Chapter 10
Absolution Day.
The only time when Arawn felt he wanted to hide while inside the Citadel, if only because he was utterly unprepared to behave as many others did.
Like a wild animal in heat.
Arawn sighed as he entered the training room, a pale white mask on his face.
Izill had fashioned it to look like snow, and he didn’t mind it.
For once, he loved the idea that the outside of him matched the inside; the utter coldness in his soul that he’d felt the past many months, made worse, every time Soraya spoke of Kinlear.
The torches beside his head flickered as he walked past, as if even they sensed the frustration in his magic.
She wasn’t here yet, thank the gods.
She was probably still in his tower, in the room across from his, getting dressed...or waiting on Kinlear.
Arawn grimaced as the doors closed behind him, and he saw how the tables had been drawn out, glittering cloths atop them. The flagons of winterwine had been poured, and the entire room training, meant for swords and shields and sparring...
It had been turned into a place to dance.
Gods, he hated to dance, though he knew the steps as every good prince should.
This was his sanctuary, the one place he knew he could be himself in full... someone unafraid to fail, because when he had his sword and his magic?
He made very few mistakes. His mind simply shut off, and it was all body, all soul tied to the power of Vivorr, and he was no longer Crown Prince, Arawn Laroux.
He was a flame, and he was a blade.
He was a weapon that fought for the gods, and nothing else mattered...especially not her.
But he knew she’d be here tonight, amongst the tables and the servants touting goblets of winterwine. Musicians played the strings on a makeshift stage, and dancers spun beneath the torchlight in every color under the sun in the center of the room.
The very same spot where Arawn had once trained Soraya to be stronger.
Where she’d once laid with her body pressed beneath his on the mat, their hearts beating in time.
He should have told her how he felt back then.
He shouldn’t have been so damned afraid.
A servant walked past, carrying goblets of drink, but Arawn refused it.
He’d never once seen his father drink, because a leader needed to always be ready to act, should the battle shift.
But when she entered the room?
He felt it even more...
Because he never wanted to forget the way Soraya looked in her Absolution dress...how she glowed like a blazing sun – a flame to match his magic – in a gown of brilliant gold.
Kinlear had commissioned the gown for her all the way from Touvre.
He’d been so proud of it, when it arrived by way of a worn carriage. She’ll want to be buried in this dress, he’d boasted, as he brought it by Arawn’s room and laid it out on his bed.
Arawn knew better. And he felt vindicated later that night, when Soraya had practically gagged as she’d told their aerie about it while they cleaned their blades. She hated dresses, hated anything but her flying leathers.
But seeing her in it now?
There was nothing to hate...and everything to love.
The dress clung to her body like a second skin. The gold fabric shone so bright, he swore all the light in the room had gone right for it, like she was a magnet, like she was--
“Your Highness!”
Arawn flinched as he lost sight of Soraya in the crowd.
Instead, his vision filled with Zey, an Eagleminder whose eyes had always seemed to hunt him. Even when they were children in this very room.
She was beautiful, and the object of many a Sacred’s eye, with her golden hair pulled to a thick braid that ran all the way to her waist. Her mask looked like it was spun from snowflakes and falling stars – a match to his, as if perhaps she’d bullied Izill into discovering what Arawn’s look would be.
He wouldn’t put it past her. Apparently, Zey had waltzed into the War Table’s path just a few months ago, and demanded she be Matched with him.
She’d paid penance for it...and Arawn had avoided her ever since.
And, judging by the way she looked at him now...
Arawn bristled.
She still wanted him.
She always had.
“Dance with me, Crown Prince?” Zey asked.
He could smell winterwine on her breath, too sweet for his liking, as she pressed a hand to his chest. Right over his hard muscles, almost caressing him. “I should warn you, though...I like to move fast.”
He could feel the heat in her touch, her gaze, and though she was lovely, in a devastating way with her curves and her sensual smile...
He wanted no part of it. Not tonight.
Not ever.
“I...” He tried to look past her shoulder for a flash of a golden dress. “I’m afraid I don’t want to dance,” Arawn blurted the truth.
Zey giggled, her hand trailing down his bicep now. “But it’s Absolution, my dear Prince. Everyone wants to dance.”
“I suppose so,” he said, taking a step away. Perhaps the truth would set him free of her territorial gaze. So he swallowed, and added, “What I meant was...I don’t want to dance with you.”
She sucked in a breath, rouged lips hanging open.
Gods be with me, Arawn prayed.
Penance would have been better than the ice in her gaze. He swore she could have killed a man with that look alone, so he stepped away from her touch as quickly as he could, bidding her goodnight, before he turned.
He almost tripped over his own feet, for how fast he shoved his way back into the thick crowd.
He found Soraya and Kinlear near the wall of windows. Kinlear was seated in a chair, a drink already in his hand, but his mask was off. He looked pale, and weak, as if his illness were coming to haunt him.
And as Soraya turned, and knelt to speak to him...
Arawn’s whole body warmed.
Because, oh gods, the back of the gown?
It was even better than the front. The fabric was sheer as it dipped as low as it could logically go to still keep her covered, and there were little shimmering beads that formed the shape of War Eagle wings.
She looked like a winged demigoddess from the old stories. Like the warriors that could once fly without the need for a godsmount at all.
And as she stood there before the glass, the waning daylight setting her skin on fire...he thought of how she’d looked when they made their Descent together.
How beautiful, how wild and free. It took him right back to that moment, when he thought the world could be theirs someday...
And he remembered why he’d come here tonight in the first place.
It was not to appease his father, nor to be seen as a Crown Prince who still had faith enough to enjoy a bit of revelry in times of war...
No, if Arawn was really being honest with himself...he’d come here tonight to punish himself. To pay penance just by looking at her.
Because Soraya was not his, and she never would be, now that her hand belonged to Kinlear. Arawn paid just by being near her, every damned day.
Soraya was speaking in hushed whispers to Kinlear, leaning over with her delicate curls hanging to one side.
The muscles in her back tensed as Kinlear stood.
They were arguing, Arawn realized.
Again.
And suddenly Kinlear pushed past her, stumbling away with his cane...practically running from the room. Soraya called after him, but her voice was lost in the music, the screaming of the strings, and Arawn watched as her smile fell.
And her eyes filled with the familiar tears he knew all too well.
They set his magic to roiling within, because Soraya didn’t cry over small things.
She cried over soul things, the kind that ached her to her very core. And as Kinlear left the room – Arawn couldn’t stop himself.
He stepped up in his brother’s place.
“Soraya?”
She turned. Her makeup was already ruined beneath her mask, running in dark streaks that looked like shadows, but it didn’t take away from how lovely she was. Not one bit.
“Don’t you dare, Arawn.”
He paused as she pointed a finger at him. He looked down at it, surprised to see that she’d even painted her nails. She had never painted her nails for Absolutions before this.
“Don’t you dare utter a single word.”
He lifted a pale brow. “And what sort of word would I utter?”
She crossed her arms and glowered up at him through her tears.
“You’re going to say I look ridiculous. That.
..that I shouldn’t have come, because of course, Kinlear is too drunk again to dance with me, and I should know better than to hope for anything else from him.
You’re going to say I look like a fool in this godsdamned dress. I hate it.”
He frowned.
And then he smiled at her.
“You’re wrong.”
She looked like she’d been slapped. “I swear to you, Arawn Laroux, if you—”
“What I was going to say,” he cut her off as he held out a hand, and he led her to the dance floor, speaking as they went, “is that you look lovely tonight. Despite what you think of the dress.”
She opened and closed her mouth, surprised at the compliment. He wondered if he’d ever given her one before...or if he’d always been too scared of what she would think.
Words were terrifying things, capable of healing hearts and breaking them, too...and he wasn’t sure, tonight, if he wanted to wield them for her.
But if not now...then when?
It’s Absolution, he told himself. Speak freely, or you’ll always regret it!
So, he swallowed his pride, and said, “And...I was going to ask if would you do me the honor, please, of dancing with me...so the vicious blonde monster that has been hunting me all night will go and find herself another bit of prey.”
Soraya glanced past his shoulder, where he knew, almost certainly, she would find Zey.
Staring.
Glaring.
As Zey so often did.
“Please,” Arawn said. “Save me?”
At that, Soraya laughed and went with him to the dance floor. And suddenly, he didn’t hate Absolution so much...because she was here with him.
Tonight was a night for freedom, after all. Vivorr would not punish him for the forbidden longing he felt within.
“You’re helpless without me,” Soraya said. “Do you know that, Crown Prince?”
“Of course I do,” Arawn said.