Chapter Eleven
Xandril
It’s late in the day when I wake, stiff and still exhausted.
With Ingrid’s scent in my bed but the woman herself out of sight and out of reach, I’ve spent most of the time tossing and turning, trying not to think about her.
I’ve done well to keep my distance since the Presentation, giving her the time and space to settle into the castle before being frightened off by me.
Now that I’ve seen her again, I’ve been close enough to hold her, surrounded by her scent—that distance between us chafes. It feels unnatural.
And I don’t like how quickly that feeling has taken root. How quickly she became mine.
It hardly matters, though. Ingrid is my bride. She will be at my side from now until the end of time—or my life, whichever comes sooner—so should I not feel some measure of affection for her? Wouldn’t it be more unnatural if I didn’t?
I might be less conflicted about it if it were reciprocated in any way, but I know that’s an impossible dream.
Even before this morning, I knew that Ingrid would only see me as a fearsome monster; now there remains no doubt.
She couldn’t get out of bed fast enough when she realized what was happening.
Couldn’t stand the thought of sharing a bedchamber with me.
There’s no heat in my veins, no battle-ready determination this time. Only the sinking, hollow realization that Ingrid is going to be miserable here. With me.
What deal could she have possibly made that would be worth this?
Growling at my own thoughts, I pull myself out of bed, letting the ache of my overused muscles distract me. My mind has never been safe refuge for me, and the company of my own thoughts has only grown more unbearable after taking the throne.
Once dressed, I make my way down to the kitchens. The rich, mouth-watering smells and chaotic orders shouted over roaring fires is a better welcome than any royal procession.
My entrance goes unnoticed at first, everyone too busy with preparations for the next meal; even in its crumbling state, the castle has hundreds of mouths to feed.
It’s no small feat, and the cook leads his army the same way I led mine.
No room for errors, complete trust that your people can do what they’re put there to do.
The leaders who look over shoulders and need proof of every minor task being completed have never garnered the respect or loyalty of their troops, in my experience.
If you’ve done your job right in selecting your team and training them, doubting them is doubting yourself. And doubt gets people killed.
Finally, my bulk is impossible to ignore. Someone skirts around me, an admonishment on the tip of their tongue when their eyes widen and a stammer falls from their lips instead.
“Y-your Majesty! We weren’t told you would—”
I shake my head, gesturing for discretion. “No need to fuss. I only want a hot meal.”
“Oh! Well, we’ll get the table set and—”
“I want to admire the talent of my kitchens. Here is fine.”
“You mean… You want to… I’m sorry, Your Highness, I don’t think I understand.”
“He’s hungry, Jois,” an older demon says in an exasperated tone. “Now stop tripping over yourself and get him a seat.”
Jois scampers off, looking like they’ve just escaped an angry ursow while the older demon wastes no time setting out plates and ladling up bowls of stew, each one smelling better than the last.
“Don’t mind them,” he says, tutting and shaking his head. “Means well. Farandir never darkened that doorway, they don’t know what to do. But king or no, everyone’s got a belly that needs filling.”
I nod, thanking him before I dig in, hunched over one of the counters.
It might not be the grand gesture of appreciation that Morwen had in mind, but my presence is starting to be noticed.
Suddenly, every station, every cook, is delivering a portion of their dish, forming a queue to place it in front of me, looking on expectantly until I take a taste and give a nod of approval.
There’s no doubt that each and every one of them takes pride in their work, and for good reason.
With the longest winter Emerald has had in centuries, supplies are stretched thin, anything fresh has to be imported, and I’ve drastically reduced the budget for those luxuries.
Still, the kitchen produces hearty, filling meals that taste better than anything I ever had while serving with the Wardens.
Having eaten far more than my fill, I say my thanks to the kitchen staff and escape to the training grounds to see how much damage last night’s my angry outburst did. I’ve hardly stepped foot on the frozen ground when Hilduin approaches, a battle whip perched on her shoulder.
“Back for more?” she asks, a brow arched.
“Observing,” I reply, the scar in my side giving a twinge at the memory of her jab yesterday. A repeat of a fight like that would have me limping off the battlefield.
Hilduin huffs, dropping her arm so that the whip coils at her feet like a loyal hound. “Have I offended you?” she asks, catching me off-guard.
“What? No—”
“Have I disappointed you? Have I angered you?” Despite the line of questioning, it’s Hilduin who sounds angry, each question punctuated harder than the previous.
“I—”
“Because you dragged me all the way from the border—where I was very useful, I’ll add—and told me I’m the only one you trust to get your guard into shape, but not a day has gone by since I arrived that you haven’t come down to derail my drills and distract my troops.
You either trust me to do this and get out of my damn way, or send me back to the border where I can serve the reach. ”
Hilduin is small compared to me, but that doesn’t stop her from being an intimidating sight, eyes hard with a challenge, knuckles white where she grips the whip, the stubborn set of her jaw, and not even a heartbeat of hesitation anywhere in her.
Looking past her, the drills continue, but they’re sloppy, too many glances our way, too many ears trying to listen in.
Shattered realms. She’s right. But this has nothing to do with not trusting Hilduin. It’s myself that I’m doubting, and now that doubt is spreading like rot to those who answer to me.
“My time here has more to do with my own inadequacies than anything I think of you and your abilities,” I assure her.
She frowns, her weapon arm relaxing. “What in the cursed wilds are you talking about? You’re The Emerald Bulwark.
Defender of Goldenmere. You held the western wall alone, buying precious moments for villagers to flee when reinforcements would not have arrived in time.
You toppled siege towers with nothing but your strength, grit, and force of will. No one doubts your prowess in battle.”
I grunt, heat flaring through me. “Precisely. In battle. I know how to handle soldiers. How to address them, how to solve the problems they come to me with. I know what to expect.” I sigh, the admission clawing to stay buried deep in my chest. “The same cannot be said for nobility.”
Hilduin’s eyes widen, her mouth falling open in a soft ‘oh.’
“But I hear you, friend,” I add, the frigid air seeping into me more than normal.
The captain’s pained look only makes me feel more foolish for admitting my weakness. She eyes me like a lame foal that needs to be put down. It’s worse than any disgust or fear I’ve endured from courtiers.
The hard slant of her brow fading, Hilduin glances back over her shoulder, making the distracted guards snap back to their drills with pointed attention.
“If you want to join us today,” she starts, the mixture of pity and reluctance in her voice churning up shame in my gut.
“No, I came to—”
“There you are,” Valenar calls, saving me from inventing a cover to save face. “I thought we were meeting in the keep and coming down together,” he adds, quick strides bringing him to my side while Hilduin takes her cue and quick-steps away before the moment can get any more awkward.
“What are you talking about?” I ask, once she’s out of earshot.
Val shrugs. “I could tell you were sinking.”
“From across the courtyard?” I ask skeptically. He’s always been good at reading people, myself unfortunately included, but it’s a bold claim even for him.
“Your tells are obvious,” he says. “And I may have overheard Hilduin practicing her speech in the shower.”
The frozen air cuts to my bone, and I want the world to open up and swallow me. I’ve been exactly the kind of overbearing leader I typically deride. And everyone’s noticed.
“I hate to sound like I have nothing else to advise, but…you cannot restore the throne by avoiding it.”
My jaw clenches, the ground underfoot melting with an audible hiss. “If you want to have this discussion again, I suggest you grab your daggers.”
“Really?” Val asks, sounding exasperated while rolling his eyes, but I see the quirk of a smile lifting the corners of his mouth, and then the flash of steel as he palms a dagger.
Good.
At least with fighting I know what I’m doing. I don’t have to question my every move.
“You claimed this throne, now it’s time to act like it,” Val says, rushing me with a dagger in each hand.
I plant my feet and turn toward him just in time to block, the first dagger scraping along the stone of my shoulder, the impact sending Val veering off-course.
“I did what I had to,” I grunt, warding off another attack. “Farandir’s addiction was killing the reach. It was my duty to remove him.” Not my duty to replace him. The second half remains unspoken, but Valenar has heard the argument enough times to finish it for me.
He doesn’t understand, though. He’s from Sable, a reach that needs nothing and no one. Emerald is different; it’s a living thing as much as any of the guards around me, and it doesn’t deserve to die for the sickness of one demon. What it needs is someone to care for it and nurse it back to health.
What it’s got is me.
Cutting out the rot I managed just fine, but healing the resulting wound? That’s beyond my skillset. Something that Valenar—despite his foreign origin—would be much better equipped to handle.
As if sensing the argument on the tip of my tongue—or more likely, anticipating what I’ll say next because it’s the same argument I’ve had since we first began planning our coup—Valenar jabs forward, a wicked gleam in his eyes.
“And don’t say it should be me,” he says in time with his strike.
I move to block, and in doing so, leave my other side open.
Both of his hands are in sight, so I’m actually surprised when I feel the point of his dagger against my back, threatening my kidney.
His damn tail. I know better than to discount it.
“It should,” I say, both of us frozen.
The point of the blade digs in.
“No matter how good I am with charm and words, the men have always looked to you for guidance,” he argues.
“And every other soul in the reach looks at me like I’m a Wilds-touched monster.”
His eyes narrow, waiting for the crack or bend in my will.
“Fine. I’ll do it,” he says, the dagger held in his tail clattering to the icy ground. He steps back, raising his hands in surrender.
“What?” I’m still poised for an attack, lava burning in my veins, and now he’s just…giving in?
“Sure,” he says, with a casual air that makes me instantly suspicious. “I’ll take the throne for you. Wear the crown. I’ve already presented your bride for you, should I also bed her and make her squirm under me, gasping my name?”
There’s not a moment to think between those words hitting my ears and Valenar’s back hitting the ground. I don’t remember moving. I certainly don’t remember tackling him, but suddenly he’s pinned under me, my fist poised above his face. It’s only his laughter that snaps me out of the rage.
“Thought so,” he says, extracting himself from my hold while I’m still in shock. “You may think this isn’t what you want, but you haven’t even given it a chance. The whole point of bringing in a bride is to make the reach see another side of you. She might be able to help more than you think.”
I scoff, dusting myself off after standing, more embarrassed now than when Hilduin was offering me her pity. He didn’t see the way Ingrid looked at me this morning.
“I don’t see why she would. She clearly wants nothing to do with me.” Perhaps his optimism has blinded him to that, but I can’t fool myself.
“Clearly,” Val laughs. “That must be why she’s watching you so closely.”
My heart stops, gaze darting to my friend, then following his eyes up to the ramparts. Bundled in a heavy wool cloak lined in ifrak fleece, her nose and cheeks pink like cherry blossoms, is my precious bride.