
I smile.
“I have broken the Law of Kings before,” my father reminds Rajim, and a swarm of Zarr infantry fall in around us.
Their black, spiked uniforms advance from all edges of the room, ready to slaughter Rajim’s entire guard if Father orders it.
Rajim’s face grows pale. “Then, I ask you to consider a stand-in for my son, one who will receive his punishment for him.”
The room is silent, and all eyes are on Kazem. But his eyes are on me, simmering with a newfound hatred, silently promising retribution for his public embarrassment.
Father smiles at me. “A bond slave. That is who I will accept.” My knees sway beneath me, and my breathing stops.
The entire Zem party nearly sags with relief when Rajim agrees without hesitation and sends for one of their royal chauffeurs.
The bond slave arrives, his pale skin, white hair, and sheer size mark him as Awom, and my chest fractures when he is informed of his duty. Especially because those dimples look exactly like Tian’s, if he could’ve had the chance to grow into them.
Without flinching, the brave bondslave steps into the center of the two kings and faces my father, speaking in Awom. “To save a life pleases Wala, and I accept this end as honorable.”
Tears prick in my eyes. I wonder if anyone besides myself can understand him, if anyone besides me has taken the time to learn their beautiful language.
The Awom man could tear my father apart, limb by limb, if the Awoms weren’t so peaceful. If the First-Made Vessel wasn’t involved.
Father gives the order.
Right here, in the middle of the ballroom, Sorren places the slave onto his knees in front of me.
His ice-blue eyes look up at me with something that looks like forgiveness, as Father passes his soul gun—melded with void gems—to Sorren.
King Tigous watches beyond the crowd, his eyes narrowing on the gun as Sorren wedges the red barrel beneath the Awom’s jaw.
My heart beats inside my chest like a wild animal clawing to be free. Gold tendrils and dark streaks of energy begin to appear above the crowd. I feel their immense power without glancing at them. Too much power. Power, I want nothing to do with. I pinch my eyes shut.
The gunfire makes me jump. Loud and final. Its terrible smoke clings to the fallen man, sucking his soul from his body and damning him to the Lost Realm. As the smoke of the soul gun pulls at the Awom’s body, his white, brilliant soul floats up and away from him then dissipates.
I want to scream at my father. At Sorren. At myself for being so selfish. I could’ve chosen any number of ways to get sent away from the party. And I chose the one that would piss my father off the most.
The Awom’s death reminds all three kingdoms who has the most power to enforce his own laws.
The body is taken away and I swallow a cry when he is dragged instead of carried. In their religion, the dead are to be shouldered, ensuring a safe journey to Wala, their goddess of life and knowledge.
“Release my son,” King Rajim growls.
Father releases Kazem.
The prince jolts backward, sucking in a big breath. His chest heaves and his eyes find me, narrowing as if I planned this extremely public display of humiliation, which I kind of did.
I take a step toward Kazem, to ask if he is harmed, but stop myself because Father’s pointed gaze is boring into me, saying, “Fix your fucking face.”
I raise my chin.
Kazem saunters over and smiles down at me, his fists clenching. “You’re dead.”
I go to open my mouth to explain I didn’t mean for my father to—
“As dead as that bondslave. Maybe they’ll dump your body in the trash next to his after I’m done with you.”
Anger boils throughout my chest. “You are quite cocky for someone who just about pissed himself.”
His neck muscles tense. “We’ll finish this in the ring.”