Chapter 16 #2
I don't know how to use that power yet, but it undoubtedly changes the game—because it means I can bargain from a position of strength.
Evening slowly descends over the palace. I'm back in the library when whispers about the king's return reach me. I finish flipping through the book I’ve been taking notes on, steel my nerves, then head out to hunt him down.
I spot Princess Kestrel again during my prowl.
She only has two noblewomen accompanying her now, so I decide to risk approaching her for information.
The two women she's chatting with go quiet as I walk up to them, then hurry away, giggling and whispering to each other as they disappear around a corner.
Kestrel watches them go with barely concealed irritation. Crossing her arms over her chest, she snaps her head toward me, her long, sword-shaped earrings flashing with the movement. “What do you want?”
“Last night, you mentioned the king was meeting with his high council—”
“They met earlier this afternoon. I can’t tell you more than this, as I was otherwise occupied during that meeting, and I haven't spoken with my brother since; he left shortly after to deal with more problems in the city.”
“I overheard some people saying he’s returned.”
She shrugs, dismissive.
“Do you know where I might find him now?”
She arches one perfect eyebrow. “If I tell you where he is, you'll go bother him instead of me?”
“That's my plan.”
She considers for a moment, her sharp, painted nails drumming against her folded arms. Those nails are a shimmering sapphire color today, perfectly coordinated to her dress and the dragon-scale accessories on her arm, neck, and shoulder.
I’ve yet to see her not perfectly coordinated; she probably has a servant whose entire job is to make sure her nails always flawlessly match her outfits.
“If I had to guess, you'll likely find him near the kitchens,” she says.
“The kitchens?”
“The Sun Harvest Feast is approaching,” she reminds me.
“And we have countless servants to do the work involved in putting the menu together, but Reave can't simply let them do their job. He has to have his hands in everything—particularly when it comes to food. This morning, he was rambling to me about his plans for the dessert course…I’m sure he’s been thinking about it all day, just itching to get back to working on it.
As though that idiot doesn’t have anything better to do. ”
“Thank you.”
She waves the words away, then leaves without sparing me another glance, heading in the direction of the women who abandoned her.
Her guess proves accurate; after a brief search, I find the king in one of the smaller prep rooms adjacent to the main kitchen.
He’s not overseeing the work of his servants—he’s alone, and in the middle of making something himself.
He stands behind a metal table, his hands carefully working a ball of dough, pinching off pieces and shaping them.
There’s a tray of already finished goods cooling nearby.
The air is warm, filled with a mouthwatering, buttery sweet scent.
He’s so absorbed in what he’s doing that I don’t think he notices me, so I hover in the doorway for a moment, watching him as he finishes preparing the next batch for baking.
It’s the first time I’ve seen him look truly relaxed.
Maybe it’s the soft lighting, or the smudge of flour on his cheek, or his slightly askew glasses, or the way his regal outer layers—the heavy embroidered coat, the golden circlet—are carelessly tossed on a nearby chair, leaving him in only a casual linen shirt that isn’t even tucked in.
Strangely, the more casual appearance almost makes him more intimidating. Like I've just stumbled upon a wolf without its pack—more dangerous alone, more unpredictable without the rituals of court to bind it
I’m still trying to decide on the best path of approach when his eyes flick briefly up to me.
“Bring me two of those, would you?” he says, pointing to a bowl of some sort of citrus fruit on a nearby shelf.
Cautiously, I do as he asks.
As I place them on the table in front of him, his eyes linger on the string of bruises running up my forearm. He looks like he’s thinking of commenting on them.
Before he can, I pull the sleeve of my shirt down. There’s no hiding the marks on my neck and face, though, so I speak before he can study these too closely. “Even with the turmoil your city has been dealing with this past week, you still think a celebratory feast is in order?”
He picks up one of the fruits and starts to zest it. It smells vaguely like an orange, but one that’s far juicer and brighter than anything we ever had back home. “You know I love a good—how did you put it last night?—wasteful, hedonistic party.”
I bite my tongue, not wanting to revisit our encounter from last night just yet. Instead, I silently note the methodical way he scrapes at the citrus fruit’s skin, the neatly measured ingredients lined up on either side of him, the perfectly crescent-shaped pastries he’s already created.
“You look like you know what you’re doing,” I comment.
“You’re surprised?”
“I wouldn’t have expected a king to possess such pedestrian skills. Why bother? You have servants who can make you whatever you want, whenever you want it.”
“It started as a necessity for others, I suppose; both my siblings were notoriously picky eaters when they were younger, and the chefs were going mad trying to deal with the problem. So, I took it upon myself to create things they would eat. They aren’t as picky these days, but I still find myself wanting to come in here and create whenever I get the chance. ”
“…It’s a comfort to you?”
He nods.
It makes me think of the art I create out of scraps. How my compulsion to make things doesn’t always make sense, given the battles surrounding me.
I don’t want to admit to these similarities between us, though—to believe we have anything in common. “It still seems like a questionable choice to be throwing a party, if the threat to your city is really as great as it seemed to be last night.”
“This feast has been held in the Mouren capital for over a century now, commemorating the day we crowned our first king. The stories say the dragons who served him took to the skies that day and stole the radiance from the sunset, pulling crimson and gold into their scales to show their allegiance to our kingdom’s colors.
” He shrugs. “It’s tradition to celebrate.
And my people will panic if things don’t carry on as they always have. ”
“Would they panic, though?”
“Do you think you know them better than I?”
“No.” I try to bite my tongue again, but I don’t succeed this time. “But you’d be surprised how resilient people can be when things don’t carry on as they always have. When the things they took for granted are ripped away from them, even.”
He stops in the middle of slicing one of the oranges in half.
“Maybe you could try depriving them of their glittering parties once in a while,” I continue, voice simmering with barely-suppressed anger.
“Or depriving them of anything, for that matter. It might make them—and you—more empathetic. Of course, it would also make you uncomfortable in the meantime, and we wouldn’t want that, I guess. ”
The knife slices the rest of the way through the orange with a jarringly loud thump.
He squeezes the juice from the halved fruit with carefully measured force as he asks, “What do you want, Ashwalker? You’ve obviously come here with an agenda.”
I take a deep breath through my nose.
Calibrate, I command myself. I can’t air every single grievance I have with him at once. I need to focus on what’s most important right now.
“We had a deal regarding my friend,” I say. “And it’s been longer than a week.”
“Your progress has been less than satisfactory, according to Gareth’s reports.”
“You’ve spoken to him today?”
“Earlier this afternoon, before I met with my council. So yes, we’re all caught up and aware of your failures.”
“Failures?” I’m so stunned I can barely choke the word out. “That’s a lie. I’m not failing. I’m doing everything that’s asked of me. She’s sharing her strength, her vision, her scales, and I heard her voice today…there’s been undeniable progress!”
He doesn’t reply—though something makes the corners of his mouth curve downward. An inkling of doubt, maybe, however slight. He picks up the other half of the orange and calmly squeezes it until it’s nothing but a shriveled husk.
An infuriating possibility occurs to me. “…Did he not tell you any of these things?” I ask—even though I can’t imagine why Gareth would withhold this information.
Reave still doesn’t answer. All his focus is on measuring, mixing, and then taste-testing what looks to be a glaze of some sort.
“Or maybe he did tell you,” I continue, seething, “and you’re just making excuses to deny what’s owed to me, so that you can keep using my friend as leverage.”
“I don’t need to make excuses.” His eyes finally settle back on me as he wipes one of his knives clean with slow, measured swipes. “Because I make the laws. Or did you forget about the crown I wear?”
“Where I come from, there are no crowns. And people who don’t keep up their end of bargains pay the price for it, regardless of their status.”
He lets out a dark little laugh. “Are you threatening me?”
“If you aren’t going to keep your word anyway, then it seems I have nothing to lose by doing so.”
“That’s a yes, then.” He removes his glasses, placing them with a stack of recipe notes, then slowly moves from behind the table. He goes briefly to the shelves, trailing his hand along them as if taking notes on ingredients. But he doesn’t return to his baking.
Instead, he closes in on me with long, confident strides.
I have to turn to follow his movements, leaving me with my back uncomfortably close to the table as he approaches. I pretend to be unbothered by it, hoisting myself up on the table’s edge and casually crossing my legs.
“I want to hear you say it out loud,” he says, planting a hand on either side of me, mirroring my attempt at casualness. “Why don’t you tell me what you’re going to do to me if I don’t cower before you and your demands?”
“If we aren’t making civilized deals any longer, then don’t expect me to keep behaving.”
“Is that what you’re doing right now?” His brows lift. “Behaving?”
“Trust me when I tell you I can be so much worse. And if I have nothing to lose, then I have no problem dragging us both down to hell when I go.”
“I know my way around that place well enough.”
“Not as well as I do.” My gaze darts toward a knife close to his left hand.
Another soft, taunting little laugh. “Go ahead. Grab it.”
I do, mostly because he clearly thinks I won’t. A hint of shock flashes in his eyes, followed by a sharp inhale as I whip the blade straight toward him, settling the tip of it against the hollow of his throat.
“…Your hand is impressively steady,” he says, quickly composing himself. “This isn’t the first time you’ve held a knife to a man’s throat, I take it.”
“And it likely won’t be the last.”
His smile turns savage, his eyes lighting with what almost looks like a challenge.
If he had any idea how many times I’d fantasized about slitting his throat, he wouldn’t be encouraging me right now.
He leans a little closer, close enough that I can taste the hint of sugar and citrus on his breath when he murmurs, “I have overlooked your defiance more than once, partly because I find it amusing, how unaware you are about who holds the power between us. I’ve shown exceptional grace toward you and your smart little mouth—”
I dig the knife into his skin, cutting him off. “Playing games and stringing me along for your entertainment doesn’t make you a gracious man.” My voice is low, venomous.
“No,” he agrees, matching my tone. “It doesn’t. Far from it. Then again, I’m not really interested in leaving a legacy of grace.” The knife bobs as he leans even closer, and my steady hand gives just an inch.
I don’t know why, but I hear myself whisper, “What are you interested in, Your Majesty?”
His gaze dips from mine for a heartbeat. I don’t dare to follow it, to try and guess at what he’s looking at.
I open my mouth to speak only to be interrupted by footsteps, followed by a gasp and the sound of someone hurrying away—an unsuspecting servant, I assume.
I look toward the noise for only an instant.
The king doesn’t need longer than this to make his move; he grabs my wrist, pinning my knife-wielding hand at an awkward angle behind my back.
“I want the same thing I’ve wanted since we met,” he says. “Your cooperation.”
“I find myself feeling less cooperative with every passing moment of this conversation,” I snarl.
His hand moves against mine, fingers carefully prying my grip apart.
“Consider yourself fortunate that I’m giving you a choice in the matter—and that I’ve been reining my power in since the moment we met.
” He wrests the knife from my hold and slides it down the table, far out of reach.
“But don’t think for a second that I would be afraid to wield that power if necessary. ”
“I think you need me more than you’re letting on,” I counter. “So what power do you truly have over me, in the end?”
He leans back slightly, studying my face. I use the opportunity to slip out from under him, hopping down and putting plenty of space between us. He gives only a slight turn of his head, watching me closely but not following.
“Let my friend go, or we’re finished. And yes, you can kill me for not cooperating if you like—I don’t care.
But I think you might care. So I believe it’s your move, Your Majesty.
” I help myself to one of the crescents cooling on the nearby tray, taking a bite and savoring the buttery layers while I wait for his reply.
He doesn’t give one.
Flashing a triumphant little smile, I walk away, leaving him speechless.