Chapter 21
Isca
Still filled with regret for pushing Emrys like I had, I made the trek back to the smaller formal dining hall with Catrin at my side.
The humid evening air felt heavy and too warm against my skin—though maybe it was just my pulse thundering beneath it that made it all worse.
I forced myself to continue walking toward the arched doors, trying not to hold my breath.
We were late, but Catrin assured me that was to be expected of ladies, even when princes came visiting. She opened the door for me, and that stifling feeling only got worse.
Emrys was already seated at the head of the table, hands folded before him like a warlord from a children’s tale. He wore his usual black trimmed with gold. It was the only color that seemed to fit him other than the blood red that marked him as both royalty and beast.
Only danger could’ve carved someone like him into this picture of ungovernable handsomeness.
The scar across his lip, the others across his forehead and cheeks, was muted in the candlelight.
His facial expression was surprisingly composed, calm even.
Yet he still radiated tension from every taut muscle.
He took the tincture, I realized. That’s why he’s relatively calm.
Warmth eased the tightness anxiety had wrought in my chest. He had listened. He had trusted me. Not completely, but enough to try.
Beside him sat Prince Owain, his spine a tower of discipline. His chestnut hair had been tied back, and his shoulders squared with martial elegance. But it was his smile that landed first.
“Lady Isca,” he greeted, warming the cold emanating from Emrys, “you are radiant this evening. I have looked forward to your company since the moment I arrived.”
Emrys’s gaze shot his way with a scowl, if only for a moment, before he schooled himself back to complacency.
I dipped my head in greeting, hoping the flush rising in my face didn’t show too strongly against my pale cheeks and dark gown. “Prince Owain. Prince Emrys.”
Both men rose as I approached. They waited until I’d taken my seat before resuming theirs. The motion was so smooth, so practiced, that I felt like I’d slipped into some other woman’s life—one far more important than I’d ever been.
I kept my posture straight, mimicking Owain. The muscles around my spine screamed in protest.
Emrys only nodded, jaw tight, saying nothing in greeting, though I could almost feel him simmering.
The meal was laid before us in a quiet ceremony by gloved servants wielding polished silver and gem-encrusted goblets. Bowls were filled with root vegetables braised with fragrant herbs, lamb glazed in wine, and warm bread braided with rosemary from the gardens.
This was no friendly meal like the one I’d shared with Nisien or those with the rowdy warriors in the great hall. This was…performative, a throne room with cutlery.
Owain turned to me, all charm and thoughtful poise. “Have you had the opportunity to learn anything of Larethia, Lady Isca?”
“A little,” I said. “Only what books can offer. More orchards and wineries than Darreth, less pastureland.”
He chuckled softly. “Those are the most important pieces of our economy, but not parts I get to experience much firsthand, unfortunately.”
I raised a brow in question.
Emrys’s eyes flicked from Owain to me, narrowing slightly. When Owain smiled at me again, that same stalking, claws-on-the-bare-ground darkness flickered across Emrys’s gaze.
Owain went on, not noticing or ignoring the look he received from Emrys. “I am the second son, which means I enjoy a peculiar kind of freedom to travel. But my duties keep me occupied outside our green spaces. I’m also the head of our military…which, coincidentally, is what brings me south.”
He turned his attention to Emrys, who was stolidly ignoring him again under the guise of eating.
“Military affairs?” I asked. A nervous flutter stirred in my stomach.
“Yes,” he said, glancing toward Emrys as though testing the air once again.
“Gelida is as much of a problem for us as it is for Darreth. My family are mages as well, which brings Gelida’s ire.
Though…we don’t have as bloody a history with them as Darreth, and our magical bloodline is known for different… reasons than the Euros twins.”
I had heard that there was rising anti-mage sentiment in Gelida. The way he said it…what kind of magic was passed through his bloodline? I opened my mouth then thought better of it. There were too many layers of politics beneath that single sentence.
Owain’s gaze lingered on me. “And you, Lady Isca, what is your role with the Mage Assembly?”
To be used.
But I couldn’t linger on that, not now. The job I actually wanted to perform was waiting for an answer. I’d found I quite enjoyed my first steps into diplomacy.
“I was sent due to my abilities, Your Highness,” I said carefully. I stole my own glance at Emrys. His gaze, dark and unreadable, met mine across the table. Then he gave the faintest nod.
“I am an empath,” I said, turning back to Owain. “I’ve been sent to assist the princes with matters of state so that we might strengthen Darreth together.”
“What you mean is that you’ve been sent to help him.” Owain nonchalantly pointed his thumb at Emrys.
I gave a barely perceptible nod, unwilling to affirm or deny it aloud.
Emrys didn’t as much as shift in his chair, but his eyes smoldered as he looked at me.
He wasn’t furious that Owain had asked that, thank the gods.
But he had that same haunted look he’d given me in the market after our magic touched for the first time.
Except now it was charged with a different type of hunger than the abundance the table could offer.
Or maybe that was just wishful thinking on my part.
A shiver ran through me. I was still too afraid to put a name to the feeling that came over me when he looked at me like that. It was too raw, too new, too much. My secret hopes were truly playing with fire.
Owain’s voice pulled me back. “An empath,” he said. “A rare and beautiful gift.”
“Thank you,” I murmured, still unsettled by what I thought I saw in Emrys’s eyes.
“I am a conjurer,” he said, shifting his posture proudly.
My brows rose. True conjuration mages were as rare as true empaths. “I have never met a conjurer before. Is it like illusion magic?”
He laughed, delighted. “No, my lady. Not at all. Only an example will do to explain it.”
Before I could answer, a pulse of magic filled the room. It was unexpectedly dark and heated, like glowing embers of brimstone. I blinked, and a sword appeared in Owain’s hands. It was a real blade, gleaming, forged of a metal so black it seemed to suck in the candlelight.
I gasped in delight, startled but enchanted. The sword was magic made real, tangible.
Owain gasped too, but for a very different reason.
At first, I thought the second surge of magic was simply more of Owain’s spell—until his eyes rolled back, and a silence heavier than death filled the room.
Owain’s sword vanished as he clutched at his throat. No choking or gasping sounds escaped him—nothing, not a peep.
I swear Owain’s eyes changed. For an instant, the light in them vanished. Then it was like the whites of his eyes had been swallowed by a sudden eclipse, plunging the ring of violet into total darkness.
My heart hammered against my ribs as panic for and fear of him seized me. “Emrys!” I shrieked.
The servants moved until Emrys raised a single hand. They froze mid-step.
I rushed to Owain’s side, slapping his back like he’d choked on his dinner. “Prince Emrys, help him! Please!”
Emrys growled from the head of the table, voice a drawn blade. “The difference between conjurations and illusions, Mage Isca,” he snarled, “is that conjured weapons can cut.”
I stared at him. Then my confusion crashed headfirst into dawning understanding. Owain’s black stare was fixed on Emrys, and not in terror. He was furious.
“By all the magic,” I breathed. “Prince Emrys, stop this. He’s not a threat to you. No one is!”
Emrys rose to his feet, slow and seething. “A threat to me? No. But he conjured a weapon, at my table, beside you. I removed the air from his lungs.”
I understood then. This wasn’t about fear. It was about power and pride. And me.
“He was merely demonstrating magic,” I said, drawing myself to my full height, which wasn’t much compared to either of them, but it was all I had. “No more!”
Emrys didn’t move. The servants shrank even farther away.
I couldn’t let this stand. Couldn’t allow a person to die under my fingertips.
Top of mind was my concern for the innocent man struggling to pull in life-giving air beside me.
Next, my family. If I failed at diplomacy this recklessly, the Assembly would slit their throats the second word reached them.
Deeper still was the guilt I’d carry around if I didn’t do everything in my power to stop this.
I reached into the core of my magic, into my will, and pushed.
I cast a surge of emotion across the room, drowning Emrys in a feeling of regret so deep it should rot a man from the inside out.
“That is how you, how I will feel if you do not stop right now,” I said, my voice gone cold.
Emrys didn’t collapse like I’d expected him to, like others had when I’d practiced this before. Damnation. The air practically crackled with my power, but he only stood there, unmoved.
Emrys’s eyes flashed back to me, boring deep into my darkest corners, and locked there, pinning me in place.
I couldn’t squirm under his attention again.
I wouldn’t. I held his gaze, with my hands still on Owain, pulse tripping over itself, until I saw the slightest lift of the scar that bisected his lip.
Was he about to snarl again? That made me narrow my own eyes and suck in another breath to shriek at him once more. But then his eyes softened ever so slightly.
Owain collapsed forward, crumpling onto the table. For one terrible heartbeat, I thought he was gone, half-expected him to vanish like the blade he’d summoned. But then he sucked in a ragged, desperate gasp of air.
Relief flooded me as the room went so silent that all I could hear was my own breathing and Owain’s panting. My knees threatened to buckle. I wanted to fall into the nearest chair, but my hands were still on him—one on his back, the other gripping his arm, holding us both upright.
All this while Emrys stood like a statue, face carved of ice, in front of the man whose life he’d just held with tiny tendrils of his magic.
Only his eyes blazed with fury. Yet, that fury wavered when his gaze finally met mine again.
There was a puzzling undercurrent of something I wished I could discern with my magic, but his walls were solidly in place.
Infuriating man.
Owain straightened slowly, blessedly still breathing.
Then, to my astonishment, he bowed low to Emrys.
“I apologize most gravely, Prince Emrys. Lady Isca.” He glanced at me and gave a crooked smile.
“I have broken the rules of hospitality by conjuring a weapon at a monarch’s table.
Please forgive me. I was…swept up in the lady’s attention. She is…well, distracting.”
I said nothing. My hand was still on his back, rubbing slow, steady circles, as if he were one of my younger brothers after waking from a nightmare.
Emrys noticed. He growled. “The Assembly would be proud of your…diligence.” His eyes lingered where my hand was still pressed to Owain’s back, the edge in his voice sharp enough to draw Owain’s blood if he lashed out again.
“I should retire early. Another breath, and I will start a war. Tomorrow, we will talk.”
He stomped out, trailing the shadow of his curse.
I realized too late that I was still touching Owain. Luckily for me, he showed no signs of displeasure at my boldness. I hadn’t been thinking. I’d simply reacted.
I pulled my hands away. “I should retire too. Will you remain in Tir Darreth tomorrow? Perhaps we can meet again at luncheon…to discuss whatever brought you here?”
Owain straightened. “Yes, Lady Isca. I would be honored to spend another meal in your presence.” His voice dropped slightly. “And thank you for interfering. I might’ve acted myself, but…I feared it would only make him more volatile.”
“You were right,” I admitted.
He inclined his head. Best to allow Owain to think I was simply carrying out my duties by shouting at the crown prince of Darreth.
But Owain… His blackened eyes. His obscure words about his family’s magic being famous for different reasons. My mind pieced together a narrative that ended with me unconvinced of his humanity. Were the legends of old true? Had I just dined with one of the Fae?
For all his charm, a voice in the back of my mind whispered that no man conjured shadows from thin air without hiding a few in his own heart.
No. That was a line of thought I had to put to rest immediately. Nothing Prince Owain had done so far, none of the emotions he’d projected, had implied deception. He’d even hinted that he could’ve counteracted Emrys’s magic but held back out of prudence.
I had to forget superstitions. Forget what I’d seen and trust my first impression of him as an honorable man.
Alone in my dark room later that night, I thought of a different set of eyes. I saw Emrys’s in my mind as I tried to sleep, wild and burning with something more complex than simple anger. I could hardly believe the thought, but could Emrys have been…jealous?
Hard on the heels of that first realization came another. The moment his interest had shifted to me, I’d felt a jolt, a tightening in my stomach that made my pulse race.
That jolt should’ve been fear. But it was heat instead. The reckless, impossible kind of heat that made me imagine what it would feel like to satisfy the Assembly’s second demand with the cursed prince.
That desire filled me with more terror than Emrys’s power ever could.
I rolled onto my side and pulled the blankets over my head, willing the fever in my chest to fade.
It didn’t mean anything. It was just the pressure. The politics.
Emrys wasn’t safe. He certainly wasn’t kind. He wasn’t someone I should want. And yet, when I closed my eyes again, it was his face that burned behind them.
I buried my face in the pillow and let out a soul-cleansing scream of frustration—at Nisien for being gone, at Emrys for being such an ass, and at my silly heart for wanting him anyway.
Gods help me.
I wanted the beast.