24. Chapter 24
Ispend the entire walk to the Sacred Gardens trying very hard not to think about the fact that the Shadow King occupies a very specific corner of my mind more often than not lately.
I’ve kissed him several times, sure. But now I hate the fact that I ever did.
Is he behind the burned villages? I have to draw my own conclusions because no one in this kingdom will tell me anything. It’s infuriating.
I plan to avoid Thorin forever, but this proves remarkably difficult when he is the king and, unfortunately, lives in the palace, walks the same halls, and somehow has the ability to find me wherever I go.
He is the source of all of my problems, and I hate that for myself.
Well—that’s not entirely true. The curse still holds first place.
But he is climbing the ranks with admirable speed.
The worst part is that I’m finding myself wanting more of him.
Not another kiss. I’ve already made that mistake several times.
I want the moments in between. The brush of his thumb against my cheek.
The way he held a strand of my hair as if it were something sacred instead of the very thing that made half of Elvora whisper behind my back.
The way he looked at me—not through me, not around me, not like a king examining a tool, but at me.
That is the truly unacceptable part.
I could forgive myself for noticing he is handsome. I’m angry, not blind. Any woman with functioning eyes would notice Thorin is carved in a way that suggests the gods occasionally grow bored and decide to make a man dangerous for sport.
But noticing his exhaustion? His restraint? The way his voice changed when he said he knew what breaks people? That is much harder to forgive. Somewhere along the way, I started caring about a monster.
I pull my cloak tighter around my shoulders as Riven walks beside me through the eastern corridor, his presence calm and quiet in a way I’ve begun to appreciate.
He doesn’t ask why I’m silent. He doesn’t attempt conversation for the sake of easing discomfort.
He simply walks, one hand resting near the sword at his hip, his eyes sweeping the hall ahead.
It is nearly enough to make me genuinely like him.
And I don’t like that at all. I can’t continue collecting people in this palace.
I don’t want a favorite guard, a favorite scholar, or a favorite captain.
I certainly do not want a favorite king, and if my mind even attempts to consider that possibility, I will personally throw myself from one of Andell’s many dramatic balconies.
Riven glances at me. “You’re making a face.”
“I have many faces, Riven.”
“This one looks… scary.”
“Then it’s honest. You should trust this face.” His mouth twitches, but he wisely says nothing else.
The palace is awake around us, humming with the restrained urgency I have begun noticing more and more.
A pair of servants pass carrying baskets of folded linens, their heads dipping in acknowledgment as we go by.
Farther down the hall, two commanders speak in low voices beside a window, their expressions tight over a spread of maps.
One of them looks up when I pass, eyes catching on my hair before sliding away with practiced speed.
The closer we get to the gardens, the older the palace feels. The walls become rougher, and the air cools until every breath tastes faintly of rain and iron. The symbols etched into the stone glow in places, so faint I might have missed them before. Now, I cannot stop seeing them.
That has been happening often lately. The world revealing details I would rather ignore.
By the time we reach the garden gates, my thoughts have become tangled enough that I almost welcome the sight of Cadrin standing guard there, if only because irritation is easier than confusion.
Almost. The golden-haired ass straightens when he sees me, his blue eyes flicking from my face to Riven and back again.
“Lady Tarethyn.”
The title sounds as if it has splinters in it. I offer him my sweetest smile. “Cadrin. How tragic. Still employed. Very unfortunate for all of us.”
Riven makes a sound beside me that could be a cough if one is feeling generous. I’m not.
Cadrin’s jaw tightens. “His Majesty is waiting.”
“His Majesty does that often. Has anyone suggested a hobby?”
The second guard at the gate, broad and dark-skinned with hair clipped close along the sides of his head, turns slightly away. I don’t know his name yet, but he has a kind face, and seems like he would annoy me significantly less than Cadrin does.
Something about him tugs at an old memory.
His rich skin tone reminds me of my mother’s.
Gods, she was beautiful. And I only have fragmented memories of her.
I’m a double-sided coin, pulled from two cultures, stuffed into one category, given silver hair to create a category that doesn’t exist. I don’t let my mind wander in that direction. It won’t make my day easier.
I assess the guards. Cadrin looks like he would rather swallow a nail than laugh at anything I say, which naturally makes me want to become funnier out of spite. Riven gestures toward the gate before I can test that theory. The silver doors open and the Sacred Gardens exhale around me.
That is how it feels now every time I enter.
As if the place has been holding its breath, waiting, and the moment I cross the threshold, something ancient inside it shifts toward me.
Mist curls low over the black stone paths, softening the edges of ruin.
The dead trees still rise like skeletal hands toward the gray sky, but they are no longer entirely dead.
Not all of them. The tree I woke first stands near the fountain, its leaves trembling in the cold breeze.
They are fuller now, a cluster of green in a world of black and gray. Life has begun to return. Slowly.
I should be proud. Instead, my stomach tightens.
Every new leaf feels like proof. Proof that the prophecy may not be nothing.
Proof that my magic is not simply a hidden curse I can tuck away beneath sleeves and fear.
Proof that whatever Thorin believes I am, the world itself may be conspiring to agree with him.
I resent the entire garden for participating.
Thorin stands near the center fountain with Mazelle at his side.
Onyx is there too, though farther back near the archway that leads toward the older section of the gardens.
His arms are crossed, his expression unreadable, but the line of his shoulders tells me enough.
He does not like this. Whatever this is.
Wonderful. That makes two of us.
Mazelle holds a thin stack of papers in one hand and speaks in a low voice to Thorin, who listens without looking at her.
His eyes are on the living tree. He’s wearing his crown today and a formal coat.
The morning light does nothing to soften him.
If anything, the gray sky and lifeless garden make him look more like he belongs here, a dark figure carved from the same grief that shaped this place.
I hate that thought because it’s too poetic. My mind is becoming disloyal.
Thorin looks up before I reach him. His gaze finds mine, and for one beat, the garden, the guards, the mist, all of it seems to pull back. Not disappear. I’m not that far gone. But the world narrows around the fact that he remembers too.
The archives.
It’s there in the way his expression stills, barely but enough. Then the king returns, cold and composed, locking whatever that was behind his eyes before anyone else can see.
Coward.
The word rises so quickly I almost laugh. Perhaps that’s unfair. Perhaps it’s not.
“Good morning,” he says.
“That’s a bold assumption.”
Mazelle’s eyes close for half a second as if she would rather be anywhere but between the two of us. That makes three of us.
Onyx looks away, though I catch the faintest movement at the corner of his mouth.
Thorin’s gaze remains on me. “You’re in a generous mood.”
“I’m in a mood. Generosity has not been invited.”
“Noted.”
I stop a few feet from him, refusing to acknowledge the way the shadows at his feet move toward me and then stop, as if even they have learned boundaries. Or perhaps he has. The idea unsettles me enough that I immediately search for something irritating to say.
“How fortunate for you. A captive and a subject of study. Truly, my presence is a gift.”
His expression cools. “You are not a captive nor a subject of study.”
“No? Then why is everyone always watching me as if I might either save the kingdom or set it on fire?”
Mazelle finally looks at me. “Those are not mutually exclusive outcomes.”
I point at her. “That. That is exactly the kind of comment that makes me want to be difficult on purpose.”
“You are difficult without purpose.”
“I’m evolving—or I was.”
Riven makes the mistake of smiling near the gate. Cadrin looks appalled, which improves my mood by an embarrassingly large amount.
Thorin does not smile. That should be a relief, but it’s not.
His gaze moves over my face with the sort of attention that makes sarcasm feel like a very thin shield. “You didn’t sleep.”
I fold my arms. “Must we begin every training session with observations about my appearance? You’re going to make me self-conscious, and then where will we be?”
“Likely in the same place.”
“Infuriating.”
“Yes.”
The simplicity of his agreement nearly throws me off balance, which I suspect is exactly why he does it. He has become better at this. At me. A deeply troubling development.
Mazelle steps forward, handing the papers to Onyx as he approaches. Their fingers do not touch, but something passes between them anyway. A look. A warning. An unspoken argument already half-fought before I arrived. Onyx glances once at the papers, and his jaw tightens.
He doesn’t see that I notice, but I do. Thorin notices me noticing, unfortunately.
“The western road?” I ask.
No one answers quickly enough.
I laugh softly. “Oh good. Silence. My favorite meal.”
Mazelle’s gaze cuts to Thorin, but he keeps his attention on me.
“There has been another report,” he says carefully.
My irritation quiets, not disappearing but shifting into something colder. “Another village?”
His silence is answer enough.
I look toward the living tree because suddenly looking at him is difficult. The leaves blur for half a second before I force myself to see them clearly.
“Is it gone?”
“We don’t know.”
“That means yes.”
“It means we don’t know.”
“That’s what people say when the truth can be cruel,” I snap, tired of the back-and-forth.
Thorin’s face doesn’t change, but something in his eyes darkens. “You wanted to know what is at stake.”
I look back at him. “I wanted to know before you started shaping me into whatever weapon you think I’m meant to become.”
Onyx’s attention sharpens as Mazelle goes very still.
Thorin steps closer. Just one step. “You think I want a weapon.”
“I think you want whatever will save your kingdom. And I think you’re arrogant enough to believe the difference matters.”
His shadows stir, but stop themselves from creeping near me like they usually do.
“That difference is all that matters.” His voice is barely above a whisper, but the edge beneath it is impossible to miss.
“Is that what you tell yourself?” I ask. “Is that why you keep me here as a pretend guest? Do you tell yourself I’m the cure to your curse? Is that what makes this easier?”
I take another step toward him.
“You didn’t have to seduce me to do that.” My voice cracks despite my best efforts. “I am no one’s cure. I will break no man’s curse. And I. Don't. Belong. To. Anyone.”
Onyx says my name under his breath, but it’s not enough to stop me. Not enough to save me from myself.
Thorin’s eyes stay locked on mine. “Do you want to train or argue?” He looks exhausted, but I don’t particularly care at the moment.
“No. I’d like to take my leave, Your Majesty.”
His mouth curves. “Then you are dismissed.” He waves a hand, summoning anyone brave enough to step forward and grab me.
“I’ll leave on my own fucking terms.”
“Your mouth is filthy. Maybe I was wrong in my assessment of you when I gave you the title Lady Tarethyn.”
Oh—we’re throwing sharp jabs now. I excel in this area.
“Thank the gods I didn’t fill my mouth with your cock, then.”
Several sharp inhales break the silence around us. I wait for the rage. For the command to seize me. For his shadows to tear across the space.
Instead—
Thorin smiles.
Not with amusement or anger, but with something far more unsettling—interest. The expression is small, barely there, a slow curve of his mouth that sends a chill crawling down my spine.
His silver eyes never leave mine, and somehow that is worse than fury because I know what it means when his gray eyes turn silver.
He likes this—or he’s about to unleash hell.
Around us, no one moves. No one dares. The silence grows heavier, more dangerous, as his silver eyes remain fixed on mine.
“Well,” he says at last, his voice as calm as ever, “that was certainly an unexpected answer.”
A nervous laugh starts somewhere behind me, only to die as quickly as it began. No one is foolish enough to join it.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Onyx staring between us with open disbelief. Even Mazelle looks momentarily speechless. Cadrin has gone unnaturally still, while Riven's brows have nearly disappeared into his hairline.
No one dares interrupt, or even breathe too loudly.
I straighten my shoulders, refusing to let that smile unravel me because if I'm honest, I’m angry enough to take it out on him in other ways—ways I’d regret. My body might enjoy them, but my brain would never let me live it down.
“Good,” I say evenly. “Now that we’re finished... have an awful, terrible day.”
I turn on my heel and walk away. No one stops me. Not even him.