Chapter 14
The only way to describe the dining room in Prince Keres’s chambers is romantic.
Instead of the auras I’ve seen all over the court, dozens of candles fill the space, their flickering flames reflecting off the polished walls and illuminating everything around me.
A large oak table takes up the center of the room, set for two at one end, with various dishes spread out, each looking more delicious than the last.
But my focus isn’t on the food.
The prince lounges in his chair, the angles of his face cast in light and shadow by the glow of the candles.
Nyssa steps away from me to stand off to the side, her posture straight and unyielding, the perfect image of a dutiful handmaiden.
Her presence remains a comforting strength, filling me with a confidence I’m not certain I would feel on my own.
“Prince Keres,” I greet him, dipping my head as I take a seat.
“Come now,” he says. “I think we can do away with titles between us.”
I watch him closely for a moment, taking in the sly smile, the predatory gleam in his eyes, contemplating the best way to play out this scenario. I know if I make a mistake tonight, it could jeopardize the mission, but the only cues I have to go by are the ones he is sending my way.
Taking a leap of faith, I meet his gaze with a saccharine smile. “And what would you call me, then?”
His eyes flash with heat, and I know I made the right choice when he leans in closer, the faint brush of his breath fanning across my face.
“I can think of a few things I’d like to call you.” His voice is low and husky, thick with suggestion I want to cringe away from, but I hold myself still. “But I think Aella will be sufficient. At least, for now.”
Emboldened, I lean forward, reaching for my glass of wine and making the space between Keres and myself even smaller. I smile at him over the rim, taking a small sip. I make a show of licking the wine from my bottom lip before replying, noting the way his eyes track the movement.
“Then I suppose I’ll return the favor.”
Keres smiles at me like he’s won something, and I can’t help but smile back. Not a smirk with the intention to seduce, but a genuine smile. Because he may think he’s winning, but the reality is that I’m playing an entirely different game.
As though summoned by that very thought, a dark form appears outside the window, dropping from the floor above to land precariously on the window ledge. I watch as the figure pauses, studying the candlelit scene before edging toward the lounge room to our right.
Raven.
Keres turns toward the window, but I reach out, tracing a gentle finger along his hand. His focus shifts back to me, and I flick my eyes toward Nyssa. “Leave us,” I say dismissively, as though she means nothing to me at all. Just a handmaiden.
She’ll give me grief for that later.
The dismissal offers a convenient excuse for my brief lapse in focus, while also allowing her to assist Raven in finding a safer, more straightforward way into Keres’s chambers—no need for precarious window lockpicking with the risk of plummeting to a rocky demise.
Nyssa offers a graceful curtsy to us both before disappearing through the draped archway leading to the antechamber. I turn my attention back to Keres.
“So tell me, then, what does a prince search for in his future bride?” I ask, swirling the cup of wine. “I’m sure you know what you’re hoping to see through the trials.”
“You mean aside from all the things my father expects of me?” His expression turns thoughtful, and he leans across the table, plucking a rose from the vase at its center.
He holds it between two fingers, twisting it back and forth as he examines it and—I assume—my question.
Before my eyes, the rose withers. Keres leaches it of life until nothing but a lackluster husk remains.
I’d once read that the magic of the Anemoi gifted to the royal bloodlines was stolen. Ripped from the land they came from before they found the Empyrieos. At first, they’d claimed it for themselves. But after the God War, they passed it on to the families who would rule in their stead.
The the?kós of Eretria was the exact opposite of its western neighbor, Reveza. Where they harnessed the power of spring and growth in the west, here they controlled the power of autumn.
The power to wither.
To decay.
Keres hands me the rose, and I accept it, suppressing a shudder as our fingers brush.
“I need a bride who is strong. Resilient,” he says. “Someone who can be my match in every way.”
It’s an effort not to roll my eyes at the way his words roll off his tongue. As though he’s practiced them in the mirror countless times before. I let another slow smile unfurl across my lips, and Keres’s eyes lock on them again. “A very diplomatic answer, Prince.”
“Perhaps you’ll offer me one in return?”
Leaning slightly closer, I tilt my head as if considering his question. “A return answer?” I muse, my tone light but edged with challenge. “That depends on the question.”
I twirl the rose between my fingers, shivering as the dry petals brush against my skin.
Keres leans back in his seat, his posture relaxed yet deliberate, a slight smirk playing on his lips.
He studies me for a moment, his sharp eyes scanning my face as if searching for something hidden beneath the surface.
I continue to hold his gaze, unflinching, as the silence between us stretches.
“I’ve heard the whispers,” Keres says eventually, his voice dropping lower, almost conspiratorial. “There are those who claim you have no the?kós at all. That the power of your bloodline flows dry in your veins.”
My grip tightens on the stem of the rose, the faint press of thorns threatening to prick my skin. I keep my expression neutral, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. “That’s not a question.”
“Is it true?” Keres persists, undeterred by my deflection.
I take a slow breath, the whispers of the rumors echoing in my mind.
When my decoy was sent to the Isle of the Winds, it only fueled the speculation, spreading like wildfire.
A stab of shame twists in my chest—a bitter reminder that my father’s magic, the legacy everyone expects, doesn’t flow in my veins.
“It’s true. The the?kós of the Sotiría bloodline never manifested within me. ”
Keres’s smirk falters for the briefest of moments, his crimson eyes narrowing as if analyzing every syllable of my confession.
His fingers drum against the table, an uneasy energy radiating from him as he opens his mouth to respond.
But before the words can form, a sharp knock echoes from the antechamber.
The sound jars the tension in the air, and both of us instinctively turn toward it.
Keres’s expression hardens, his frustration concealed under a mask of indifference as he calls, “Enter.”
Placing the brittle rose on the table, I surreptitiously wipe my finger on the skirt of my gown. Heavy boots echo against the stone floor, and my heart plummets as the curtain draping the archway is brushed aside to reveal a guard.
My racing mind jumps to the worst conclusion—Nyssa and Raven must have been caught.
The thought grips me with icy dread, my stomach twisting painfully.
I hold my breath, bracing for the worst, but then I see her.
Nyssa steps into view just behind him, her movements calm and deliberate, as if she has nothing to hide.
There’s a demure smile on her lips, one that’s almost too composed, too perfect, like she’s masking the same panic I just felt.
I let out a shaky sigh of relief, my chest loosening as the tension ebbs, though my pulse still thrums in my ears.
“What is it, Jorah?” Keres demands.
The guard doesn’t speak, but he steps forward and passes the prince a note. He looks to be around thirty—though with the way tycheroi age, he could be much older. Brown hair, cut short at the sides, shadows a face so plain it barely registers…except for the eyes.
Black, bottomless, too still.
I’ve observed that Keres keeps no guards near him—not even outside his doors. It’s as if he’s entirely confident that no one would dare to harm him. So, I make a mental note of this one.
I watch in silence as a series of emotions pass over Keres’s face in rapid succession.
He takes a deep breath through his nose, and an impassive mask settles across his features, his previously warm eyes now stone-cold.
Gone is the rakish prince I was to dine with this evening. In his place is a cold, cruel man.
Witnessing the shift sends a shiver up my spine.
The prince stands, and I stand with him.
“My sincerest apologies for the interruption, Aella, but our dinner will need to be cut short.”
“There’s no need, Keres,” I say, stepping closer and placing my hand on his arm. “Besides, there will be plenty more opportunities for us to spend time together during the trials.”
The prince looks down at my hand before taking it in his own. Raising it to his lips, he places a lingering kiss on the inside of my wrist. His eyes sear an unspoken promise into mine, and I pray to the gods that I’ll never see it fulfilled.
I resist the urge to bolt from his chambers, striding from the dining room without a backward glance at Keres or his guard.
My gaze remains fixed ahead, resisting the temptation to linger on the open archway leading to the lounge, or the two other closed rooms. The doors of the antechamber stand open, their carved frames yawning like silent witnesses as Nyssa falls into step behind me.
The soft rustle of fabric and the tap of our footsteps follow us as we continue out into the hall.
But as we approach a marble statue nestled in a dim alcove, I draw her into its shadow.
Placing a finger against her lips, I quiet the unspoken questions already shimmering in her eyes.