Chapter 11
ZHAIRE
Zhaire Rhaevon, bastard son of the King of Darkness, newly minted Prince of Darkness, and now future king of the Veiled Realm, had spent the evening distracting himself at Rook and Dice, his closest friend’s gambling hall, gulping whiskey, losing himself between …
Death … he couldn’t remember either of the ladies’ names.
But there was a moment where all the shouting, the incessant pounding of drums that pulsed from the noisy ensemble on the stage, all those bodies crammed into every ounce of space, dancing, fucking, praying to false gods for just one bit of luck—it became suffocating, even there in the relatively secluded section he used so much that he kept a standing reservation.
A cold sweat had broken upon his brow as he’d gasped, suddenly, heaving for breath—but it was as though his lungs were being constricted, his heart squeezed by a python.
Despite the females’ protest, Zhaire’d extricated himself from their tangled limbs and distressed queries, heaving himself off the velvet couch.
As quickly as he could manage with trembling fingers, he’d buttoned his trousers and shirt and yanked on his coat.
At the last moment, he swiped the half-empty bottle of whiskey from the table.
Stumbling from the gambling hall, he was at once accosted by the needling, liminal light of morning in the Veiled Realm. He’d grimaced with surprise and annoyance, but at least out here, he could breathe.
It wasn’t until he’d walked half a city block and hailed a carriage that he’d realized he sought not just solace but to, for once, be at Etolia Palace.
Zhaire’s appearance surprised the servants, who never expected him to actually use his rooms. They hurried about like startled doves, fussing to change the bedding, light the fire, refresh provisions, but it was all unnecessary; Zhaire probably wouldn’t last half an hour before he remembered he’d rather be at Rook’s, the barracks, bleeding out on a battlefield, anywhere but his father’s palace.
Rather than waste their time, he waved them away and lit the fire himself, which had been so warm, the armchair so soft, that he’d fallen asleep, empty bottle in his hand. One moment, slumber—the rare, blissful kind devoid of dreams lashed with grief and guilt—and the next …
Well, Zhaire did not possess the Sight and thus hadn’t understood, at first, that this was not a dream when he found himself standing on a foreign beach in the shadow of a long-dead tree, bitter cold biting through his coat.
No, he didn’t understand that this was not a dream, not until he saw her.
A shining light with lovely, warm brown skin the color of cinnamon bark.
She wore her hair in long braids interwoven with curling tendrils.
Her boots were muddy, the hem of her dress soaked with water, and she stood, lost—so lost—shivering in the cold.
Adrift, moored, somehow, among a blurred crowd of faceless creatures—humans, he thought instinctually, though he’d never seen one before.
And yet, hers was the only face he saw clearly, a face more vivid and alive than he’d ever witnessed.
A tether drew him to her, a fierce hunger awakening within him, a blaze of need.
Like a wolf following a fresh, bloody trail, he did as any demon would when in the presence of a soul untouched by death, he scented the air, just enough to taste her.
Though from this distance, even as powerful as he was, he shouldn’t have been able to …
And yet, he hissed as the potency of her emotions barraged his senses.
He’d only ever siphoned from Veridian fae before, and their shallow feelings were unseasoned turnips compared to this rich strata.
Valleys of terror and peaks of tenacity, rivers of sorrow, blooming wonder, heart of love, waves of grief, coalesced within her, synchronic.
How one being could fit this much within them at once … He’d not known that a soul could harbor all this without fracturing, breaking.
It was clear at once that Zhaire could never have dreamt this, dreamt her—he lacked the imagination.
It had been only a few weeks since Kiel’s death … If she had arrived even one moon earlier, she would have been Kiel’s problem to bear, should have been his.
How cruel of his god to have played this trick.
And then, as though the fates plucked the salt from the air just to scrape it in his wound, she’d shifted, looked toward him, and their gazes met.
He felt the prophecy snap into place, as though he were cemented, encased in chains.
Binding fate coalesced between them, wrapping around him and her, cinching tight, so tight he couldn’t breathe as her emotions mixed with his, and for a moment, he lost himself completely, unable to discern where hers ended and his began.
It took every ounce of strength he possessed to stop himself from racing across the beach, grabbing hold of her, and sinking his fangs inside her long, elegant neck, so that he might siphon her emotions entirely—but the discipline required years of honing his body to be an instrument of war, was the only reason his boots remained affixed to the pebbled beach. That his agency returned to him at all.
And then, her gaze left his, and the vision ended as quickly as a candle snuffed out.
Zhaire shot up from the chair, gasping—the lingering taste of her velvet on his tongue.
He hurtled from the room, down the corridor, practically flew to his father’s throne room. He had to inform the king that she was here.
The Heir had finally arrived in Zenaida.