Chapter 29
My mood, already not the best when the day had started, morphed into something with almost a mind of its own, seething right under the surface, and the tiniest spark would be enough to incinerate everything around me. The explosive mixture bubbling inside my veins was composed of various elements.
First, me being summoned like a criminal, with a fucking escort and not a single minute to prepare, had me outraged.
Second, that my fucking grandfather insisted I’d bring Nayana with me to what indeed could end as an interrogation, if not one of the wonderful punishing sessions I’d missed so very much.
Not.
And lastly, I didn’t care who he was—and even if he were channeling the godsdamned Triad all at once into his body—no one was allowed to disturb Nayana and me, especially not when we were tearing down more of the walls between us.
Or well, I’d been tearing, and she’d clung to a few remaining pieces of rubble.
Her resistance would be cute if the constant battle weren’t so frustrating. But just now, we’d been making progress. And instead of enjoying her this very instant, I was forced to deal with His Royal Majesty, Fucking High King Asshole of Shitville.
Even though she walked half behind me, I was tuned in to her every move. No flinching, no tensed muscle, no twitching in fear could escape my vigilant observation. She was too pale despite the makeup emphasizing the beautiful shine in her eyes and the fullness of her lips.
And her fucking scent.
Gods, my soap mixed with the smell of her skin was divine. Especially when wisps of her desire snuck into the perfume surrounding her like bait designed only for me.
Lucky for the entire population of Alaiann Palace, the notes of her arousal had vanished.
The remnants were overpowered by the fear clinging to her.
Not that I’d prefer that, but at least I didn’t have to kill anyone in her honor.
The argument arising after eliminating one or a thousand threats—I mean, who counted?
—wouldn’t be a pleasant one, and she wasn’t yet at a point where she’d agree that a scent was a valid reason for murder.
After all, Nayana was human and had only learned about me being fae a little over a month ago. Most of that time she’d spent in captivity or recovery. She’d need another week or two to learn more about my people before she’d be able to understand and empathize with me and my motives.
My grandfather’s chamberlains—Fainic’s lackeys—who were tight-lipped about where the audience would be conducted, led us in the direction of the throne room.
Of course, he’d chosen the most ostentatious hall in the entire fucking palace. How else could he possibly flaunt his power over me?
If only I weren’t so fucking helpless to every single one of his whims, or if there were any way to break the chokehold he had me in. But in almost three hundred fifty winters, I hadn’t found a solution for this fucking conundrum.
Only one plot to overthrow the king had almost been successful, and the ringleader was dead. A searing phantom pain flared up in the back of my head for a mere second, as usual when I lingered too long on certain memories.
One day, I’d have to come clean with what had transpired during the winters after my parents’ murder, and deep inside, I was more than aware that the time to confess would dawn on me soon. Antas and his lectures about facing my demons—
My spiraling was interrupted as the grand doors to the throne room opened—I’d been so far down in my own mind, I hadn’t even noticed we’d already arrived—and a herald, the one with the unpleasant screech in his voice, spouted all the nonsense I despised.
“His Royal Highness Dionadair Dorchadas Coroin De’An Scriosta, Scion of High King Galrach Folus Iadrann, Crown Prince of Galanta, Heir to the Eternal Throne of Alaiann, and Field Marshal of the Endless Legions.”
How I loathed my full name. And even more, this never-ending trail of hollow titles. Then, to add insult to injury, the blatant disrespect toward Nayana. It wasn’t as if I’d expected otherwise. Still, the impertinence irked me to no end.
But there was no time to dwell on the affront.
As I stalked through the vast throne room, with Naya always a half-step behind me—as if she weren’t my equal—I collected all my bearings, or at least attempted to.
A few paces in front of the raised dais, I stopped my approach.
As customs dictated, I went down on one knee and bowed my head in fake reverence, although everything rebelled inside of me.
Scraping before the male sitting on his so-called Eternal Throne and degrading myself in front of a weak tyrant killed another piece of my dignity every time I was forced to do so.
Nayana, still in a short distance behind me, sank into the deepest curtsy she’d ever made. She wasn’t the most athletic person, so I couldn’t do more than hope that she would be able to hold her pose until she was allowed to get up.
Fuck, she didn’t deserve to have to grovel, even less than me.
“Scriosta.”
“Your Royal Majesty, High King Galrach Folus Iadrann, my Emperor. Grandfather.”
“Get up, runt.”
Instantly, I rose from my position, straightened myself, and as I faced his scrutiny with bored defiance, one thing was clear. I was in deep shit—all his subtle tells screamed that Galrach was livid.
My grandfather was an imposing fae. He was as tall as me, and his bulk could compete with Fig’s any day of the week.
Whenever I was in his vicinity, the fear that I might resemble his likeness in a couple of centuries became overbearing. Not because he was ugly or I was very vain, but imagining finding a copy of my tormentor every time I looked in the mirror was unbearable.
Galrach wore his raven hair shorter than I kept mine, the ends just grazing his shoulders, and his eyes sparkled crimson instead of my amethyst ones. My skin wasn’t as golden as his, but when compared, no one could deny our relations.
“Grandfather, may I present Nayana Garnet Ortha, my Amplifier, bound to me in divine magic through the Rite of Binding?”
Another breach of protocol I’d deal with later.
On the never-ending list of my punishable crimes, taking charge in an official conversation was only a minor offense, and I’d gladly accept the penalty if Nayana could get up sooner.
Already, her leg muscles were twitching, and I had to get her out of this situation before she was in pain—or worse.
My grandfather threw me one of his famous side eyes, then examined her from head to toe, and his gaze lingered for a second too long on the golden choker covering her divine marks.
Oh fuck, so he did remember this special set, and the subsequent crime—giving away parts of the crown jewels without permission—followed breaking High Court rules.
“You may rise too, Eachtrannach.”
Swallowing the growl building in my chest at the very last moment, I dug my fingernails into my flesh. Even though I’d perfected the role I portrayed for centuries, not succumbing to my temper became increasingly more challenging.
But not only did Galrach stare at Nayana as if she weren’t worthy of the air she was breathing.
No, he’d also called her Eachtrannach. Although the word could translate to foreigner, the way he’d pronounced the term transformed something neutral into a slur, the worst one you could use to address someone alien.
And not only that, Galrach had two more instances where he was using the moniker.
First, for the few magicless fae still hiding somewhere in Galanta, and second, for courtiers who’d fallen from grace but evaded execution and had been banned to the fringes of society forevermore.
So, yes, in calling my Amplifier Eachtrannach, my grandfather had clarified from the beginning what his opinion of her was.
Hopefully, her grasp of Galantian through our binding wasn’t letting her in on such nuances. Her face, at least, showed no signs of anger as she rose to her feet and kept her gaze lowered to the ground.
“Scriosta, I am more than disappointed. Abandoning your duties, your world, your king? With only leaving a glorified note behind? One not even explaining where you were headed or for how long? And then I had to learn you accompanied my brother to do gods-know-what in the world we had sealed away for a reason?”
“Even the lowest foot soldier serving under me collects two weeks of leave every winter. And if they’re granted holidays, why shouldn’t I?
So yes, I took the liberty of taking a few winters’ worth of free time off.
It’s not like we’re at war.” Inspecting my fingernails, I reminded myself once more of the role I had to excel in.
“But rest assured, Grandfather, the majority of the journey has been a giant waste of time. Ivreia is still as dull as in the past, if not worse.”
“Yet you chose Amalach, or whatever remains of the City of Air, as the site to enact one of our most sacred rites. Why?”
Why indeed? Because me preferring any place over Alaiann wouldn’t be the right answer, no matter how much this was the truth.
When Galrach turned to Nayana, I cursed myself for hesitating a second too long. “Speak, Eachtrannach. What explanation did Scriosta give you? Both for what he intended and why you had to accompany him to a city your lot deems haunted?”
Fuck. This wasn’t good. If I’d assumed he’d interrogate Nayana that early on—or at all—I would have briefed her on more than just the necessity for her to pretend submission. Never, in any scenario, had I foreseen Galrach developing a desire to confabulate with her.
“Your Royal Majesty, I was left in the dark about so much. His Royal Highness kept many secrets, still does, I assume, and he also had no special reason for picking Amalach. He just assured that visiting the ruins is safe and the destroyed city isn’t cursed.”
“So, you believed him to be one of your kind?”
“Yes, Your Royal Majesty.”
“Go on.”