Chapter Twenty
ChApter
Twenty
There’s nothing special about the room I’m given at Ironshield Keep.
The walls are plain concrete, there are no curtains framing the windows, and the bedsheets are a boring white.
Aside from one side table next to the bed and one cushionless, wooden chair, the room is devoid of furniture.
There isn’t even a mirror for me to check my reflection, and I don’t have Nadya to let me know if I have bags under my eyes because they’ve separated us.
At least there’s a fireplace to keep the room warm, though this one looks as if it hasn’t been used in ages.
I probably should rest, but the room is too dull and so compact that I feel the walls closing in around me.
After I’ve paced the room ten times, I know I have to break out of its confines.
My body has been in a state of rest for too long, trapped in a carriage not spacious enough to stand in, and this place isn’t much bigger than that.
My muscles need attention, and I need to hone my skills.
When I open the door, Sir Holden glances at me from his post.
“Your Highness?”
“Sir Holden, I need to train.” I keep my eyes on him, steeling myself for an argument, but none comes.
“Let me see what I can do.” With a curt nod, he turns and marches down the corridor.
Thankful that the servants already delivered my trunks to my room—and surprised that they fit—I search for some trousers and a tunic I know I can move in. I’m expected to be wearing my mourning dress, so I pull my long cloak over my clothes and fasten it in case I come across anyone in the castle.
But I can’t take another minute in this room, so I head for the hall. When I open the door, I’m met with a familiar face. My eyes widen, first from surprise that she’s standing at my door, and second because of the significant swell of her belly.
“Marette?” I step out to greet the woman who used to be engaged to my brother.
Before he died.
Before he succumbed to a madness that she didn’t know how to handle.
She dips into a partial curtsey, her hand on her abdomen. “Your Highness.”
“No, please. It’s just ‘Celeste.’”
We were never so formal when she lived at the castle in Delasurvia. It’s why I didn’t call her Lady Marette. She was meant to be my sister-in-law. And up until she called off her engagement to my brother, we’d become close.
I don’t blame her for leaving. The madness that claimed Bennett was a frightening thing to watch. There’s still a chance it could claim me. I can only hope that this buzzing feeling that runs through me when it chooses to means I’ve escaped the madness. But I guess that’s yet to be seen.
“I apologize for not being present for your arrival,” she begins. “I wasn’t feeling well and was bedridden.”
“Don’t apologize.” I glance at her belly. “When will the baby be born?”
“One month yet.” There’s a soft smile on her face that tells me she’s happy. Whatever life she has now, whichever man she’s with, she seems to have found her happiness. After a moment, her smile falters. “Celeste, I’m sorry about Bennett.”
She means more than his passing, I think. I can see it in the way her head dips and her gaze goes to the floor. She might not regret leaving my brother, but she still carries the guilt.
“Thank you,” I respond, reaching out to squeeze her hand.
Her voice lowers. “I did love him, you know.”
“I know.” I could tell. It wasn’t just about the crown. She would have made a fine queen, a devoted wife, and any child she would have carried by him would have been in line for the crown instead of me.
“You haven’t had an easy year, have you?” She gives a slight shake of her head. “The attacks, Bennett, and now Prince Torbin. I’m not sure how you’re holding it together.”
“Honestly, neither am I.”
I know she assumes I’m sad about Torbin being dead. If only she knew the reality. That he betrayed his kingdom and is a pawn in the Shadow Tsar’s twisted plan.
Could I tell her? Would she believe me? Or would she think I’ve gone mad like her brother? Or worse, would she report what I tell her to her king? Or mine. Silas would never forgive me for that, and he would most likely punish Delasurvia for it.
“It was kind of King Silas to claim guardianship over you,” she says. “And I’m glad he brought you along on his son’s presentation tour so I could get this chance to see you.”
I pull my cloak tighter around myself. “I’m glad I got the chance to see you, too.”
We hear footfalls and turn to see Sir Holden approaching.
“That’s my Royal Ward,” I tell her.
She nods. “I’ll let you go, then. But we’ll meet again tonight at dinner.”
“Seven sharp,” I say, but I doubt she hears the mockery in my voice.
She flashes me a small smile before walking away.
“Who was that?” Sir Holden asks once she’s out of earshot.
“Lady Marette. An old friend.” I let out a breath. “Ready?”
“Follow me.”
After leading me through what feels like endless corridors, Sir Holden pushes open a heavy, wooden door.
His expression is unreadable as dust motes swirl in the golden shafts of afternoon light spilling through the tall windows of a large room.
The air inside is thick with disuse, the scent of aged wood and forgotten history hovering like a ghost.
“This is the best I could do,” he mutters, stepping aside so I can enter. “No one’s used this wing of the castle in years. You should be undisturbed.”
I take a slow breath, relief settling into my bones. “Thank the gods. I was going to die of boredom otherwise.”
The room is cavernous, lined with old wooden chairs stacked against the far wall, their upholstery long faded.
A few broken weapons hang on rusted mounts above an empty hearth, relics of battles long past. But the floors are sturdy, the space wide enough for movement, and the windows flood the room with warmth despite the thick stone walls.
It will do.
Sir Holden stays near the door, arms folded, his gaze sweeping the hall like a sentry on post. “Just try not to break anything. Or yourself.”
“No promises.” I shrug off my cloak, already feeling the itch in my muscles.
I stretch first, arms overhead, twisting my torso until my spine pops satisfyingly.
Then I drop to the floor, boots scuffing wood, and knock out a series of push-ups.
The first dozen come easy, but by the twentieth, my shoulders burn in a way I’ve missed.
I push harder, switching to knuckle push-ups, then clapping between them, the slap of my palms echoing in the hollow space.
Sweat beads at my brow, but it feels good to shake off the stiffness of days trapped in that carriage.
When I rise, Sir Holden lifts an eyebrow, as if quietly impressed, but he doesn’t comment. He just steps farther into the room, beginning to unwrap the cloth bundle of practice blades he brought.
The door creaks, and a slow clap punctuates the air.
I glance over my shoulder, pulse hitching even before I see him.
Dante leans against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, dark hair tousled, his black tunic fitting snugly over broad shoulders.
There’s a familiar glint in his eye, but something sharper beneath it, and when his gaze drops briefly to my chest, then back up, I realize he’s noticed more than my warm-up.
“You’re slipping,” he says, pushing off the frame, his voice smooth but edged. “Endurance like that will only get you halfway through a fight.”
I smirk. “I’ll keep that in mind next time I’m climbing castle stairs in full armor.”
“I know ways to strengthen your muscles,” he adds, circling me now. “If you’d let me show you.”
Sir Holden, no doubt sensing what’s coming, places the collection of weapons in my hands before letting out a grumble and heading for the door. “I’ll be outside, trying not to roll my eyes.”
He shuts the door behind him, leaving me alone with Dante’s lingering stare.
“You’re suddenly the expert when it comes to my training?” I challenge, picking out a dulled dagger to practice with, one that isn’t sharp enough to pierce skin.
“You could say that I’ve been studying your moves.” He takes a matching dagger from the collection and places the rest of the weapons on a nearby stool.
“I haven’t had any complaint about my moves before,” I say, taking a defensive stance as he nears.
“No complaints, Highness. Merely… suggestions.”
Without warning, he lunges. I pivot, but he’s already grabbing for my waist, spinning me before I can find my footing. His grip is sure but not bruising, his hands dragging heat along my sides. I twist free, elbowing his ribs, and dart a couple of steps away.
“You’re distracted,” he taunts.
“You’re smug,” I snap, pouncing forward to sweep his leg.
He jumps it, damn him, and catches my arm mid-spin, yanking me close.
For a heartbeat, our bodies are flush—his chest rising and falling against mine, our breath shared between barely an inch of space.
“You’re slow to react,” he murmurs, his gaze flicking to my mouth.
“Maybe I just don’t want to bruise that pretty face of yours,” I retort.
He chuckles as I shove off his chest, and we circle again.
My body is awake now, alive in every tendon and nerve.
I fake left, then duck, and jab the hilt of the dagger into his side.
He stumbles back, catching himself with an arm, but he pivots quickly in a move that places him behind me, his dagger at my neck.
I decide to play dirty and push my ass into him. The distraction pays off, and when he hesitates, I grab his wrist and twist, twirling my body away as I disarm him.
He smirks and shakes his head, but it only takes a second before he ducks and rushes me, dodging my swiping blade, wrapping his arms around my waist and using the momentum to knock me off my feet.
I instinctively use a countermove, pinning my knees to hips and pushing one of his shoulders back until I’ve flipped him onto his back. Now my dagger is at his neck as I look down at him, my hair falling loose from my braid like a curtain over his face.
For a heartbeat, we just stare at each other, chests rising and falling, breath mingling.
“Looks like I win,” I say.
His smirk returns, and he runs hot palms up my hips before caressing the curves of my ass. “I beg to differ.”
He’s right—I’m distracted when he slides his hand around my waist and spins us until he’s on top of me. His face is so close, his storm-grey eyes darker now, his mouth parted just slightly. My heart thunders, demanding things I don’t dare give into here.
He leans down, just enough that his nose brushes the side of mine, and my breath stutters. I think he’s going to kiss me, but instead, he lets out a sigh.
“We need to get ready for the dinner,” he says lowly, his voice rough.
I almost groan. I’m hungry now, but not for dinner.
He pushes himself to standing, then offers me his hand. Reluctantly, I take it, and he pulls me up, steady and close.
Trying to clear my head from the glorious feel of Dante’s body pressed into me, I take a breath and a much-needed step back. “So, what do you think of Podrosa?”
“It’s as stiff and unforgiving as I remember.”
“You’ve been here before?” I know he must have traveled through Podrosa when he moved from Messanya to Hedera, but that didn’t mean he’d spent any time here.
“On a couple of occasions,” he says “But never for long.”
I almost ask him if he’s ever bedded any women here, but I decide I don’t want to know. Instead, I sway the conversation elsewhere. “The king and queen seemed open to welcoming you. I wonder what this ‘main event’ they spoke of entails.”
His chin dips a bit, his eyes far away for a moment, and I wonder if he’s worried about making the right impression on the tour. “I’m sure it’s nothing extraordinary. Podrosa doesn’t care for veering from the norm.”
“I’ve noticed.” I offer him a supportive smile. “In any case, I’m sure you’ll win them over with your charm—magical or otherwise.”
The corner of his mouth inches upward, but before he can reply, Sir Holden enters the room. “Sorry to interrupt, but Sir Donovan is headed this way.”
I give Sir Holden a thankful nod.
Dante takes my hand, surprising me when he lifts it to his lips and gently kisses my knuckles. “I’ll see you at dinner, Highness.” He releases me and quickly turns, leaving me in the sun-warmed silence.