Chapter 68 Fraisah
Fraisah
After he leaves, the chamber feels too large, as though the air itself has expanded in his absence.
For several moments I remain standing where he kissed me last, the warmth of his mouth still lingering against my skin, unsure what to do with the silence that rushes in to replace him.
The folded parchment rests in my palm, creased from how tightly I have held it, and I slide it carefully into the hidden seam of my dress, pressing it flat against my ribs.
I tell myself I will read it later. For now, I want only the comfort of something he touched resting close to my heart.
In truth, I want to weep. The urge to cry rises suddenly and fiercely, threatening to break through the composure I have promised myself, but I swallow it down. He would not want tears. He would want me upright. Armed. Thinking.
A knock comes almost at once.
I straighten. “Enter.”
A page with tousled red hair that looks like it is rarely combed bows shyly. “A note for you, Princess. Delivered from Lady Nyara in the capital.” I take the parchment myself. The seal is pressed crookedly, as though applied in haste or irritation. That alone feels like her. I break it.
Asharin,
If you are dead, I will be furious. Veynar has been unbearable without someone interesting to scandalize it properly.
The rumors claim you and my cousin nearly destroyed the council chamber in a manner that will require new upholstery. I hope this is true. If one must argue with royalty, one may as well make it memorable.
Junis returns tomorrow with the Vaelor ships. He has already written to say the sea smells better than this court ever has. I resent him deeply for escaping.
You will dine with me soon, I hope. Tonight, perhaps?
With sweets and wine, of course. Or ale.
We will attend the theater again soon. Your dreary husband is not invited, he does not laugh at any of the amusing parts.
I hear you left early last time, which I find deeply offensive.
This time I expect you to remain until the final bow, unless you intend to provide fresh gossip.
Speaking of gossip, the latest rumor claims the Princess of Yorali will visit the Veynar court in a few months. There are so many delicious options for scandal. An impromptu wedding despite the rumors of plans for Yvara, or perhaps Prince Tamal will come and object to the entire thing.
Anyway, do not disappear without telling me. It is inconvenient. I do hope you know that we are now best friends.
I will use “favorite” and “best” interchangeably now when signing my letters.
Your best friend,
Nyara
I read it twice. By the end, I am smiling. I grab the quill at my desk and begin to write.
Nyara,
The council chamber remains standing, disappointingly. You exaggerate my influence.
I am alive. That alone feels defiant enough for the week.
I pause, trying to keep my hand steady as I write the next sentence.
Colsar has had to leave for the Shalvar mountains unexpectedly, and I will require your sarcasm and your deeply unethical approach to gaming to keep me afloat.
If Junis returns tomorrow, you must send word the moment his boots touch the dock. I expect a full account of his voyages, including a thorough inventory of every scandalous fruit and suspiciously beautiful flower he encounters.
As for the theater, I make no promises about my behavior. But I will stay longer than the second act if only to annoy you properly.
Dinner tonight is absolutely necessary. I love sweets, especially cake, so I will have the kitchen prepare some. And of course we will drink wine, ale, and perhaps play darts while we gossip. The Yorali rumors are quite intriguing. I expect a full report.
My cheeks warm as I write the finally sentence.
I have never had a best friend before, but I am honored to be yours.
I draw in a slow breath and call for Maridale. She enters at once, her eyes searching my face before lowering with practiced deference.
“Send this note to Lady Nyara,” I say, keeping my voice even despite the tremor threading through my fingers. “And please tell the kitchen we will be dining in the small hall, I do not care what the meal is but we certainly will want dessert and wine.”
Maridale beams. “Yes, Princess.”
She pauses, and I know she wants to offer me words of comfort regarding the Prince’s absence but decides against it.
I am grateful for her restraint.
Alone again, I force myself to reshape the day in my mind. We were meant to dine together, to play cards, to see the Moon Chambers for the first time. Instead I will train. I will spar instead of counting hours like a woman awaiting bad news.
The thought alone sends a chill through me. No.
I move before fear can take hold, reminding myself of the dinner I have planned for this evening.
A small pang of sadness follows. If Torsin were here, he would spar with me in the courtyard.
But perhaps one of the guards will do. One of Colsar’s, maybe.
I need steel in my hand. I need motion and the reminder that I am not fragile simply because the man I love has ridden toward danger.
Before stepping outside, I drift instead toward the smaller room that adjoins my chamber, the one I have quietly claimed for myself. The south gallery is brighter, grander, meant to be seen. I do not want that today.
The scent of fresh wood greets me as I enter.
I cross to the long table and lift the half-carved train I abandoned days ago.
The blade in my hand feels different from a sword.
Slower. More patient. I shave the edges smooth, imagining small fingers wrapping around it, imagining tomorrow as an excuse to visit the orphanage and place it into waiting hands.
Perhaps Nyara would want to come with me again. I will ask her at dinner tonight.
I am midway through smoothing the wheels when the knock comes. I set the blade down and answer. It is the red-haired page again. “The King requests your presence for luncheon,” he says, eyes lowered.
My stomach drops despite myself. “I will come.” I wonder if he is angry with me, though I am not sure which thing may have upset him more. Was it my refusal of his marriage offer? Siding with his brother? Or the noise we made after? My cheeks warm at the memory.
The walk through the corridors feels heavier than usual, each step echoing more loudly in my own ears. I remind myself that Colsar told me not to shrink. I lift my chin before entering the chamber without hesitation.
It is not the great hall where my other dinners with the King have been. This room is smaller, more intimate. The table is set for two, candles already lit though the sun still shines. The scent reaches me before the sight does.
Fraisah. Goat stewed in curdled milk, thick and sour and clinging. My father used to request it as if it were a delicacy. Yvara adored it. The days it was prepared I often chose to go without food at all.
The bowl waits before me, steam rising slowly. Sevrin sits across from it, already watching. I take my seat, and for a moment neither of us speaks.
Then, quietly, almost gently, he says, “Eat.”
Not indulge me, as he usually does when we dine alone. A chill slips down my spine. This will be a different kind of meal.
“You know by now,” he continues, voice smooth and unhurried, “that I do not need to eat when we dine. I prefer to watch you.”
I nod and reach instinctively for the goblet beside my plate, thinking perhaps wine might dull the scent first.
His hand strikes the table hard enough to rattle the dishes. “Eat,” he repeats, the softness gone. “I instructed you to eat, Princess. Not drink. Not hesitate. Eat.”
“Yes, Majesty.”
I tear a piece of bread and force myself to swallow before lifting the spoon.
The first mouthful coats my tongue, rich and sour and invasive.
I swallow without haste, without visible reaction, meeting his eyes as I lower the spoon back into the bowl.
I am beginning to grow accustomed to this twisted game of his. This is not about food, it never was.
“My brother has abandoned us, I see,” Sevrin says at last, as though commenting on something trivial.
I do not answer.
“Now you understand what it is to have someone you care for choose beasts over you,” he continues, leaning back slightly. “It is his nature. He is a dog, after all.”
The spoon presses harder into my fingers. I will not react.
“I hope you enjoy the soup,” he adds smoothly. “Your sister mentioned your distaste for it. But since you love me as your King, I trust you will not disappoint.”
The second mouthful goes down harder than the first. He watches the movement of my throat with an intensity that borders on reverence. There is something disturbingly intimate in being observed like this, as though my compliance is meant to satisfy something private and consuming.
“Yesterday,” he says quietly, folding his hands as though we are discussing strategy, “my brother and I fought over you.”
I nod once.
He laughs, low and without warmth. “And what do you do afterward to provoke me, Princess?” he asks almost conversationally. “You take him into the chamber beside mine and let the entire wing hear you unravel.”
I hold his stare.
“You did not retreat somewhere discreet,” he continues. “He carried you out of the throne room and into the council chamber. Adjacent to where I rule.”
His voice rises then, not in volume but in intensity. “The council chamber.”
The vase at the center of the table shatters against the far wall, porcelain scattering across stone.
“You wanted me to hear,” he says, quieter now, more dangerous. “You wanted me to understand exactly who you chose.”
He leans forward, elbows resting on the table. “You let him bend you against that wall,” he continues, watching every shift in my expression. “You let him take you while I stood one door away.”
I do not know why I answer him.
“It was not just the wall,” I say softly. “It was the table where you entertain your council. The chaise where your advisors sit.”
The goblet meets my lips without permission this time.
“Wherever he wanted,” I add quietly. “I let him.”
Something in me hardens. “You may want fresh parchment,” I continue. “The pages on your council table were soaked with more than ink.”
For the first time he looks undone. “You were loud,” he murmurs, voice thick with something dangerously close to longing. “You did not try to spare me.”
“You sounded beautiful,” he says.
My pulse betrays me, heat curling low and unwelcome.
“I should hate you for that,” he continues, eyes fixed on my mouth. “But I do not.” He exhales slowly. “I have replayed it,” he admits. “Every sound.”
“And what do you imagine would happen,” he asks softly, “if it were me in that room instead?”
Warmth unfurls in my stomach, unwanted and undeniable.
He senses it. “You ache for him,” he says quietly. “But you react to me.”
The spoon slips from my fingers and sinks back into the bowl with a soft sound that seems far too loud in the charged quiet between us.
His eyes drop to it. “Pick it up,” he says.
I hesitate only long enough for him to notice, and that is enough.
“Lick the spoon.” The command is almost gentle, which makes it worse. My fingers close around the handle. The metal is still warm from the soup. For a moment I consider defiance, consider letting it rest there between us as a boundary neither of us will cross.
He leans forward slightly, voice lowering. “Others cannot hear the sound,” he says. “But I can.”
The implication coils through me. This is not about obedience. It is about proximity. About how closely he is paying attention. About the fact that even when I belong to another man, he is listening for me.
Heat rises under my skin despite the revulsion twisting in my stomach. I lift the spoon. The scent makes my throat tighten. I drag my tongue along the metal anyway, though the taste turns my stomach and my lips curl faintly in disgust before I can stop them.
He watches every second of it. A faint exhale leaves him, almost satisfied. “You see?” he murmurs. “You respond.” I lower the spoon back into the bowl, refusing to let my hands shake again. A knock interrupts the thick air between us before I can answer.
“Lady Yvara is ready, Your Majesty.”
Relief flashes through me. This must mean our disturbing luncheon is over.
He rises without haste and moves behind me.
His hand threads into my hair, gentle and possessive all at once.
“You will finish your meal,” he says quietly, bending so that his mouth hovers beside my ear.
“And when you are done, you will sit here like a dutiful princess and wait.”
Fuck him.
And yet, my pulse stutters.
“When I return,” he continues softly, “I expect the bowl empty.”
His fingers tighten just slightly. “And do not waste a drop,” he murmurs against my ear, voice lowering into something unmistakably intimate. “Your sister never does.”
Then he straightens and leaves without looking back.