Chapter 45
ZHAIRE
Noel Carda and Audra Evers made an odd pair.
If you had asked either of them two months prior if they thought they had a single similarity with the other, they would have spit on the ground and sworn to the forgotten gods that there wasn’t one thing anyone could drum up that would cast them in the same light.
It was obvious now, as she clung to the noble’s back while he nudged the stallion with a knee and a natural click of the tongue through Holyvere Academy’s twisted iron gate, that they had more in common than most.
Both were human-born with concealed fae blood in their ancestry, raised in a land without magic, thrust into a new world of dark secrets and dangerous shadows; both were struggling to control this seemingly infinite well of power that threatened each new day to tear them apart, but most interesting, and perhaps most curious of all, both were envious of the other.
Audra envied Noel’s confidence, his assumed carefree childhood in a manor house with wealthy parents, a host of staff, filled to the brim with elegant decor and art she could only dream of.
How easily his magic listened to him, how it leapt to do his bidding.
But she envied, most of all, that he was not the Heir an entire world sought to find, to use, to control.
Noel envied Audra’s confidence, the assumed carefree childhood raised in a loving family with attentive parents, and a cozy home filled to the brim with happy memories.
How easily she made friends, seeming to inspire loyalty as though drawing the sentiment from people as a bee to nectar.
But he envied, most of all, that she was most likely the Heir an entire world sought to worship, to celebrate, to love.
Of course, both would rather die than admit this to the other—
“Enough, Rook,” Zhaire ordered his companion. “It’s disturbing how much you know about two souls you’ve never met. Besides, I don’t wish to know any more about her unless she chooses to divulge the information to me.”
Rook Allway, distant cousin, owner of the Rook and Dice Gambling Hall, future member of the royal council, and blood-sworn friend to Zhaire, was unperturbed by being called disturbing, he knew his gift was odd, offensive, and owned it, replied, “You’re the one who asked.
” Before taking a large swig of cider and belching loud enough to earn a glare from the barkeep.
“Apologies,” Rook said to the lady, but she’d already seemed to forget the vulgarity.
“I inquired about the nature of their relationship, as in, are they friends? Not for a list of their innermost insecurities.” Zhaire sighed into his glass, wishing it were filled with beer from his own distillery rather than this backwoods Zenaidan swill.
Most magic in the realm, and yet Zenaidans wouldn’t know a well-crafted brew if it poured from the sky instead of sleet.
“You’re just upset you ordered the beer—I told you the cider would be the wiser choice,” Rook said, before downing the last of the cider in his glass.
“Remind me to listen next time.”
A groan as Rook signaled to the barkeep for two ciders.
“Please don’t tell me there will be a ‘next time’; this town is abhorrent.
Why not just take the girl?” He leaned in, lowering his voice.
“The moment she sets foot in the tavern, let’s open a Veilway.
I’ll step through first, and you can just give her a little push …
Okay, not a push, just a gentle nudge, through the door. I’ll catch her on the other side.”
Zhaire frowned.
“Okay, would you rather be the one to catch her?”
Zhaire shoved the warm beer to the far side of the greasy table.
He didn’t want to smell it anymore, let alone see it.
It was offensive. “As a seer, Rook, you sure ask inane questions and devise even more pointless suggestions. I’m questioning why I asked you to join my future council when we were ten. ”
“First of all, that was the best decision you ever made, locking me down that early. And who’s to say that the”—his tone changed to warble dramatically—“ ‘the Heir must descend willingly’ part of the prophecy is that vital? There is also a line about fated love, is there not? You never seem to mention that part of it. And anyway”—Rook grinned—“how could that be when you are so obviously smitten with Winnow Slevincky?”
For the first time since they’d stepped through the Veilway into this shit town three hours before, Zhaire laughed. “Did Winnow Slevincky pay you to say that? Hoping that if it came from my seer, I might believe it?”
“She couldn’t afford me—” Two glasses of cider were plopped down onto the table.
“Thank you,” Zhaire thanked the barkeep, but she was already halfway across the tavern. From the sickly sweet fragrance emanating from the glass, he wasn’t sure if he should have thanked her, though, or request she take it back immediately.
“Here—” Rook pushed the cider toward his prince. “Drink this down; you’re on edge, and that will be bad for all the unlucky sops who find themselves in this tavern with you this night.”
Zhaire sniffed the glass suspiciously before shrugging and taking a swig. It had so much cinnamon, it almost masked that the apples had been harvested from the bitterest of crab apple trees and unnaturally sweetened using a rudimentary, inelegant incra.
“I’m not on edge.” He tapped a finger on the table to the rhythm of his favorite symphony. “How much longer?”
Rook laughed. “I thought the last time you asked me that was going to be the last time you asked me that.”
“I’m a prince, I’m fickle, it’s in my nature. Just answer the damned question.”
“They’ve barely left Holyvere Academy.”
“How do we know they’re going to arrive here safely? The woods surrounding Holyvere are foul, dangerous, even for seasoned warriors.”
“We know, because I saw in a vision that sometime tonight she will enter this shithole tavern.”
“Are you sure this is the right tavern? Don’t roll your eyes, Rook, you work for me, remember. You’re obligated to answer all my questions.”
“And I’ve half a mind to quit before my official position has even begun. But yes, I am sure—Green Barrow only has one tavern, and we are currently inside it.”
“Tell me more about this highborn she’s with. If they dislike each other so intensely, why are they on the same horse?”
“She doesn’t know how to ride; it was the only way.”
Zhaire’s finger picked up the tempo, led not by the symphonic beat in his head, but the quick drum of his heart. What if he fucked this meeting up too? He’d given her ample opportunities, and she’d turned him away each time.
This was never supposed to be his mission.
He was the younger brother, the spare.
He should’ve been leading his troops in battle right now, or fucking the prettiest woman at Rook’s gambling hall, high off another victory, the blood of Zenaidan nobles still wet on his boots.
Instead of leaving the fighting to the general while he attempted to convince the most stubborn human alive to come with him to the underworld.
This was supposed to be Kiel’s quest.
The elder, raised in equal measures between the high temple and Etolia, prepared from birth to take up the holy gauntlet, to lead the kingdom, to bring the ultimate victory to the Veiled Realm. Then, she would have been Kiel’s queen, ruled alongside him, set the world to rights …
Kiel was to fulfill the prophecy, to do what no Rhaevon had ever managed, and no other royal prince before his family took the throne cycles before.
Kiel had been perfect for it too. He was just and kind and fucking born to rule, strong enough to bear the weight of the prophecy.
Zhaire was uncouth, and stubborn, and too fucking violent—he wasn’t brought up to lead a kingdom, he’d been put on a horse and sent to the barracks when he was barely out of swaddle cloths.
Raised by soldiers to be a soldier—to strategize and to slaughter.
He was practically born with a sword in his hand, whereas Kiel had been given a quill and his own wing of the palace to study the prophecy.
Zhaire was destined to be a general, to lead the armies that bent the knee to the Heir and the king.
Zhaire made his first kill by the age of twelve and enjoyed his first fuck not too long after that.
Kiel was taught to manipulate, rule—to convince the Heir to fall for him …
Zhaire wasn’t expected to do much else but kill those he was told to, until he’d reached the age, rank, and prowess to be the one who decided those to be killed.
Kiel had been raised to save the realm, save countless lives.
Zhaire had been raised in the barracks, honed like a weapon to take as many lives as he could. And he was damned good at it.
Zhaire was prepared to die for the cause if need be, having been brought up to bleed for his kingdom—but his knees fucking quaked at the thought that he was now expected to one day lead the entire night-kissed realm.
He’d failed so far—each time he’d visited her.
Zhaire had followed that cord—that tug between them, meeting her in the greenhouse—he’d tried to channel Kiel …
What would Kiel do? How would Kiel woo her to their side?
He’d brought her a fucking flower, and she’d laughed in his face.
He was convinced that if it had been Kiel giving her the flower, she would have taken it immediately.