Chapter 47 Skylar #2
Sebastien glances between Skylar and Zryan, then swallows. “But I paid to be here.” He is pathetic. A pathetic, scrawny, bug-eyed man. How is it that people like him are still alive, when Cam—and Jessa—are dead?
Astrid’s gaze flickers from Zryan to Skylar, like she can feel the emotion coming off her. Skylar gives her a small head shake—trying to reassure her that she can hold it together. Or she thinks she can, anyway.
Zryan is still standing there, looking to the outside eye like nothing more than a gracious prince, greeting one of his subjects.
But Skylar can see the tightness of his jaw, as he rocks back on his heels.
“Apologies for that,” he says evenly. “But there’s been some misunderstanding.
You see, neither the Arturean princess nor my sister are for sale.
This evening—or ever.” He claps Sebastien on his shoulder again, and Sebastien winces a little.
“If you’d like a reimbursement, put some time in with Mjolnir, won’t you? He manages my diary.”
Skylar snorts, some of the tension leaving her, and Astrid lifts her goblet, smiling into it.
Sebastien gets to his feet, swallowing again.
Zryan nods encouragingly, like he is training a dog.
Sebastien sketches a hasty bow—to Zryan, not bothering with Astrid or Skylar.
He’s about to bolt, when Zryan grabs his arm.
Again, to anyone watching, Skylar is sure this action must look composed.
But up close, she can see the way Zryan’s fingers tighten, can hear Sebastien’s sharp intake of breath.
She’d happily bet there will be a bruise there tomorrow.
“Be sure to pass the message on, won’t you?” Zryan says, still in that same amicable tone. “Just in case anyone else gets any ideas.”
Sebastien nods, and his sigh of relief is audible when Zryan lets go.
“Well, now,” Zryan says, sitting down between Astrid and Skylar, “where were we?”
Astrid bursts out laughing, her eyes dancing as she looks at Zryan. Skylar can’t help it—she grins, too, despite the fact that everyone is still watching, despite the fact that she’s not supposed to look like she’s enjoying anything.
“Are you allowed to do that?” Astrid whispers.
“I’m the prince of Vatra.” As if that answers it. Which, in his case, she supposes it does. He glances at Skylar. “And I thought I should stop my sister from doing something she might regret.”
“I wouldn’t regret it,” Skylar mutters, pouring herself some wine.
“Besides”—and here Zryan bends toward Astrid, dropping his voice low enough that perhaps, if Skylar didn’t have magic helping her, she wouldn’t be able to hear—“I don’t want anyone else sitting next to you. Not tonight.”
She thinks she catches it, underneath the table. The way Zryan brushes his hand against Astrid’s. It makes her wonder, not for the first time, just what outcome he’s hoping for tomorrow.
Then Gwen appears by Astrid’s side, bending down to speak to her. And while Astrid’s attention is diverted, Zryan turns to Skylar.
“How are you feeling?” he asks.
“Oh, just dandy.”
“You can talk to me. I know it can’t be easy.”
“Do you now?” She doesn’t know why she is being antagonistic. Not now she knows what he’s been doing to help people all this time. Only, she doesn’t think she can face any more bonding. It will only make what she has to do tomorrow harder.
“I spent a long time when I was younger, trying to find a way out of the duel, you know.”
“What, didn’t fancy ruling?”
“Oh, I wanted to rule,” he says easily. “Because with ruling comes the power to change things, doesn’t it?” He pauses. “But I didn’t want to kill to get there.”
“No,” she agrees. “I imagine you didn’t.” She sighs. “And now you won’t do either. Kill or rule,” she adds for clarity.
He grimaces, though covers it quickly. Around the gardens, people have gone back to talking among themselves, as waiters bring out the starters. The king and queen, Skylar notes, are fashionably late. As is Axel. She hates herself for noticing that.
“I’m sorry,” Zryan says quietly, “that you got dragged into this. I’m not sure I ever said that.”
Skylar twists her goblet stem between her thumb and forefinger, then looks up, meets his gaze.
“I’m sorry,” she says, “that I have to go in tomorrow.” That she has to fight Astrid.
It can only end one way, and for that, she is sorry.
She wonders how he’ll be afterward. What he’ll do, as he watches—powerless to stop it happening.
Gwen heads back to her seat, and Astrid returns her attention to them.
“Shall I give you some space?” Skylar asks her, gesturing between Astrid and Zryan. After all, she can give that to them, can’t she? A final night, unencumbered. As much as possible, anyway.
“No,” says Astrid. “We want you here.” She looks to Zryan. “Don’t we?”
He nods, then jerks his head toward the entrance of the gardens. “Besides, you have company.” She turns to see the king and queen moving into view, smiling around at the nobles. And behind them—Axel.
Skylar’s stomach tightens, and when he meets her gaze, her heart, her traitorous fucking heart, jumps just a little.
Zryan is watching her—she can feel his gaze on the side of her face.
“You know, Axel is family,” he says—and though she refuses to look at him, she knows he’s talking to her and her alone.
“We grew up together. We’ve always been there for each other.
” He pauses. “Much as I love him, he can be loyal to a fault sometimes. So I get it, the way you’re feeling.
But I will say this: I do think that no matter what he does, he does it because he loves his country—and the people who live here.
” Skylar narrows her eyes at Zryan, letting him know that is not an excuse.
He raises his hands. “Just letting you know, that’s all. ”
She takes a sip of wine as Axel joins them at the table. He nods at Zryan, then repeats the gesture for Astrid, before sliding into the seat next to Skylar.
“I told you,” she says, angling away from him, “I don’t want to speak to you.”
“I know you don’t,” he says quietly. “But I thought maybe you’d prefer me next to you than a stranger.” Skylar glances at Astrid’s other side at that—the seat is still empty, so presumably Zryan’s warning got around.
She looks back at Axel. He is waiting for her response.
Waiting for her permission to stay here with her, this final night before the duel.
She hates that part of her wants him to.
That part of her wishes she could forget—or at least forgive.
That she could allow herself to take some sort of comfort from him.
It’s because of that part that she gets to her feet.
He grabs her wrist to stop her. She hates, too, the prickle of anticipation that runs along her forearm—her body responding to his touch, despite everything.
“I don’t know what I can say.”
She pulls her wrist from his grip. “Then don’t say anything.”
“You’re going to win tomorrow, Skylar.” His voice is a low murmur, said to her back. “You know that, right?”
She closes her eyes. She hopes Astrid can’t hear him, that she’s distracted, talking to Zryan. She turns back to Axel, finds his eyes waiting for her—those eyes that see too much, that always know just what she is feeling. And she hardens her heart. “I know.”
She moves away from the table, not sure where exactly she’s heading. She grabs a drink from a passing server, feeling the nobles at the nearest table watching her as she does. Then she sees the king standing at the end of the high table, his mate by his side.
The cellist stops playing. Around the gardens, under the twinkling lights, feet start to stomp. Bitterness, stronger than akavit, coats Skylar’s tongue. First, he sold off seats, and now he wants to make a speech?
“Dragons and witches,” the king begins, silencing the stomping feet, “we come together to celebrate this night of mourning. For as much as we all understand why tomorrow must come, it is a tragedy. One life must end in order for all of us, both sides of the border, to prosper in this time of peace. Which means that tomorrow we say goodbye to one heir. We will, of course, honor the Nachstern princess, but first I would like to invite you all to celebrate my daughter, the Chosen Heir, destined to bring forth the last fire dragon, and unite—”
But Skylar has had enough. She takes a step forward—and all eyes turn to her.
The king’s cruel eyes narrow in warning.
He wants her to sit down and listen. To let him stand there and lay claim to her, after he killed her mother, tried to kill her.
After he sent Cam to be slaughtered and kidnapped so many more Blooded.
Fuck. That.
The glass in her hand shatters—and she isn’t sure if it’s her strength or her magic that causes it.
Everyone is quiet.
“Do you know what?” she says, her eyes still on the king. “I don’t think I want to be honored, if it’s all the same to you.” She sweeps her eyes around the watching nobles, noting the hunger in many of their gazes, the desperation for drama. “You should all be disgusted at yourselves.”
With that, she turns and storms into the night.
She catches sight of a pair of yellow eyes in the dark, Simone giving her a nod of approval.
Just as the king shouts, commanding her to stop.
She doesn’t even look behind her as she sends a blast of power back toward him.
She’s getting better at targeting it, and she feels the force of it collide with the king.
Then there is darkness, as her power explodes the stupid twinkling lights, sending glass showering down on everyone there.
Silence, more telling than the loudest of roars, follows. And no one else tries to stop her.