11. Chapter 11 #2
One young maid carrying a stack of folded linens stares at my hair until she nearly walks into a pillar.
I almost laugh. I don't, though. I know what it feels like to have people stare, and it’s not a good feeling.
Besides, I am an exceptionally compassionate person…
to those who deserve it. Also because if I react every time someone stares, I will exhaust myself before reaching breakfast. Not that I was offered breakfast. Unless the tea counts—which it does not.
The Sacred Gardens wait behind the same silver gates as yesterday. They open at our approach with a soft chime that raises the hairs along my arms. I tell myself it’s the cold. I’m lying, but I am becoming quite talented at that.
The moment I step inside, my magic reacts.
It’s as if the Sacred Gardens is familiar in a way.
It remembers the dead rosebush and the flower, like a parent remembering a child freshly birthed.
My magic reaches outward, searching for the tiny bloom I left behind.
I look in the spot where my magic erupted, but can’t find the bloom.
Interesting. Maybe Thorin kept it as a present?
Onyx steps beside me, bringing my thoughts back to the present. “His Majesty will arrive shortly.”
“Does His Majesty ever arrive at a normal time, or does he prefer appearing dramatically once everyone has had adequate time to feel uncomfortable?”
I feel his presence before he speaks.
“I prefer a dramatic appearance, occasionally.”
I whirl and my gaze lands on Thorin, standing beneath the archway.
He wears black, of course, because apparently no one in this palace believes in variety.
His coat is fastened high at his throat with silver clasps, the fabric fitted to his imposing frame.
The shadows gather at his feet, quiet and obedient, slipping over the stones like dark water.
His eyes find mine immediately and my heart rate picks up in response.
Absolutely not. Not today.
I look away, mostly out of self-preservation and partly because I refuse to let him think his staring has any effect on me. Even though it does, which is unfortunate for me and none of his business.
“Lady Tarethyn,” he says.
“Your Majesty.” I drop into a curtsy and when I look up, our gazes lock. Shit. There it is, that magnetic pull. Gritting my teeth, I glance up at the gray sky before looking over at Onyx, who is deep in conversation with Briar. Great. No distractions today when I desperately need it.
“You slept well?” Thorin asks, breaking the silence.
I blink at him. “Um… yes.” My eyes narrow. Why is he asking me that?
“Why?”
“You looked exhausted yesterday. You don’t look nearly as drained today.”
I scoff, slightly offended. Did I look that bad? “I was dragged across half the continent and then informed I would be held prisoner by a man with shadows as pets. Exhaustion seems reasonable.”
His gaze moves over my face, slow and assessing. I can't help but notice the silver swirling in his eyes. They always seem brighter when he's looking at me.
He exhales softly, almost wearily.
That makes two of us.
“I don't know how many times I have to say this, but you are not my prisoner.”
I laugh before I can stop myself. It’s not a pretty laugh, either, because this has to be a joke.
“No? How embarrassing on my part. I must have misunderstood the locked doors, armed guards, and the part where I’m not allowed to leave.”
“You are being protected, Lyra.”
“Against my will. What part of that are you not understanding?”
He sighs, and irritation flashes across his face. “Protection does not always ask permission. I am a King, Lyra Tarethyn. I do not ask permission to do anything.”
Thorin bends down and whispers in my ear words that only I can hear, “I can have anything I want, muya mivanti. Anything at all, Lyra. So if I offer you my protection,” he leans back, his eyes holding mine, “you should trust that I have a good reason.”
His shadows slip between us, curling around my wrists before gliding up my arms like curious fingers.
They brush my cheek, feather-light, before wrapping around us until the world beyond him disappears.
My magic answers instantly. Heat blooms beneath my skin, racing through my veins with startling urgency.
The familiar warmth surges toward every place his shadows touch, silver-gold light flickering beneath my skin before I force it back down.
His shadows withdraw as abruptly as they came, slipping from my skin and dissolving back into the ground as though they had never touched me at all. The warmth beneath my skin lingers a heartbeat longer, reluctant to let them go. My gaze catches on the places they touched before it drifts to him.
Thorin turns toward another dead rosebush and gestures. “Again.”
I open my mouth then immediately shut it, staring at him. “So that’s it, then? No pleasant conversation? No explanation for why your dead garden and I are becoming unwilling acquaintances?”
“Again, Lyra,” he repeats, firmly.
“There it is. The charm this kingdom clearly adores.” I cross my arms over my chest. I'm done being ordered around.
His gaze returns to mine. “You brought life here yesterday, and you are going to do it again.”
“Yes, I did. Accidentally. I lost control.”
“Then do it deliberately,” he says simply.
“I don’t intend to build your dream garden, Thorin.”
“I will give you one more opportunity. Press your hand to the ground, and use your magic.”
“I refuse. My magic isn’t yours to command.”
“Ah, I see. You need motivation.” He says it so quietly only I can hear. “Do you know what your problem is, Lyra?”
I don't answer. I just watch him, my fists clenched so tightly my nails bite into my palms.
“You lack conviction.” The single word lands like a blade, and I flinch. “Perhaps I should give you some.”
He tilts his head, his silver eyes lingering on me as though weighing a decision. A heartbeat passes before he turns his head slightly. “Briar.” He lifts a hand in a small gesture. Briar immediately breaks away from his conversation with Onyx and strides toward us.
“Lady Tarethyn needs a healthy dose of motivation. Given what I know about her unwavering morality, I'm afraid I will have to use you as incentive.”
“How can I assist, Your Maj—”
Thorin's shadows lash out before I can even gasp.
They wrap around Briar's throat, hauling him off the ground as his hands claw uselessly at the darkness. The shadows writhe around him like living smoke, coiling and uncoiling as they tighten around his throat. Darkness spills across the garden, swallowing the torchlight. Thorin doesn’t so much as glance at Briar.
His eyes remain fixed on me.
“Thorin! What are you doing?!” I scream, watching in horror as Briar tries and fails to break free of Thorin’s shadows.
My heart pounds so hard I can hear it in my ears.
This is exactly what Thorin wants. He has backed me into a corner where there is only one choice.
I can refuse…but if I do, Briar dies. If I use my magic, I can save him.
I don't particularly like any of the guards in this palace, with the exception of Onyx, but I won’t have anyone’s death on my conscience.
“Touch the earth, Lyra. It’s simple. Make something grow—or I will kill Briar. See? Simple. The decision is yours to make.”
Briar's boots kick helplessly above the ground. Every strained breath, every desperate pull against the shadows twists something inside me tighter and tighter until I can't tell where my panic ends and my magic begins.
Something gives. I shove past Thorin and slam my palm against the earth. My eyes find his. “I pray Illurine never welcomes you to her gates, you evil bastard.” The words leave my mouth as something inside me tears open.
Heat surges through my veins, so fierce it steals the air from my lungs.
It races down my arm and bursts from my palm, flooding into the earth beneath me.
Golden light fractures through the black soil in jagged veins, splitting the ground as it races outward before sinking deep below the surface.
The glow lingers for only a heartbeat, pulsing beneath my hand like the land itself has found a heartbeat.
I force every ounce of myself toward a single point beneath the dead rosebush.
Live.
For one terrifying heartbeat… Nothing. Then the earth trembles beneath my palm and a thread of green breaks through the black soil. It rises slowly at first, unfolding from the earth with impossible determination until a single tender sprout stands against the dead garden, alive.
The warmth inside me sputters, then fades, leaving me breathless.
Thorin’s shadows disappear as abruptly as they came as Briar crumples to the ground, catching himself on his hands as a harsh gasp tears from his lungs.
He coughs violently, dragging desperate breaths into his chest before pressing a trembling hand to his throat.
“You have my apologies, Briar.” His voice remains calm. “I trust Lady Tarethyn has learned the lesson. I would rather not repeat it.”
Silence settles over the Sacred Gardens. I glance toward Onyx, who watches Thorin with his jaw set hard, the muscle ticking beneath his cheek. It seems he meant what he said the day he dragged me from Elvora.
This gives me all the more reason to trust him.