Chapter Fifteen Xander
I don’t hesitate as I reach for the chalice, the tart taste of cherry hitting my tongue.
My proximity to King Dolian hinges on the fact that he believes me to be a supplicant.
To be loyal to him and him alone. So I take a hearty gulp of the alcohol and hope to the gods that it isn’t the last thing I do.
I’m disappointed to see Jerrick set his cup back down at the same time I do, cutting a pissed off look my way before eyeing his candidates.
I turn to look at Darin, Theo, and Alden, relieved when I see them finishing their drinks and setting their own cups down.
We eye each other warily, waiting for the poison to rear its head in the form of foaming mouths or passing out—like with belladragis or gelsemium.
When precious seconds pass without any reaction, I breathe a little deeper. None of us.
The relief is temporary, however, when I look across the table to find that Jerrick and his three men appear fine as well. What the hell?
“To give one’s life in honor of his king is no small feat,” King Dolian says as he stands from his ornate chair, clasping his hands behind his back.
He pivots towards the other side of the table, his pace slow.
“It’s an honor I don’t take for granted.
A loyalty that I’m aware is as rare as the jewels mined from our mountains.
” His eyes find mine briefly across the expanse of wood, and I ensure my expression remains blank under his inspection.
“As my Trusted, you will be asked to test that loyalty over and over again. I recognize that there are foes lined up at my front, ready to strike me down at the first opportunity.” He continues walking until he rounds the edge of the table, coming to a halt behind Darin.
His hand twitches at his side, and a sinking feeling takes root as the hairs at the back of my neck rise.
“Which is why I won’t tolerate hesitance from anyone meant to protect my back. ”
What happens next is a blur of movement as the king slides a hidden dagger down from his sleeve.
My nostrils flare, every muscle in my body locking as he curls his arm around Darin’s neck.
It’s instinct, years of training myself to not react to the king’s displays of power, that holds me in place, but Darin doesn’t have time to register what is happening before the blade is slicing through the delicate skin at his throat, blood spraying from the open wound over the chair and table in front of him.
Between Darin and I, Theo and Alden hold themselves as still as possible, though the former struggles wiping the shock from his face.
Blood coats his side when Darin turns towards him, his hands attempting to wrap around the fatal cut.
No one moves as Darin chokes on his own blood.
His complexion whitens, and then he collapses, eyes falling shut as crimson leaks onto the tiled floor.
King Dolian backs up to avoid the spill, holding the dagger with an ease that has always surprised me.
For all the pompous ways he regards himself, it’s hard to remember that he was also trained to be a soldier.
That as the second son, the spare, he had no reason to ever think he would be king, especially when his brother produced an heir.
As such, he would have learned how to fight in order to keep his brother safe, should danger ever make its way to the castle.
Except danger was present in the castle the night Princess Rhea was born.
King Conrad and Queen Luna’s deaths had long been blamed on a mage suicide mission, but a part of me always wondered if it was him.
I have seen firsthand what he will do to his own flesh and blood.
I don’t doubt he wouldn’t hesitate to kill anyone who stands in the way of what he wants.
Bending down, King Dolian wipes his dagger clean over a spot on Darin’s tunic that hasn’t yet been sullied by the blood pouring from his neck. When he stands, he spins the dagger over his palm so that the hilt is pointed at me. “Clean this mess up and notify his next of kin.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Plucking the dagger from his hand, my eyes meet his, and the perverse pleasure I see in them forces my fingers tighter around the hilt, my mind wondering what it might be like to plunge this blade right into his neck.
My toes flex in my boots, each muscle that had held me still now urging me forward.
I sway, an action easily excusable as a bout of lightheadness, but the magic of the vow knows.
My intentions are clear, and the magic doesn’t hold back as a wave of pain floods over me.
Shit. I need a different thought to latch on to, something to pull me away from the destructive edge my mind is teetering on as the sensation of pins pricking my skin begins to seep into me.
I cycle through the people I trust, the list pathetically short as I force a stilted breath in through my nose.
“Your loyalty will be tested again. Next time, be prepared for battle.” King Dolian says to the room.
Loyalty. Fuck, I hate that word. Hate that I have to prove it over and over again.
Your loyalty to him is an atrocity. The thought of the shifter eases the sting of the magical punishment, so I cling to the image of her in my mind, eyes glowing so brightly I could swear they were golden as her lip lifted in a snarl.
Moonlight hair framed her face, worse off from her time in the dungeon yet still a beacon in the darkness.
Jaw flexing, I slide the dagger the king gave me underneath my belt just as he, Simon, and the small retinue of guards leave.
“Shame,” Jerrick says, clicking his tongue as he makes his way around the table, his candidates filing towards the door.
He jerks his chin towards Darin’s lifeless body.
“Had you better prepared them, he might not have hesitated.” Miles chuckles, the four men letting the door to the dining room slam shut behind them.
“I will try to find out as much as I can about the next trial,” I say to Theo and Alden quietly, turning my gaze down to where Darin lies. “But if you would like to drop out as—”
“Hell no!” Theo interrupts, running a hand through his flaxen hair.
His normally tanned skin is pale, but those sandy-brown eyes stay glued to mine as he takes a step closer, mindful of Darin’s body.
“I’m here because I want his rule to end.
This”—he pauses to gesture in Darin’s direction, keeping his voice low—“is the cost of participating. A cost we all were aware of.” I glance at Alden, and though he looks less than pleased about what’s happened, he concedes with a nod of his head.
“We continue forward, and we will not let his death be in vain.”
I return to the barracks and shower before dressing in my usual armor, my hands steady as I strap my sword to my waist and slip my helmet on over my head.
Darin’s death is another cut on my skin, joining so many others.
Small mistakes that I’ve made over my time here at the castle, under the king’s thumb.
I should have noticed the nervousness in Darin’s voice and made him leave.
Now I still feel the stain of his blood on my fingers, despite the hot water that burned them earlier.
Staring at myself in the mirror, I look for my mother’s features to help focus me, but all I can see in my reflection is the king.
Numbly, I dress and head to the stables.
Once saddled and on my horse, I ride to Stonebrook, a small village a few miles to the east of Vitour.
It contains only a few shops, the rest dedicated to farm land.
One of those farms belongs to Darin’s family.
Climbing down from my horse, I tie him to a tree, hesitating for the length of a breath before knocking on the worn-down front door.
A woman with the same bright red hair answers the door, a baby on her hip as she takes one look at the armor I wear and retreats a step back into the house.
Swallowing, she angles her body so that her baby is farther away from me.
“How can I help you, sir?” Before I can answer, a man joins her in the threshold of the door.
He’s tall, light brown hair brushed back on his head, freckles dotting his cheeks.
Though Darin’s hair clearly came from his mother, he is the spitting image of his father.
More children appear behind them, and I find that the words I gathered on my tongue to say no longer want to come out.
Perhaps his parents can tell, because his mother’s hand flies to her mouth, her face burying into her husband’s shoulder while his eyes hold mine.
“Darin?” he asks in confirmation, his solemn voice adding another layer of invisible scars.
“I’m sorry. It was an accident in training,” I lie, the taste of it raw and bloody on my tongue.
I offer a few more untrue words, like the body was burned as is honorary for those in the guard.
They clutch their children close, tears staining their cheeks and slicing like a blade through my defenses.
Just because I had worked hard to shield myself from the king and everything I was forced to do in his name—to protect the resistance—it doesn’t mean that I am impenetrable.
Feeling things deeply, connecting to them emotionally, has always been a perceived weakness of mine.
I had thought that, after so many years of being guarded, it would be easier to stand tall in the face of what I’ve done.
But I realize that it never gets easier pretending, and time isn’t the ally I thought it was.