The Ship Arrives
NOX
The horns sound as the ship pulls into dock, loud and grating, the trumpets following a moment later, sending a wave of irritation across Nox’s skin before she has even stepped off the gangway.
"Adjust my dress," she snaps.
The maid scurries around her, hands careful, making sure each layer of silk falls exactly as it should. The horn sounds again. Always so fucking loud.
She steps off the ship with care, every movement measured, the Yorali flag snapping above her in the harbor wind. Two crossed swords on deep blue. The herald moves to the front.
"Princess Ivanoxa of Yorali returns to the palace."
They drop immediately, every knee finding the ground in a ripple that moves outward from her.
Nox lets her power rise, her gold irises deepening as her intunar slips outward and brushes against the crowd, tasting the fear and the reverence of those bent before her.
She lets herself enjoy it for a moment before releasing it.
"Take me to my father," she says.
The nearest attendant startles and immediately scurries ahead to announce her arrival.
Yorali is beautiful in ways that are also terrifying.
Silver and deep blue line every corridor, polished and precise, everything about it radiating power and beauty, with something far darker hidden beneath.
Nox draws in a breath as she enters the palace and moves through it, the familiar presence closing in around her.
She enters the throne room and drops immediately into a curtsy.
"Your Majesty."
Her father sits at the center, exactly as he always does.
He looks younger than he should, his features smooth, his skin warm-toned against the deep blue of the throne.
His smile comes easily, open and pleasant, white teeth flashing, his eyes kind in a way that feels effortless.
Even his voice, when he speaks, carries a softness that invites rather than commands.
Beside him his wives are arranged like decoration. Some look down. Some look empty. One, Lylleta, tries to smile.
Nox’s smile is not kind. “Be careful, Lylleta,” she says sweetly. “I do not like your face. Until you can do something useful like produce an heir, I would remember it.”
Lylleta’s smile falters, her eyes drop instantly.
Good.
Her father laughs warmly. “My Nox is always so clever, so humorous.”
His voice darkens as he turns to Lylleta. “Not that it requires wit to see when someone has failed to fulfill their duties.”
Silence.
He looks around. “Does no one find me funny?”
The other wives laugh nervously.
Prince Tamal stands near the far wall, as he always does. Still. Watching. Her twin. The only one in this room who hears her even when she does not speak.
“Such a bitch,” Tamal says in her head. “Poor Lylleta.”
“Her teeth annoy me. She should not smile.”
“Father doesn’t mind a snaggle tooth.”
“His standards have gone down,” Nox says bitterly.
Collars gleam at the throats of the attendants lining the walls, silver etched into the skin like something permanent, something that does not come off. Everyone here knows what happens if they fail. Everyone here knows what happens if they are chosen.
“Tell me,” her father says. “What progress have you made, sweet daughter?”
Nox rises slowly. “I have placed deathmages throughout their palace.” She pauses. “So far, there is no word on who the key may be.”
The room falls quiet.
“See, now that is a shame,” he replies lightly. “Because I need that key to be mine before it becomes Sevrin Rathmor’s.”
He stands, and the warmth of his appearance fades as gray mist curls around him, revealing something far less human beneath.
He is pale in the way of something that has not seen warmth in a very long time, his skin almost translucent at the temples, his fingers long and thin.
Kohl lines his eyes in the traditional Yorali fashion, deep black and precisely applied, which somehow makes him look less human rather than more. His nose is long, his face narrow.
The only thing that remains the same is his voice. Always soft, always silky in a way that is far more unsettling than anything loud could ever be.
Ah, the real you has arrived, Nox thinks to herself.
His magic moves before she can brace for it. It tears through her, sudden and exact, driving her to her knees as pain floods her body.
“You understand,” he continues, his tone unchanged, “that not having the key would make me very upset, don’t you?”
Nox thinks about pushing back, about using her power against him. She might now be strong enough, but it is not worth the risk. Not until she feeds in Morrath. Not until she has the key.
Her hands press against the floor. “Yes, father.”
And do you understand, dear father, that when I get the key I will destroy you and this disgusting court?
“For centuries the Rathmors have ruled Morrath,” he says, rising now, his steps slow as he approaches. “Their power as feeders has been our greatest threat.” He stops in front of her. “Do you understand, Ivanoxa, that if Sevrin Rathmor wished it, he could turn us all into puppets?”
“They can compel us. Enslave us, if they choose,” he screams, as though it is her fault.
“Yes, Majesty,” Nox says calmly.
His attention returns to her. “I have built wards,” he says. “Layers of protection. Magic and mages to shield this country for as long as I am able.” A pause. “But I cannot protect it forever.”
He crouches slightly, those long fingers brushing along her cheek. His breath smells like something she can only liken to a blend of corpses and fish. She tries not to vomit, though she is impressed that he is able to glamour even that away when he is in his false form.
“The seers told me I would have daughters with different uses. That I would have a daughter who could not be controlled by feeders and their disgusting magic,” he continues.
“Had that not been the case, I might have partnered with Sevrin Rathmor. Released the Blind Gate together.” His expression hardens.
“But the risk is too great. It would leave us too vulnerable.”
“The seer told me—”
“Yes, father,” Nox cuts in softly. “Three daughters. One key.”
“And yet,” he says, smiling faintly, “all I see is you.” His fingers press a little harder against her skin. “Beautiful. Clever. More powerful than your weaker siblings who succumbed to magic and had the tragic fate of the pit.”
Succumbed to magic? You killed them. But fine, use those words if you prefer.
The king pauses, then looks at her with disdain. “But you are not what I need.”
“I need the key,” he continues. “And a daughter with feeder blood. Even a son would do but I have given up on having one that is not useless.” He throws Tamal a look of contempt. "Only then can I rest.” He straightens. “But we cannot always have what we want, now can we, Ivanoxa?”
“No, Majesty.”
Her blood runs cold. She glances toward her twin for a fraction of a second.
Tamal looks so different here than he does when he is traveling.
Here, the glamour is off and the eyes most think are warm and brown are the same golden color as hers.
He stands near the far wall, deep blue kohl lining his eyes in the same traditional fashion, though on him it looks less cold and more like something chosen rather than imposed.
He knows. He always knows. Something is coming.
“Sevrin Rathmor must believe I intend alliance,” her father says. “I will announce a wedding. But my daughter will have reservations.”
Nox sighs. “Is such an arrangement truly necessary? I hear the king prefers—”
Suddenly all she can hear is a high pitched scream that will not stop, that grates in her head.
Her father's magic. “You will go to Rathmor Palace. You will spend time with him. You will observe. You will learn what he knows of the key. What he knows of what was stolen.”
Nox’s vision blurs. When it clears, her father has changed again. The kind, handsome, youthful face has returned. The warm smile that could tempt any young princess into marriage. The sun-kissed skin and broad shoulders.
The King of Yorali was a master of manipulation.
One day, he will die, Nox reminds herself.
His voice softens again, that silk returning to it. “Oh, and Ivanoxa?”
Nox lowers her head.
“Do not disappoint me. Our pit of bodies grows fuller by the day.”
“Yes, Majesty.”
She rises, curtsies, and leaves before anything else can be said.
The moment she clears the room she does not slow. She moves through the corridors quickly, her composure cracking just enough for the irritation to bleed through.
I cannot fucking stand it here.
Larkin falls into step beside her. “Took you long enough.”
“Tell them to prepare the ship,” she snaps. “I would rather walk into Rathmor and suck the toes of one of their sick king's corpse toys than stay here another moment.”
He nods and moves ahead, already barking orders.
Footsteps follow behind her. Tamal. He falls into place beside her, matching her stride.
“What have you learned?” she asks.
“Not enough,” he says. “Not enough to kill him.”
“Fuck.”
She exhales. “Back when you were in Veynar for that ball, did you learn anything? Did you meet her? Asharin? Other royals?”
He does not answer immediately. That is enough.
“We will need leverage,” he says finally. “Strength. If we are going to usurp him.” A pause. “And do not forget, the key is a sacrifice. Whoever it is will not survive.”
“Not my problem.”
She looks at him. Really looks. “Do you know something you are not telling me?”
“No,” Tamal says smoothly.
She feels it immediately. The tension. The hesitation. He is nervous.
“What did you learn?” she asks again.
He smiles, that easy charming smile he does to distract those who find him charming. “I do have other news—”
Her hand lifts slightly toward Tamal. “Be careful, dear brother,” she says, caressing his cheek with her index finger.
Tamal’s body relaxes.
She smiles. “What do you know of the key, Tamal?”
She thinks of her father’s words. Feeders can compel us. Enslave us, if they choose.
Her smile widens.
“When I went to Rathmor,” Tamal says, his voice calm, “I used our power to seek the truth. I believe the key to be Yvara of Veynar.”
“Princess,” Larkin calls. “The ship awaits.”
Nox places her hand on Tamal’s shoulder. “Thank you,” she says sweetly.
Tamal blinks and shakes his head slightly. “I do not know how you always convince me to share my secrets, dear sister.”
Nox smiles. “Because you adore me, Tamal,” she says lightly.
They were twins, yet she was the only one who was a feeder. She was exactly the daughter her father yearned for, that Yorali’s feared.
Yet they would never find out, not until it was too late.
Tamal keeps talking. She pretends to listen.
“Ah, yes. Did you know the coast of Gyarin thwarted an undead invasion?”
Nox nods as though she cares. She does not.
There is only one thing that matters now.
Yvara Dyvarin.