Chapter Two #2
Before I can hear a response, Ryc gestures, ushering us into the study we came close to escaping. Cyran follows, closing the door behind him. The moment the latch catches, Ryc folds his arms across his chest. Both Eve and Cyran linger silently near the door as I meander into the center of the room.
“I hoped to catch you before Rowen,” Ryc’s firm voice breaks the silence.
Heated indignation flares in my chest despite staring into the golden eyes I adore. “Had you not been with Fenryn, you would have,” I counter.
He heaves a sigh. “Fenryn is trustworthy, little demon.” Raking a hand through his hair, he says, “He is the only Sovereign King I would dare trust with my life.”
“How beautifully poetic for you,” I retort coldly. “You know where I stand. The fewer Sovereign Kings who learn of my return the better. How do you know it wasn’t Fenryn who told Rowen? Rowen mentioned someone—”
“By name?” Ryc interjects, his brows shooting high.
I shake my head. “No.” I inhale a deep breath. “Not by name.”
“I’m surprised Rowen didn’t approach me following today’s council meeting if that’s the case,” Ryc says, keeping his voice low.
That’s why he had a mental ward in place.
He must have just returned when I tried reaching out.
I purse my lips into a tight line.
“Rowen has suspected for some time. I’ve done what I can to deter that suspicion,” Ryc says, and his watchful eyes travel across the room.
They fall upon the window I’ve left open.
His brows crease as the series of events leading me to this room become clear.
“Did you break into this room using the window?” he sounds incredulous, but it doesn’t stop the smile crossing his face.
Heat stings my cheeks.
“No,” I reply callously. Clearly a lie. “I reside here. You cannot break into your own residence. And besides, nothing was broken. The window was left unlatched.”
I admit, the arched brow and bemused glare he gives me is well-earned. His lips quickly curl in a wicked smirk as he shakes his head.
“I can guarantee it wasn’t Fenryn who said anything,” he says as he crosses the room, his hand gently grazing mine as he passes.
Pulling a seat out at the table on the far side of the room, he gestures for me to sit. With less reluctance than I’d like, I accept the invitation.
Seating himself beside me, he angles his chair toward me and collecting my hands in his, he braids his fingers through mine. The warmth of his touch races straight to my heart and his golden gaze threatens to leave me breathless. He pitches himself forward, leaning his elbows against his knees.
“But now Rowen’s seen you,” he says, lifting his eyes to search my face. “And he has no reason to keep your return hidden. In fact, he has every reason to tell the council the moment he leaves.”
My ribs tighten.
Telling the High Council means we’ll be forced to ascend.
Much sooner than either of us would like.
Sensing my building dread, Ryc gives my hands a gentle squeeze.
“I have been very careful in fielding questions about you, little death,” Ryc says. “But even so, Rowen would have figured it out given time. I may have convinced a majority of the council of your death, but Rowen has experienced the loss of a mate.”
My brows shoot high.
Despite the questions springing into my head, I remain silent.
“That alone would be enough for him to arrive with questions,” Ryc continues. “We may be able to convince Rowen to keep quiet for a few years while you adapt and adjust. But if he’s mentioned someone, we need to find out who. If it was a fellow king, that possibility lessens.”
“So we talk,” I say, fighting to keep the irritation from my tone. “Figure out what he knows and consider our options.”
Rowen’s death is a valid option.
Though, without my shadows, I’m unsure how I’d manage such a feat.
Ryc offers me a dazzling smile. “I’m glad we agree.”
He gives my hands yet another squeeze before stealing his away.
Straightening himself, he glances at Cyran. With a nod, Cyran opens the door.
“Sovereign King Rowen,” he says, his deep voice firm. “Sovereign King Alaryc and Lady Ves will see you.”
As Cyran moves out of the doorway, he takes position beside Eve against the wall. Eve, perched with a heel against the wall and her arms crossed over her chest, continues to inspect the nails on her right hand in silence.
Rowen enters the room, and I can’t help but notice more than a few changes in his appearance since the last time I saw him.
He looks centuries younger. The broad strokes of silver accenting his temples have vanished.
The creases at the corners of his eyes, less severe.
And the smile he wears as he crosses the room, it’s warm, appreciative, and genuine.
Reaching, Cyran closes the door.
“Let me begin by saying I understand,” Rowen says as he pulls out a seat across the table. “I understand why you would want to keep her hidden.”
“Then why come?” Ryc asks, pinning his stare against the Sovereign King of Vis.
Lowering himself into his seat, Rowen leans forward, resting his arms on the table as he folds his hands before him. “I needed to see Vestaris for myself,” he answers. “I knew requesting an audience would give you time to hide her.”
Ryc laughs, a cold bitter sound. “And now? Have you come to barter? Your throne for the secrecy of her return?”
Rowen lowers his eyes to the table. “In a sense,” he says with a slow nod. “I’ve suspected her return for weeks now, Alaryc. You show no signs of the consuming madness. But I’ve kept silent.”
“What’s changed?” I demand and his eyes race to mine.
“Vaelyn,” he replies.
Vaelyn?
My brows furrow as my breathing shallows.
A low, dangerous growl rumbles from Ryc’s chest as all the blood in my heart pools in my feet.
“Your twin visited me,” Rowen says with a resigned sigh. “Earlier today, before the council meeting. I was surprised to learn he’s become the ruler of the hells and not you, Vestaris.”
He pauses and I force myself to meet his stare.
“What did he want?” I demand.
“I thought he might be serving as your messenger, as he did for your father,” he says. “It turns out he wanted the opportunity to try and negotiate a new contract.”
“Why?” I give Rowen a narrow-eyed glare.
Sovereign King or not, offering a mortal who’s been freed of their contract doesn’t make sense. It’s unlikely a demon can tempt a mortal to trade their soul once. After firsthand experience with the dastardly language of demonic contracts, it would be impossible to connive a mortal a second time.
I don’t know the exact number of contracts Netharis kept.
But I imagine it was a significant number.
And now a good majority, if not all, are off the table for Vaelyn.
A lack of contracts means a lack of control and power. A lack of information. A lack of influence. Any demon worth their weight in salt will carry as many contracts as they can muster.
If those freed speak on their experience, share it—the available pool of willing souls shrinks. Another hurdle he’ll need to overcome—fishing in what could be a dry lake.
Glad it’s him and not me.
Shifting, Rowen straightens himself in his seat, tugging his tailored jacket open. Reaching, he withdraws a letter, one that’s been opened.
“Because he knows of this,” Rowen answers, propping the letter between two fingers. “He learned the council seeks to remove the Grayflame family from power for my contract. He offered to tilt things in my favor, promising I’d remain Sovereign King should I sign.”
Vaelyn could do that.
He has that kind of power now.
It’s a power Netharis wielded like a finely tuned instrument. Careful and calculating with every stroke. I doubt Vaelyn will be as adept a player.
A small silence fills the room as Rowen slides the letter across the table toward me. A gold wax seal lies broken across the seam. It features eight crowns in a ring, in its center a ninth, larger than the rest. Undoubtedly, it’s the seal of the High Council.
“Rather than broker a deal with the god of death for a second time,” Rowen says, his lips tilting upward in the slightest grin, “I thought I would try my hand at finding a resolution myself.”
“Which involves looking for me?” I scoff, taking the letter.
“Yes,” Rowen replies. “You’ve done the impossible and I’m hoping you can help me do the same.”
As I unfold the letter, Rowen continues.
“I understand there are repercussions for my decisions, but what the High Council is seeking…” he trails off as I read.
My blood runs cold upon reading a single word.
Execution.
Upon reading the next sentence, my wide eyes race to Rowen’s.
“Tanila too?” I ask, bewildered.
Is the council threatened by Rowen’s daughter? Why would they seek her death as well?
Rowen nods slowly.
“The council seeks to strike the Grayflame family from record,” Rowen says in quiet anger. “I cannot let that happen.”
Folding the letter, I heave a sigh as I push it across the table. He doesn’t pick it up. He doesn’t even look at it. Instead, he keeps his eyes fixed upon mine.
“That’s a rather mild way of putting it,” I say, my tone grim. I turn to Ryc. “Why would the council want this? Why include Tanila?”
“Ganus and Eloric are spearheading the charges,” Ryc answers. “There’s been tension between the borders of Renna, Vis, and Battalia for the last few decades.”
I purse my lips. Annoyed.
Fae politics were supposed to be a problem for future Ves.
Years down the line—for Sovereign Queen Ves. For Ves when she found a way to regain her innate.
Not now.
Not this soon.
As I stare at Rowen, my annoyance grows. He’s a hurled stone in a house of glass wrapped in a ribbon carrying the stench of the hells.
“Ganus and Eloric’s… displeasure with my leadership of the council has grown in the last few centuries,” Rowen says with a tight-lipped frown.
“This discovery has emboldened them and their political aspirations. Due to the nature of the charges, my nomination for succession is nullified. The decision will default to the council.”