20. Chapter 20
Mazelle is alive and well, with no broken bones to keep her from being a thorn in my side. It's both impressive and deeply inconvenient. I knew she'd survived my magical outburst, but seeing her storm into my chambers looking more offended than injured somehow feels like a personal attack.
I would respect that if she weren’t currently standing in my room with the clear intention of ruining my evening.
Again.
For a moment, I stare at her from my place beside the window.
I’ve spent most of the day here, watching Andell move beneath the endless gray sky and pretending I haven’t been thinking about Thorin’s hands caressing my body, his presence inside my mind, and the hidden golden wall he found there before everything went catastrophically wrong.
That last part, at least, wasn’t my fault.
Probably.
“You look well today, Lieutenant,” I say.
Mazelle's eyes narrow, the corner of her mouth curling with dry amusement. “How kind of you to notice.”
“Of course I did, especially after yesterday.”
“I know what you meant.” Her tone is dry and flat.
“You flew pretty far,” I say, looking her over. “I’d have a healer check for a concussion, just to be safe.”
“Fortunately,” Mazelle replies without missing a beat, “my skull is considerably harder than yours.”
A smile threatens at the corner of my mouth before I can stop it. “If it helps, I didn’t mean to throw you.”
“It does not, Lady Tarethyn.”
“Ah. I thought it wouldn’t.”
She steps farther into the room, and only then do I notice the bundle draped over one arm. Black fabric spills over her sleeve, catching the firelight with deep blue undertones. Silver thread glimmers along the edges like frost.
My stomach immediately sinks.
“No. Not today.”
Mazelle doesn’t even blink. “You have not heard what I am here to say.”
“You’re holding a gown, which means whatever you’re here to say will be terrible.”
“His Majesty requires your presence at dinner.”
I stare at her, then at the gown for a long moment before my eyes drift back to hers.
“No,” I repeat, because sometimes the simplest answer is the most satisfying.
Mazelle moves to the bed and lays the gown across the dark furs as if I have agreed to anything at all. “The royal court gathers tonight. Advisors, selected noble houses, scholars, and foreign envoys from the southern settlements will be present.”
“How unfortunate for them. I’m sure it’ll be deeply unpleasant.”
“You will attend.”
I arch a brow, intent on staying in this room for the rest of the day. “I’ve developed a sudden illness.”
“His Majesty will send a physician to tend to you.”
“Then tell him I died.”
...I’m fairly certain nothing would make her happier.
“He will want proof.”
He’d probably march beyond the Fields of Elyucia, drag me out of Illurine’s afterlife, and deposit me right back into his personal hell because, as he so frequently reminds me...
I am his.
I hate that I know this, but I do. His possessiveness seems to know no bounds—not even the gods could keep him from me if he decided otherwise.
Mazelle smooths one sleeve of the gown with careful fingers. “I will assist you myself for this occasion.”
I push away from the window, irritation rising to meet the uncomfortable twist low in my stomach. “Why does he want me there?”
“Because he said so, Lady Tarethyn.”
“That’s not a reason. Have I not suffered enough?”
“It is reason enough, when spoken by a king.”
I let out a sharp and humorless laugh. “You all say things like that as if they’re supposed to impress me.”
“No,” Mazelle says, finally looking up at me. “I say things like this because you have not yet understood where you are... or your place on this continent.”
The words land hard, and I’m beginning to suspect she’s hinting at more than my refusal to attend a formal dinner. She’s talking about whatever confusing, exhausting relationship I have with the king.
I fold my arms, refusing to back down. “I understand as much as I need to.”
“No,” she says quietly. “You understand Elvora. You understand stories told by people who did not know enough to survive outside their own borders. You do not understand Andell.”
The room stills and for a moment, I can’t think of a single clever thing to say, which is perhaps the rudest thing Mazelle has done yet.
Her expression doesn’t soften. If anything, the sharpness in her eyes grows more precise. “Tonight, you will listen more than you speak.”
“That’s highly unlikely.”
“I am aware. It was a hope, not an expectation.”
I almost smile. Almost. But then my gaze drops to the gown, and any trace of amusement fades.
It’s beautiful. The color suits my complexion, and will make my silver hair seem brighter. Am I supposed to pretend to be Thorin’s mistress tonight? What will he introduce me as? What role am I meant to play in all of this?
“I’m not wearing that gown. Leathers will do just fine.”
“You are wearing this, Lyra. It is not optional.”
“It looks expensive.”
“It is.”
“I may ruin it.”
“You may try.”
I glare at her. “You’re enjoying this. Why do you always enjoy my misery?”
“Enjoyment would imply pleasure, Lady Tarethyn,” Mazelle says evenly. “I assure you, this is endurance.”
“You have become quite the liar.”
Her mouth twitches for the briefest moment. If I’d blinked, I would’ve missed it.
I count it as a victory.
In the end, I wear the gown because my other choices are limited to fighting Mazelle physically, which seems unwise after our recent encounter, or attending dinner in my training leathers, which would likely give half the court something to gossip about for the next century.
I refuse to be remembered as the feral silver-haired girl who showed up at the king's table dressed for combat.
Mazelle fastens the back of the gown with efficient hands, and I stand before the tall mirror, eyeing myself.
The sapphire fabric hugs my slender frame, narrowing at my waist before falling in soft layers to the floor.
It accentuates every curve, and I gasp as I turn, admiring how the color complements my bronze skin.
Mazelle gathers the front sections of my hair, weaving them into two delicate braids that loop back from my temples before pinning them in place with small silver combs.
The rest she leaves loose, combing the silver waves until they spill down my back, while two soft curls frame my face where the braids begin.
She paints a soft crimson tint across my lips before lining my eyes with kohl, the dark pigment making my honey-colored eyes seem brighter.
I stare at my reflection for a long moment, silently appreciating Mazelle’s work.
Her eyes meet mine in the mirror. “You look beautiful, Lady Tarethyn.”
“High praise coming from you, Lieutenant.”
“It is.”
I turn, smoothing my hands down the gown because I do not know what else to do with them. “If anyone insults me, am I allowed to insult them back?”
“No.”
“Even if they deserve it?”
“No, Lyra.” She sighs, and there it is. The look of impatience I’m so familiar with.
“That feels unfairly restrictive.”
Mazelle steps toward the door. “You may think whatever you like.”
“How generous.”
“Your face, however, should do less speaking.”
I gasp. “My face is innocent.”
“Your face is treasonous.”
For once, I can’t argue.
* * *
The walk to the Great Hall is longer than it needs to be, because apparently royal architecture requires every important room to be placed far enough away that a person has time to regret agreeing to attend.
Riven and Cadrin fall in behind us, both in formal armor polished to an almost ridiculous shine.
Riven gives me one approving nod when he sees me, respectful and brief.
Cadrin’s gaze lingers a moment too long, then flicks away when Mazelle turns her head.
Wise. Very wise. I don’t want Cadrin admiring anything about me.
The palace feels different tonight. Busier.
Brighter. The blue flames in the wall sconces burn higher, casting silver light across black stone.
Servants move quickly through the corridors carrying trays, decanters, folded linens, and arrangements of flowers I can’t name.
The scent of roasted meat and spiced wine drifts through the halls, mingling with candle smoke and perfume.
Voices echo ahead, low and polished, while laughter drifts through the hall.
My stomach twists. I tell myself it’s hunger, but I know it’s not. The doors to the Great Hall stand open and noise spills through them in a warm rush. For a moment, I stop walking, unable to help myself.
The hall is enormous, larger even than the throne room.
Black stone columns rise toward a vaulted ceiling painted with constellations I have never seen beneath the real sky.
Silver chandeliers hang between them, each holding dozens of blue-white flames that cast the entire room in a shimmering glow.
Long tables stretch across the floor, filled with nobles in dark silks, military commanders in silver-trimmed uniforms, scholars in gray robes, and people whose clothing I do not recognize but whose posture suggests they are important enough to know it.
At the far end of the hall, a raised dais holds the king’s table. And there, standing beside a high-backed chair carved from black wood and silver, is Thorin.
I hate to admit that I was searching for him, but I felt his presence before I saw him.
He’s speaking with two older men in military dress, listening more than talking, his expression calm and unreadable.
The silver crown rests on his dark hair tonight, sharp and elegant, its points catching the light overhead.
He wears black again, but not the severe clothes of training.
This coat is formal, embroidered with silver thread at the cuffs and collar, fitted to the broad line of his shoulders.
The room bends around him—that’s the only way I can think to describe it.