Chapter 21
Rash, Impulsive, And Categorically Adaptable
Rion opened the door, and Eiko braced for the snapping of orders, but instead, the soldier’s voice was shallow and perfunctory. “His Grace requests your return. Both of you.”
“Of course,” Rion placated quickly.
Eiko followed her lead, lowering her chin just enough that the chains of her headdress slid forward in a soft, chiming curtain.
The soldier stepped aside to allow them through, and the moment they crossed the threshold back into the corridor, the noise of the ball swallowed them whole again.
Music, laughter, and conversation swelled and crested, the court celebrating the happy, shocking news of the princes’ engagement.
Eiko, Hymn warned, disbelieving.
She was dragging her second sight back into focus—not the colours, but just enough of the power to interact with the gliding movement of the bodies crowding the hall and the glittering of the chandeliers.
I ate a whole tray of sandwiches, she said. I don’t want to do this blind and vulnerable.
He circled her wrist fretfully, nuzzling into her palm to show that he understood. He didn’t like it, but she could feel that he didn’t want her vulnerable either.
Let’s just get through this, he said. But don’t push too hard.
She silently agreed as they were escorted to the end of the corridor and back into the ballroom. The crowd parted for them this time, whispers blooming through the room. Queen Noemi swept towards them immediately, her skirts whispering in a fretful hurry, eyes still shining with tears.
“There you are,” she breathed, clasping both of their hands as if she had been moments away from fainting herself. “You had us worried.”
What if I legitimately just needed the privy? Eiko thought, perplexed.
Look at King Grigori, Hymn said.
He was standing right behind his wife, colour staining high along his cheekbones, his hand on the small of her back.
He had guided the queen towards them, but his touch seemed a little forceful, even now.
Queen Noemi’s grip lingered just a second too long, her fingers tightening around Eiko’s knuckles.
The queen might have orchestrated tonight, and it seemed to be her job to manage everyone …
but even she was being managed and steered.
“You must forgive us,” the queen continued, turning her radiant smile outward to the nearest cluster of nobles. “Such overwhelming joy—one forgets one’s constitution.”
“Yes,” Rion agreed, perfectly breathless. “It was all … rather overwhelming, in the best way.”
King Grigori loomed closer, broad and magnificent in his finery, his presence pressing against Eiko’s senses, like blaring heat from an open forge; it was uncomfortable to stand near, with his temper so close to the surface.
He took Rion’s hand first, lifting it and pressing a kiss to her knuckles while approving murmurs skittered all around them.
Then his attention turned to Eiko. She braced herself. Hymn fled her wrist to hide inside her chest.
“Come,” King Grigori said, already reaching for her. “Let the court see you properly.”
His grip closed around her hand, thick fingers squeezing, firm and possessive. Her muscles instinctively tensed in preparation to pull away.
Don’t, Hymn warned quickly.
She forced herself to relax into the hold, allowing the king to draw her onto the floor as the musicians shifted seamlessly, the tempo quickly changing to something stately and ceremonial.
King Grigori held her with the ease of a man used to being obeyed. She could have been one of his gold statues, for all the care he paid to her willingness. His hand at her waist was heavy and confident. He didn’t guide her, as Ceran had. He dragged her more than anything.
“You put on weight,” he said, his voice low and pleased. “Gold suits you …”
Holy shit, he forgot my name.
“Eiko,” she supplied.
He grunted.
This is awkward, Hymn spoke up from his hiding place.
What in the dark am I supposed to say to that kind of comment? she asked him.
Just thank him, Hymn said. Just thank him for everything he says from here on out.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” she said, focusing on the sound of King Grigori’s boots, the rhythm of the music, and the blessed distance between their bodies.
“You’ll grow into the role,” he said, turning her so the light caught her gown. “Both of you will—the other one will do it faster, though.”
“Rion,” Eiko supplied.
That wasn’t a thank-you, Hymn groaned.
Not that it mattered, the king simply ignored her correction. “The court adores a strong girl,” he said, “once she’s properly presented.”
Her stomach twisted. Across the floor, she could hear Rion laughing softly at something Corvan had said.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” she repeated.
He rolled his eyes, apparently not falling for her “perfectly thankful princess” act. She wasn’t even in the same realm of believability as Rion.
“Your friend—Ren Iwao. His name is very Stonesigh, but he doesn’t quite have the look.”
Eiko tripped, but the king swept her to the side, covering up the stumble as he pulled her across the floor.
Why is he talking about Ren? she asked Hymn in a panic. Why has he forgotten all our names except for Ren’s?
The little monster was curled around her ankle, as far from the king as he could get. I think you know why, he said mournfully.
“His grandmother is from Ironglade,” she told the king.
“Very handsome man.” His grip tightened around her waist. “The Godsguard is a treacherous endeavour. I hope he survives training.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
He grunted again, and they fell into an awkward, loaded silence.
The dance ended to applause, but Eiko barely heard it over her own thundering heartbeat.
King Grigori had her brother right there, available to use against her with very little effort, but he had chosen Ren instead.
Just to prove that he knew her secrets.
“Eiko.” Ceran’s voice slid in smoothly from her right.
Summoned by the end of the song, he offered his arm once more, his expression warm and attentive. Perfectly princely.
“Shall I?” he asked quietly.
She nodded, and King Grigori handed her over without a word. Ceran picked up her hand, threading it through his arm and guiding her away from the centre of the floor. Relief loosened something tight in her chest.
They moved together easily. Ceran was safer, and he somehow blended time into a blur of charm and ease, allowing her to spin about in person while also spinning about in her mind.
When the music shifted into something slower, and Ceran began to draw her closer, she jolted away from her thoughts, her skin prickling.
She stiffened, feeling the change in the air before she heard the subtle, collective hesitation of the crowd. The instinctive widening of space. The hush that followed a predator stepping into view.
Boots on marble, the footsteps measured and unhurried, but more importantly, audible.
Chasin wanted her to hear him coming.
The temperature dropped.
Hymn coiled so tightly around her ankle that it was painful.
Ceran’s hand tightened fractionally around hers. “I believe,” his voice was pitched low, “I must give you up again. Chasin,” he added, louder, a greeting for his brother, before he passed her hand into another and stepped away.
Eiko stared at her fingers resting in Chasin’s gloved grip, as his other hand curved at her waist, pulling her into his orbit.
In her periphery, she could see that Ceran was stealing Rion away from Corvan.
Where Ceran had adjusted to her, compensating for her, and where King Grigori had dragged and pulled at her, Chasin merely assumed competence.
He moved, expecting her to follow, and she did.
Cairn might complain about how slow she was, but she was certainly competent enough to adjust her body to invisible instruction—that was something she had been practising since she was ten years old, when Rion, Ky, and Kaito began to steer her as they walked.
Chasin’s hand at her waist asserted just enough pressure to place her where he wanted her, aligning her body with his in a way that made the dance feel liquid, flattering the silken glide and sway of her dress.
Her spine straightened automatically, her chin drawing up.
As a person, he sucked. As a dancer … he … sucked a little less.
His gloved fingers pressed once at her lower back in a small correction, and she adjusted instantly. Satisfied, his thumb traced a small, deliberate sign against her spine, with just enough weight to pepper gooseflesh across her exposed skin.
Yes.
Her stomach clenched. Hymn was bristling, the little monster still in a constricting cuff around her ankle.
I’m going to teach this guy a lesson, he growled ferociously. One day.
He was such a little wimp.
Eiko, on the other hand, … was also going to teach Chasin a lesson. One day.
Because she was also a wimp.
Chasin leaned in, his nose brushing her hairline briefly as he ducked to her ear.
He’s hunting, Hymn reminded her, as Chasin seemed to take note of her scent.
Chasin’s breath brushed the shell of her ear. “Congratulations on your engagement,” he whispered, that fractal, broken voice threatening to cut right through the silk of her gown, razing tiny little wounds all the way down her spine.
“Thank you, Commander,” she said stiffly. And by the way, fuck you, and I hate you.