Chapter 13 The King #2
“But those troubles are for tomorrow,” the king says. “So be merry. Drink. Eat. Dance. Tonight, you are safe.”
It’s a lie. I feel it in my marrow.
Still, we obey.
Music swells, bright and hollow. Servants move as if nothing has changed, as if the world hasn’t just been balanced on the edge of a blade. Goblets are pressed into trembling hands. Laughter flickers, forced and brittle, breaking apart almost as soon as it forms.
I lift my cup, though my fingers feel numb around the stem. Across the hall, the other girls do the same—smiling when expected, bowing their heads, pretending this is just another feast.
But the words won’t leave me.
You are the last.
They echo with every note of the music, with every step of the dance, with every heartbeat I can’t slow. Tomorrow looms like a shadow stretching toward us all, patient and inevitable.
And no matter how bright the hall burns, I can already smell the ash.
The atmosphere practically oozes danger as the king takes his place at the banquet table.
I know it; we all do. Just days ago, a monstrous dragon snatched each of us from our homes.
Now we sit in a cursed castle, dressed like offerings, staring down a so-called king who demands that we survive deadly Trials for a chance to break some centuries-old curse so that our entire world won’t perish.
What in the nine circles of hell is this? This man, this king, is the reason my cousin—and saints only know how many other women—have been sacrificed in the name of restoring glory to a kingdom that no longer exists.
Seraphina moves first, gliding to the king’s side with practiced ease. Her gown trails behind her like a royal decree. The others follow without a word, their silk slippers whispering across the floor. I wait until last, then take the farthest seat, as far from that liar as possible.
“Come,” the king says once we’re all seated, “tell me your names.”
Our names? Is he serious? After he just explained to me the importance of withholding it mere days ago?
One by one, the girls offer them, soft and nervous, like prayers whispered before a hanging.
His eyes find mine again. “And you?” His voice is calm, but the tension in the room sharpens like a blade.
I meet his gaze squarely. “What does it matter? We’re just fodder for a dragon, anyway, aren’t we?” I glare at him, seething.
The air ripples, tense and electric, like the moment before a storm breaks. He doesn’t flinch or blink. But behind those molten eyes, something flickers.
Something hungry. Something dark.
My skin crawls with the weight of what I’ve just said—and the threat of what he might do in return.
My heart hammers against my ribs, heavy and loud, but I hold my ground.
I can’t believe he deceived me. I can’t believe he made me trust him, opened me up, only to reveal that he was playing a game the whole time.
So, I do the one thing no one expects: I refuse to give him what he wants.
Seraphina’s voice slices through the silence. “I can tell you her name. It’s Virg—”
The king lifts a hand, cutting her off. “She may keep her name until she chooses to share.” Then, almost lazily, he lifts his goblet. “In the meantime… I shall call you Fire.”
Fire. Of course. The same name he gave me the night we met—his secret little jest, now made public. A title and a leash all in one.
A slow, dangerous smile curls his lips. “For your hair,” he adds smoothly, “and your temperament.”
The others chuckle nervously, but I don’t look away, and I don’t laugh. If I’m fire, then I’ll make damn sure he burns.
For most of the meal, we eat in silence—all except for Seraphina and Elena, of course. They perch as close to the king as possible, batting their lashes and drowning him in compliments.
“How could someone as handsome as you not already be married?”
“Is it true this castle was built atop dragon bones?”
“How does the dragon choose us?”
He answers each question carefully, his words wrapped in velvet, dipped in myth. He paints pictures with his tongue, each story more fantastical than the last. They hang on his every word, but I know better than to believe him. This is not the same man I met in the garden.
The keep, he explains, was once a fortress, built not by men but by giants who warred with dragons long before the curse.
The curse itself, he claims, binds him here, just as it now binds us.
Neither ruler nor captive can leave until the Trials are complete, until one bride proves strong enough to tame the beast.
Physical, mental, spiritual Trials. A gauntlet for queens. A fairytale.
It’s a beautiful story; too bad it’s a lie. Just like the garden. Just like the gardener.
This is a game we were never meant to win. A test built to break us slowly, exquisitely. The narrative that one of us could survive, marry the king, break the curse, and defeat a dragon?
Yeah, right. We’re all so dead.
The music begins, soft and haunting, eerie melodies played by fairies in the shadows, their eyes gleaming, their instruments carved from bone and silver.
Seraphina and Elena leap at the chance to dance. One by one, the king partners with each woman, graceful, patient, regal. Even shy young Cassy and trembling Vivian look every bit the princesses they’re expected to be.
After the king finishes his first circuit, the floor blooms with motion.
Cassian sweeps Lyra’s hand with a theatrical bow before depositing her beside Seraphina.
Then he claims Elena with a laugh that makes half the court lean closer.
Arther offers a curt, court-perfect hand to Vivian and, after the briefest pause, to Cassy, guiding them through the figures with a soldier’s precision.
Miss Mae coaxes Mariel into taking a turn near the musicians, humming to the beat under her breath.
Courtiers and attendants spill in after them, the patterns tightening until the dance is a living sigil drawn in silk and light.
After guiding Mariel back to her seat, Keiren turns to me. “And what about you, Fire?” he asks, eyes gleaming. “Will you dance with me?”
I frown. “No,” I say bluntly.
“No?” He blinks in surprise.
I turn my head, refusing to meet his eyes. “I’d rather dance with a thornbush.”
A fork clatters somewhere behind us, and silence falls in its wake.
My pulse hammers. “Your Highness,” I add quickly, bowing my head in a poor attempt to soften the insult.
The king laughs. Deep and honest, the sound makes something flutter in my chest. His dimples flash again, damn them.
He leans down, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. The heat radiating off him is unbearable, setting my skin ablaze. “I’d pay to see that,” he murmurs.
“She’s just embarrassed,” Seraphina offers from her seat, her voice sickly sweet.
“She doesn’t know how,” Elena adds with a smirk.
The king tilts his head. “Is that true?”
I glare at the other girls across the table, jaw tight.
Keiren offers a hand. “May I teach you?”
Teach me? Ha! As if I wasn’t in his arms just a few hours ago.
I scoff. “Aren’t you afraid I’ll step on your royal toes?”
“I’ve survived worse.” Then he leans down and whispers so only I can hear, “You’ll need to make allies if you want to survive. Don’t give them any more reason to hate you.”
I hesitate, then nod once. He’s right; I need to play it cool. Reluctantly, I take his hand, and he leads me to the center of the ballroom. One hand rests at my waist, the other clasps mine. His touch is warm, grounding me to the present.
Keiren moves with ease. I… do not.
“I’m going to trip you,” I say, loud enough for the girls back at the table. They’re practically breaking their necks trying to hear our conversation.
He chuckles. “I told you, I’ve survived worse.” He sends me into a dip, followed by a spin, and I try not to tense. My hair fans out around us like a flicker of flame.
“You move like a warrior,” he says softly, “not a follower.”
“Is that a problem?”
“No,” he replies smoothly. “It just means you don’t trust easily.”
“I wonder why,” I retort.
“Trust me,” he coaxes. “Just for this dance. Then you can go back to hating me.”
I look up. His vibrant blue eyes search mine. I take a breath and try to relax as we sweep out over the dance floor. His hand shifts at my back, gently guiding my movements. He adjusts to every misstep, disguising them with his elegance. He twirls me once more, then pulls me close.
His hands feel too steady, too familiar. For a moment, I almost forget who he is. Almost.
“Why would I trust a liar?” I breathe.
Keiren stills. “A liar?”
“You said you were the gardener.”
“I never said that.” His smile is maddening.
“You assumed. But it’s true; I am many things.
A gardener. A king. A dance instructor.” He twirls me again, slower this time, and catches me against his chest, tucking my hand close to his heart.
His eyes burn into mine. “There are many things I’d enjoy teaching you, Fire. ”
His voice brushes my skin like smoke, and I shiver. My legs nearly give way, but he catches me.
“Forgive me, Your Highness,” I gasp.
“You don’t need to apologize,” he says. “Not to me.”
“I’m not graceful,” I admit. “I’ve never really figured out how to follow.”
“Maybe because you were never meant to.” His hand finds mine again before he continues, “Dancing is a conversation, each step a word. When it flows right, it becomes a story.”
“And what kind of story are we telling?” I ask.
“That depends.”
“Well, either way, I doubt this one has a happy ending.”
“Oh, I don’t know, darling,” he says. “This feels like a fairytale to me.”
“You mean the kind where the cursed prince sacrifices the damsels to the dragon instead of slaying it?”
Keiren tenses. “I swear to you, if I could have destroyed the beast, I would have done it long ago.” His tone is firm and serious. “But I’m no prince, and you’re no damsel.”
“Then rewrite the ending,” I say.
His voice lowers. “Gladly.”
I try to copy his steps. “Like this?”
“Better,” he says, smile softening. “Eyes up, Fire.” His hand lifts my chin, gently guiding my gaze to his. “Dance isn’t about perfection. It’s about connection.”
I nod slowly, trying to keep my breath from catching. I hate the effect he has on me, even after his betrayal.
He pivots and sends me into another spin, precise and controlled, the way only he can. My gown swirls around my legs, and the room seems to fade until it’s only us. Step by step, turn by turn, we fly across the floor.
Then his hand slides down my arm and entwines with mine again. He dips me low and holds me steady, his eyes never leaving mine.
“Meet me in the garden. Tomorrow at dawn,” he whispers. “There’s more I want to show you.”
My breath catches, and my skin prickles where his fingers brush my waist. He spins me back to him, our bodies nearly touching. As the final note of music fades, applause rises around us, and I pull back, trembling.
“I’m tired,” I whisper. “I’d like to retire.”
The king nods, just as breathless. “Of course. Ather will escort you.”
“Arther? But Cassian is my mentor,” I say, surprised he’d offer someone else.
“Yes, but Cassian is no doubt drunk by now. Or off bedding some poor unfortunate soul.”
I look around. Cassian is indeed nowhere to be found.
The king gestures to Arther and tells him to escort me back to my chambers. Then he leans in again and catches my hand, pressing a kiss to my knuckles.
“Until tomorrow … Fire.”
We walk the dim corridor in silence until we reach my room. Arther lingers near the threshold, his pale hair catching the soft glow of torchlight.
“Is there anything else you require?” he asks, voice low.
I hesitate. “Has anyone ever survived the Trials?”
His breath stills.
Slowly, he meets my eyes. “Once,” he says.
My pulse stutters. “Once? What happened to her?”
His mouth tightens. “She came close.”
A chill creeps down my spine. “And?”
His jaw tenses. His gaze flicks down the corridor, then back to me—heavy with warning.
“The dragon decided close was not enough,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry. That is all I’m permitted to say.”
The weight of his words settles between us, brittle and sharp. There is a sorrow in him, like a man who has outlived his hope.
“Goodnight, my lady.” He bows, then turns and disappears down the corridor.
Safely inside my room, I stand before the mirror. My gown has darkened. Crimson veins crawl through the fabric like blood, like trees consumed in shadow.
Magic.
I peel it off and step into the bath Marb has already drawn for me. The hot water stings as it touches my skin, but I welcome the pain. At least it’s real. At least it reminds me I’m still here.
I sink deeper beneath the surface, letting the warmth soak into my bones, hoping it will leech out the ache buried beneath my ribs. Against my will, my thoughts drift to him. To the king. To the garden. To the invitation.
Meet me in the garden.
Part of me wants to go. Part of me wants to believe that whatever waits for me beneath the moonlight will help me survive the Trials. That maybe, just maybe, there’s more to him than shadows and silver lies.
But I don’t want to be his queen. I never asked for this.
I never wanted to wear jewels like chains or be paraded around like a lamb for the slaughter.
If my fate is to die, to be burned alive by his dragon and swallowed whole by some ancient curse, then so be it.
But I won’t let him break me. I won’t let him claim me.
Not with his honeyed words. Not with that smirk. Not with hands that have touched too many girls before me.
He’s had six hundred years to perfect his lies. To seduce. To sway.
I won’t be one of them. Not tonight, not ever.
He called me Fire.
Then let him be the one who waits.
Let him be the one who burns.