C H A P T E R N I N E
I wish I could be as aloof with her as Iolas is. Wish I could call her by any other name.
C H A P T E R N I N E
Olwyn
I feel like I have been kicked by a horse. Shit, by two horses.
As I stretch, my muscles scream in protest, the soreness radiating from my shoulders down to my legs. Every movement is a reminder of yesterday’s training, and it takes all my willpower not to wince.
Fuck Altair. Fuck his training.
The sun shines through the gap in my drapes and seems to be mocking me with its cheeriness, but it reminds me of my plan to get answers.
I can’t afford to show weakness—not in front of Iolas, and certainly not in front of Altair. I force a smile, pretending the pain doesn’t exist, even as it gnaws at the edges of my composure.
“Morning, little witch,” Iolas greets, strolling into my room after I finish dressing. He leans against the stone doorway, his honey-brown curls an unkempt crown, his hazel eyes travelling from toe to head, as if trying to catalogue injuries that aren’t there. After my session with Altair yesterday, I think Iolas could sense my mood, remaining quiet as he escorted me back to my room, still saying nothing as I slammed the door and screamed out in frustration.
He leans into the room, placing a small, sealed pot on my dresser.
“A balm from the kitchens. For your aches.”
Well… that is quite sweet.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I feel fine.” I stretch with deliberate smoothness, suppressing the urge to clutch at my sore sides.
He smirks. “Sure you do.”
It’s not the first time he has brought me some. But I thought I had been getting stronger. Training with Altair has made me feel like I’m back at the start. I walk past Iolas, leaving him to follow behind. With each step towards the great hall, I can feel his gaze on my back, heavy with questions and concerns I can’t afford to entertain. Not now, not when there is a kingdom to run and a game of deception to play.
Altair isn’t in the hall when we arrive for breakfast. So, I take his seat at the head of the long, mahogany table, surprised when Iolas takes the seat to my right.
His lips press together in amusement when he notes my raised brow. “Gods, one dinner with Altair and you want to banish me from the table forever.”
My cheeks flame. “That’s not what I want. I was surprised, that’s all. Altair won’t mind?”
“Oh, I'm sure the king won't mind.” Iolas leans forward and elbows my arm gently. “He knows how much you enjoy my company. Plus, I think he’ll be too distracted by where you’re sitting.”
I huff at him, reaching forward to claim a piece of fruit, my stomach grumbling at the food already laid out. The scent of fresh bread and spiced fruits wafts in the air. I take a plum, the purple skin gleaming like a bruise against the white cloth, and sink my teeth into its flesh, relishing the sweetness that bursts onto my tongue.
“Good morning, Olwyn,” comes Altair's voice, smooth as velvet as he saunters into the room. I almost can't control how my eyes roam over the tight fit of his courtly attire. The cut of his shirt over his muscled chest, the top few buttons undone. My gaze flickers up to meet his shadowy eyes, and my face flames again, feeling caught in the act.
There's a brief look of confusion on his face, and I feel as though he is sifting through my thoughts like one would sift flour for impurities.
“Morning,” I reply, my tone light and air y? —perhaps a little too breathles s? —as I ignore the tension that tightens my shoulders. “I trust you slept well?”
His eyes linger on me, and I can feel the heat rising to my cheeks, but I refuse to look at him again. I focus on buttering my bread, trying to ignore the way his presence fills the room.
Sitting in Altair’s seat is a small act, a way to remind myself that I still have some control in this twisted game we’re playing. But as I feel his gaze on me, I wonder if I’ve overstepped. His silence is heavy, charged with a tension that makes the air feel thick. For a moment, I expect him to order me to move, to put me back in my place. But when he sits down next to me instead, I can’t help but feel a small, unexpected thrill of victory. Maybe I’m not as powerless as I thought.
“Very well, thank you,” he says. I can sense his curiosity, the slight narrowing of his eyes as he tries to decipher my unusual cheerfulness. The image of resilience, I remind myself.
Iolas breaks the silence. “You two are positively chipper this morning. Did something happen during training that I should know about?” His hazel eyes dance as he leans back in his chair, the corners of his lips twitching with barely contained laughter.
Altair's expression remains impassive, but the flicker of something unreadable in his eyes betrays his thoughts. “Nothing of consequence,” he replies smoothly, though his tone holds a hint of steel.
I fight to keep my composure, plastering on a smile that feels too tight on my face.
Fortunately, Altair changes the subject, talking to Iolas about changing up the guard rotations. As breakfast progresses, I find my cheeks hurting from smiling. The fake nicety as I nod along to Iolas’s chatter when he addresses me.
Once I have eaten as much as I can, I decide it’s time to start putting my plans into place. I set the knife down with deliberate care, my fingers lingering on the hilt for a moment as I prepare myself. “I was thinking,” I begin, my voice steady but laced with an underlying edge, “with King Casius’s arrival approaching, perhaps I could help with the preparations?” I try to keep my tone casual, maintaining the facade of eager involvement. “It would be a good way for me to learn more of the palace’s operations.”
Altair’s fork freezes midair, and his gaze snaps back to mine, a flash of surprise flickering in his eyes. “You wish to be involved?”
I nod, offering the brightest smile I can manage, even though I can feel Iolas’s intense gaze from my side, as if he’s waiting for my next move. “Yes, of course. It’s important that everything goes smoothly for his arrival, isn’t it? I could help plan the ball.” The words leave my mouth with more confidence than I feel, but it's the first step. I need to be involved, to learn everything I can. The closer I get to the heart of this place, the more control I can take back.
Altair’s brow furrows for a moment, as though weighing my words, but after a beat, he inclines his head with a slight tilt of his lips. “Very well. I will arrange for you to meet with the staff. They will show you what needs to be done.”
I’m taken aback by how easily he agrees. I was prepared for resistance, perhaps even a refusal, but here he is, offering his approval. My heart beats a little faster, and for a moment, it almost feels like I’ve won something—like I’ve made a step forward in this chaotic game. Gods above, he says yes.
“Thank you,” I say, my voice softer than I intended. I can’t stop the relief from spilling out, and I feel a sense of accomplishment flood my chest. Step one of the plan: infiltrate the inner workings.
But as the excitement dies down, I realise I’ve used this opportunity to push forward—but it’s not enough. My mind races, questions bubbling up that I can no longer keep at bay. It’s time I got some answers. I turn to Altair, the words already forming in my mind.
“I also think it’s time I had some answers,” I say, my voice firm, my gaze unwavering. I meet his eyes, locking onto him. “Why did you take me?” I pause, feeling the question hang between us. “Was it solely for the prophecy?”
Iolas stiffens, but Altair doesn’t look away. Instead, he shares a brief, knowing glance with him, the unspoken communication flickering between them like a silent exchange. For a heartbeat, I wonder if Altair will try to avoid the question, sidestep it like so many others. But then, to my surprise, he answers.
“I took you because you are a part of something much larger than all of us,” Altair says quietly, his voice laced with an edge I can’t quite decipher. “The prophecy... yes, it played a role. But it wasn’t the only reason.” His gaze darkens slightly, and I see something in his eyes—something that looks almost like regret. “But the truth is, Olwyn, there are many things I can’t tell you. Not yet. For your safety.”
I open my mouth to protest, but he raises a hand, silencing me before I can speak. “Please. You must understand,” he continues, his voice low and earnest, “this world, our world, is dangerous. There are people—forces—that would use you, manipulate you, destroy you to keep things as they are. The prophecy, your role in all of this... it’s a weapon, one that could bring about peace—or more war. But there are dangers in it that even I can’t fully predict.”
The raw honesty in his voice stirs something deep inside me—something I hadn’t expected. I’ve always seen him as the enemy, the one who took me, forced me into this situation. And I never anticipated he would be this open with me. But now, I wonder if he’s just as trapped as I am. His eyes meet mine with a weight I can’t ignore, and I realise that whatever this is between us, it’s far from simple.
“I need to know more,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “I need to know why I’m part of this, why I’m stuck in this game. If I’m going to trust you, I need to understand.”
Altair’s gaze softens just a fraction, the storm in his eyes clearing for a moment. “I will tell you more,” he promises, his voice low. “When the time is right. But you need to trust me now. Trust that what I’m doing is for your protection.”
For a heartbeat, silence stretches between us, thick with his words. I want to argue, to demand more answers. But I hold back. He’s offering me a piece of truth, something I didn’t expect. Perhaps that’s all I can get for now.
“Then you need to stop treating me like I don’t have a say in any of this,” I tell him, my voice steady despite the uncertainty swirling inside me.
Altair regards me quietly, his expression unreadable for a long moment. Then, he nods once, sharply. “Agreed.”
The room seems to take a collective breath as Altair smiles lightly at me before turning to Iolas. “I need to speak with you after breakfast.”
Iolas grunts through a mouthful of food, before swallowing.
“I’ll take the little witch to her room then meet you in the study?” His eyes flick to me.
I pre-empt him, standing up quickly. “No need,” I say. “You go ahead and speak with Altair. I know my way by now.”
Iolas hesitates, his eyes searching mine. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.” I laugh, hoping it sounds genuine. “I promise I won't get lost, not with the guards. And when you join me after, I'd like to visit the library.”
He looks towards Altair, who appears conflicted for one moment, before he nods, though the reluctance in his eyes is clear as he waves a hand to the two guards stood by the double doors to escort me.
“Very well.”
With a final nod to both men, I turn and walk out of the hall, the echo of my footsteps bouncing off the stone walls as the royal guards follow me. As soon as I am out of sight, I let my smile drop, my mind already racing with the possibilities of the information I could gather while helping the staff prepare.
The guards escort me directly to my closed door, only one other room in the corridor—the door always locked.
I give them a nod and push open the door to my chambers, my mind still buzzing with plans as I hear them retreat down the staircase. But the moment the heavy door clicks shut behind me, a chill runs down my spine and my hands feel warm. Something is wrong.
The room is dim, the drapes pulled halfway across the windows, casting shadows that dance eerily across the walls. My eyes flick around, searching for what has set off the alarm bells in my head. And then I see him.
A large man, his frame filling the space between my wardrobe and the window, steps forward. His face is obscured by a hood, but I can see a cold glint of silver in his eyes beneath it.
I take a step back, my hand reaching behind me to reach for the doorknob.
But he launches for me, moving with terrifying surety, closing the distance between us in a few strides. I catch a faint scent of sweat and leather, mingling with something metallic as I open my mouth to scream.
But my mind races as his hands close around my throat, panic clawing at the edges of my consciousness. This can’t be happening. Not here, not now. I struggle to breathe; to think, as black spots begin to cloud my vision. Every instinct screams at me to fight, to survive, but my body feels sluggish, unresponsive.
I can’t die here.
His grip is like iron, unyielding, and no matter how hard I claw at his hands, he doesn’t flinch. Panic rises, thick and choking, as my strength ebbs away. I’ve fought before, but this is different—this is raw, brutal survival, and I’m losing. My nails dig into his skin, but it’s like trying to break stone. I instinctively reach down to where my dagger is sheathed at my thigh, my fingers brushing the cold metal. But it’s too far, and I can’t quite grasp it. For a moment, pure terror floods me, my breath quickening, but then instinct takes over.
Iolas’s voice echoes in my mind: “Always aim for the weak spots—eyes, throat, groin. If they’re stronger, use their strength against them.” I force myself to remember, to focus, even as the world narrows to the crushing pressure on my windpipe. My body moves on instinct, driven by desperation.
I swing my knee up, aiming for his groin. It’s not as hard as I like, but I am still aching from training. He grunts, loosening his grip just enough for me to suck in a desperate breath. I take the opportunity to strike him in the face, feeling the satisfying crunch of his nose under my knuckle s? —just as Iolas has shown me.
He roars in pain, but his grip tightens again, crushing my windpipe. Black spots dance in my vision. Desperately, I reach for the dagger strapped to my thigh, managing to unsheathe it with trembling fingers.
I need to get him away from my neck.
With a surge of adrenaline, I drive the blade towards his side, but he is quicker. His hand shoots out, knocking the dagger from my grasp. It clatters to the floor, skidding out of reach.
Terror grips me as he shoves me back, my head slamming against the wall. Pain explodes behind my eyes, and I taste blood in my mouth. I try to scream, but we both drop to the floor, his grip on my throat once more turning it into a strangled gasp.
His eyes bore into mine, and I see a flicker of triumph in their cold depths. He leans in closer, his breath hot and foul against my cheek.
“Time to die, princess,” he growls, his voice a low, menacing rumble.
Princess?
Iolas’s lessons scream in my brain and with the last of my strength, I swing my arm up, jabbing my fingers into his eyes. Hard. He howls, jerking back and loosening his grip just enough for me to suck in another breath. I kick out wildly, my foot connecting with his knee, and he leg slips out from under him.
Gasping for air, I scramble back for the door, my heart pounding in my ears. I must get out; I must find help. Regret pierces through my panic—I should have had Iolas escort me to my room. But as I reach for the handle, he recovers, lunging toward me with a grunt and pulling me away.
He’s squeezing the life out of me. My strength is fading, and a dark, cold edge begins to creep into my mind, whispering that this is the end.