20. Chapter 20 #2
People continue speaking, laughing, drinking, but everything has an awareness of him. Heads turn when he shifts. No one approaches without hesitation, yet no one looks truly afraid. Not in the way people in Elvora feared the idea of him. This is something else. Respect. Trust. Maybe even devotion.
The realization unsettles me far more than fear would have, because fear would make sense. People who feared their king—that was the Andell I had always been told about.
Fear would match the stories, but this doesn’t.
Thorin looks up, his eyes finding mine immediately. He doesn’t even have to search through the sea of people. Across the hall, through the blur of faces, his gaze finds me as though it's been waiting all along.
My breath catches as I notice something shift in his expression.
Not much. Not enough for anyone else to notice, perhaps.
But I see it. The faint stillness. The way his eyes travel over the gown, my hair, my face, before returning to mine with an intensity that makes the noise of the hall fade at the edges. He mouths a single word.
Home.
I look away, if only for a moment, suddenly aware of the warmth staining my cheeks.
When my gaze finds his again, he’s still watching me.
Lingering. Then I feel him. Not his touch, but his presence brushing against the edge of my mind.
How intrusive of you. It isn’t invasive.
It’s gentle. A quiet caress against the barrier I’d only just learned to build. I don't flinch.
I know he isn't reaching into my mind to take something. He’s reaching for me.
MINE. The word echoes through my thoughts, rich and unmistakably his.
Across the hall, his shadows writhe at his feet, restrained but restless, as though straining against an invisible leash.
Mazelle leans closer, whispering in my ear. “Breathe.”
I exhale, glancing over to her. “I am breathing.”
“You stopped.”
“I was assessing possible exits.”
One brow arches, and amusement flickers in her eyes. “You were staring at the king.”
“You were thrown into a tree the other day. Don’t get bold today.”
She grins, and I hate that I have to bite back a laugh.
Mazelle leads me forward before I can delay any longer.
The hall notices us gradually at first, then all at once.
Heads turn and eyes catch on my hair, then the gown, then the path Mazelle moves toward the king’s table.
The attention crawls over my skin, familiar and foreign all at once.
I have been stared at my whole life, but never like this.
In Elvora, the stares were suspicious. Cruel.
Hungry for proof of what they already believed about me.
Here, the stares are curious. Some are wary. Some are fascinated.
A beautiful woman in burgundy silk whispers behind her fan as I pass. A silver-haired girl. Her words are soft, but not soft enough. My spine stiffens.
Thorin’s gaze moves to her and the fan lowers immediately.
Interesting. Terrifying, but interesting. Thorin is the most possessive, protective man I’ve ever met.
When we reach the dais, I expect Mazelle to direct me to some distant seat where I can observe without being observed too closely. Perhaps near the scholars. Perhaps beside a potted plant, if the palace has any that are not dead or symbolic.
Instead, she stops beside the chair directly to Thorin’s right.
Absolutely not.
I look at the chair, my eyes widening as they dart to Mazelle before settling on Thorin.
“No. I can’t sit here.”
A ripple of silence spreads across the nearest tables and Mazelle inhales slowly through her nose.
Thorin looks almost amused, which is deeply inappropriate considering my distress.
“No?” he asks softly. His voice settles over me with maddening ease, and I make the mistake of meeting his gaze. Silver swirls appear, and I find it odd that they only appear when he is extremely angry… or—
A warm shiver traces its way down my spine.
“No,” I repeat, keeping my voice low enough that the entire kingdom does not hear me refuse its king, though judging by the sudden quiet, half the kingdom is trying. “I’m not sitting there, Your Majesty.”
The people here don’t know our dynamic, so I refuse to use his name in front of them. His eyes flash at the title, though it is, in fact, his.
“It is a chair, muya quenati.”
Oh.
We’re weaponizing titles now. He’s been alternating between two of them for me, and I still don’t know what either one means.
“It’s your chair-adjacent chair.”
His mouth curves faintly. “A dangerous distinction.”
“Don’t mock me.”
“I would not dream of it.”
“I can’t say I believe that.”
Mazelle’s voice cuts in, smooth as a blade. “Lady Tarethyn, please sit.” She says the last part through gritted teeth.
I turn to face her. “I would rather swallow glass.”
“You may do so after dinner.”
Thorin’s gaze flicks to her, and for one impossible second, I think he might laugh. He fights it, his lips tightening into a thin line while unmistakable amusement dances in his eyes.
It’s distracting enough that I forget to continue arguing. A mistake, because Mazelle uses the moment to pull the chair back.
I sit because refusing now would make a scene, and apparently there are limits to my desire for chaos. Very small limits. Thin ones. But they do exist.
The moment I settle into the chair, the noise in the hall resumes as though nothing happened. As if time hadn’t stood still at all. Strange. Whenever I'm talking to him, I never seem to notice anything else. The rest of the world slips away until all I can focus on is Thorin.
He takes the seat to my left. He’s close enough that I feel the faint shift of air as he moves, catching the familiar scent of mint, dark cedar, and smoke. It settles around me, weaving beneath the richer aromas of roasted meat and spiced wine.
I stare straight ahead, because I refuse to get lost in him tonight. It would be embarrassing, to say the least.
“This is unnecessary,” I mutter.
“Most things at court are, but customs still stand, nonetheless.”
“Then why do them? You’re the king, you could stop this at any point.”
“Because men with land and titles behave better when they are fed.”
I look at him, despite promising myself that I wouldn’t and immediately regret it. Damn. He looks perfect.
He looks ahead, face perfectly composed. His unreadable expression paired with humor that somehow matches mine makes me want to squirm. I don't want to think he’s funny. It’s inconvenient because I'm still trying to convince myself that I hate him.
I do hate him.
I do.
“Does that include you?”
His eyes cut to mine. “I have never behaved better because of food.”
“No, I imagine you behave worse on principle.”
His mouth twitches.
“Careful,” Mazelle murmurs from the other side of him.
“I am being delightful,” I say.
“You are being noticed.”
“That sounds like their burden to bear, not mine.”
Thorin reaches for his wine. “It often is.”
I nearly smile again.
“I think I behave better when you are around, Lady Tarethyn.”
There it is—that flush of warmth, the bubbling sensation in my stomach that catches me off guard whenever he compliments me, looks at me, or does just about anything around me. I can’t stop it, and that is infuriating.
Dinner begins with entirely too much ceremony.
Servants move through the hall in perfectly choreographed lines, setting platters before us with the kind of precision that makes me wonder if they rehearse this.
Roasted meat, warm bread, vegetables, cheeses, fruit drowned in honey—more food than most villages would see in a week.
It smells incredible. Which is unfortunate, because half the room seems more interested in watching me eat than eating themselves.
I am starving, obviously. The problem is that eating gracefully while half a court watches you is impossible. I reach for a piece of bread and decide dignity is overrated. Thorin notices, because he’s always noticing things I do.
“You look as if you are preparing to attack the meal.”
“I haven’t decided whether the meal is my enemy. I’m… assessing.”
“The bread is safe, Lyra.”
“How would you know? Perhaps the bread is loyal to you.”
“Most things in this kingdom are.” He smiles at me—teeth and all—and gods. That smile on that perfectly crafted face. Damnit.
I purse my lips, trying very hard not to acknowledge how unfairly handsome he is, then cut him a look. “That was arrogant.”
“Was it not accurate?” His eyebrows shoot up, feigning confusion.
“You know, I’m a little tired. Maybe I should retire to my chambers.”
He shakes his head, dismissing the idea outright.
He takes a sip of wine, and I hate that my attention follows the movement without my permission. My eyes linger on his strong fingers wrapped around the goblet, on the effortless grace of the gesture.
Gods. Why is it so difficult to look anywhere else?
He isn't even doing anything—he’s drinking wine. Yet somehow I’m drawn to him anyway, as though some invisible thread keeps pulling my gaze back no matter how often I try to tear it away. It’s infuriating.
Across the hall, music drifts through the room.
A trio of musicians stands near one of the columns, coaxing a low, haunting melody from a pair of stringed instruments and a flute carved from black wood.
The notes slip between the quiet conversations, weaving through the hall.
It’s beautiful in a melancholy sort of way—the kind of music that makes me ache for somewhere I’ve never been.
Thorin’s guests are polished, and some carry themselves with all the arrogance money and titles can buy, but they don’t look like people living under a tyrant who might kill them for breathing too loudly.
They debate trade routes and complain about winter stores.
A woman with skin the color of rich, roasted chestnuts and hair woven into intricate braids argues with a scholar over irrigation channels in the lower terraces, and when she points out a flaw in the current system, he listens.