Chapter 4
4
T he camp bustled around her, a blend of voices and clanking metal, but Skylar barely registered it. Her heartbeat quickened as she approached the command tent. She paused at the entrance, one hand hovering over the heavy canvas flap, the familiar scent of leather and parchment mingling with something uniquely Arye—cedarwood and citrus. It made her head spin, memories of countless strategy meetings flooding her senses.
“Your Highness!” A guard’s exclamation cut through her reverie, startling her. “Duke Anathemark is here to see you!”
She winced at the unnecessarily loud call. Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she pushed aside the tent flap and stepped inside. The interior was dimly lit, the air thick with unspoken tension. Her eyes took a moment to adjust, seeking out Arye’s form in the shadows.
He stood with his back to her, shoulders tense beneath his dark tunic. Maps and tactical reports littered a large oak table, illuminated by flickering lantern light. The sight was so achingly familiar it made her chest ache.
“Your Highness,” she said, managing a steadier tone than she felt.
Arye turned, his eyes locking with hers. The intensity of his storm-gray depths made her breath catch. For a moment, neither spoke. The air between them crackled with something Skylar couldn’t—wouldn’t—name.
“You look terrible,” Arye remarked at last, the low timbre of his words sending an involuntary shiver through her.
Before she could formulate a response, he moved towards her, his movements fluid and elegant. In his hands, he carried a small vial and a pewter cup.
“Here,” he said, extending both. “Medicine.”
Skylar hesitated briefly before accepting. Their fingers brushed as she took the items, and she tried to ignore the jolt of electricity that raced up her arm at the contact. She uncorked the vial with her teeth and swallowed its contents in one swift motion, grimacing at the bitter taste. The cool water that followed was a blessed relief.
“Thank you,” she murmured, handing back the empty cup.
An awkward silence enveloped them. Skylar cleared her throat, desperate to break the tension. “The battlefield?” she asked, hating how small her voice sounded.
“We’re cleaning up,” Arye replied sharply. “Looking for survivors.”
Skylar watched as he took the water cup back, placing it next to him on the table. His gaze lingered on the spot where her lips had touched the rim. She swallowed hard, her mouth suddenly dry.
“How many?” she pressed, afraid of the answer.
Arye’s eyes snapped back to her face, cold and hard. “Probably not enough.”
His words hung heavily in the air. Guilt threatened to overwhelm her.
She could have saved them.
The faces of the fallen flashed before her eyes—young Billy, his leg a mangled mess; the countless others whose names she’d never know. Their blood stained her hands, invisible yet impossible to wash away.
Another silence fell, more prolonged than the last. Skylar fidgeted, unsure how to navigate this tense dynamic between them.
“And the eastern flank?” she asked, desperate for a distraction.
“Secure, for now,” Arye said, turning back to the map and tracing battle lines with his fingers. “You’ve pushed Thorncrest back across the border.”
Skylar moved to stand beside him, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body. She wanted to lean into that warmth, to press herself against him and forget the world outside this tent. Instead, she forced herself to focus on the map, trying to ignore the way her skin prickled at his proximity.
“We should fortify our position here,” she said, pointing to a strategic pass. Her voice sounded strained to her own ears. “If we can hold this ground?—”
“Sky.”
The tenderness in Arye’s voice made her look up. His face was mere inches from hers, his expression searching. The sudden intimacy stole her breath away. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine,” she lied, forcing a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. The words tasted bitter. “Nothing a good night’s sleep won’t cure.”
Arye’s brow furrowed, clearly not believing her. She could see the concern etched in the lines of his face, the worry darkening his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but Skylar was faster, desperate to change the subject before he could pry further.
“The old woman,” she began, grasping for a safer topic. “Who was she?”
Arye’s lips twisted into a faint smile. “Someone nobody will miss if she proves untrustworthy.”
Skylar rolled her eyes at his dark humor.
“Have the healers arrived?” she asked, changing the subject once more.
“Yes,” Arye answered brusquely. “We’ll receive additional aid from Aequilibrium in the coming days.”
Skylar nodded. A spark of hope lit her thoughts at the news of support from their oldest ally. The Thousand-Year King was dependable, his loyalty unwavering through countless conflicts. This one would be no different.
Yet, something felt off.
Arye’s responses were curt. Almost hostile. His gaze kept flicking to her mouth, and with a start, she remembered biting her lip earlier when changing her bandages. Had she missed a spot of blood?
Unconsciously, she licked at the wound on her lower lip, tasting the faint metallic tang of blood. Arye’s gaze darted back to her eyes, and the air seemed to crackle with tension. Skylar felt her cheeks flush, a wave of heat washing over her. She was acutely aware of how close they were standing, of the scant inches separating their bodies.
God. She wanted him.
The urge to grab his collar, to pull him close and kiss him, bite him, was almost overwhelming.
But she couldn’t. It was a familiar struggle, one she’d been battling for years.
“Noire,” she said abruptly, desperate for distraction. The thought of her faithful warhorse grounded her, offering a lifeline amidst the tumultuous sea of her emotions. “Have you seen him?”
“He’s with Blanche,” came Arye’s reply, tone softening slightly.
The silence that followed was the longest yet. She observed the myriad emotions flitting across Arye’s face—anger, frustration, concern.
Finally, he spoke, words raw with emotion. “My father…” he began, then trailed off, shaking his head. “He doesn’t understand. He can’t see beyond his ambition, his way to protect Regalclaw.”
Skylar remained silent, giving him space to vent. Her heart ached for him, for the weight of expectation that rested on his shoulders. She knew all too well the burden of duty, the suffocating pressure of a predetermined path.
“And you,” he continued, his stare intense. “Sky, I can’t… Promise me you’ll never summon it again.”
The request caught her off guard. She blinked, trying to process his words.
“Arye, I…” she began, her voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t want to. But if you had commanded me days or weeks ago, we could have saved so many of our men.”
Anger sparked in Arye’s eyes. “I would never ask that of you,” he growled. “Never.”
His vehemence took Skylar aback. She searched his face, trying to understand the depth of emotion behind his words. “Why?” she pressed, confusion and frustration coloring her tone. “Why wouldn’t you use every advantage to protect our people?”
Before Arye could respond, a commotion outside drew their attention. Raised voices and the clatter of armor grew louder, approaching rapidly. Skylar’s hand instinctively moved to her sword, the familiar weight providing comfort.
Arye’s expression hardened as he turned towards the entrance. Skylar watched the transformation, saw the vulnerable man she’d been speaking to moments ago disappear behind the mask of the Crown Prince. It was a change she’d witnessed countless times, yet it never failed to fascinate her.
Suddenly, the tent flap flew open. “Your Highness!” A guard’s voice called out, breathless and urgent. “His Majesty approaches!”
Skylar’s stomach dropped. King Lyinell. The man who had commanded her to summon the Gryphon. The man who had killed her father. Anger and anxiety twisted within her, making her fingers tighten around her sword hilt.
King Lyinell strode in, his golden armor gleaming even in the dim light. Skylar felt his gaze sweep over the scene, his eyes narrowing as they lingered on her for a moment too long.
“What’s this?” he demanded, his voice sharp enough to cut glass.
Skylar noticed Arye’s posture stiffen. “Father,” he said, his manner carefully controlled. “To what do we owe the honor?”
The King’s gaze locked onto Arye, cold anger in his eyes. “You executed several of my men,” he spat. “Without my authorization.”
Skylar’s breath caught. Executed? Her gaze sought Arye’s, searching for an explanation, but his face remained unreadable.
“I had my reasons,” Arye replied coolly.
The temperature in the tent seemed to drop several degrees. Skylar’s heart pounded as she watched the confrontation unfold, feeling like an intruder.
King Lyinell’s expression twisted with icy contempt. He stepped forward, gripping Arye’s shoulder painfully. “You insolent whelp,” he growled. “You forget your place.”
Skylar’s body tensed, every instinct screaming at her to intervene, to protect Arye. But she remained rooted to the spot, years of training holding her back.
Arye didn’t flinch. He met his father’s gaze steadily, his lips moving in a whisper Skylar couldn’t catch. The King’s eyes widened, then narrowed dangerously.
In a flash, the King’s hand moved from Arye’s shoulder to his throat, pushing him back against the tent pole. “How dare you?” he hissed.
The sudden movement made Skylar flinch. She started forward, but she froze as the King’s glare shifted to her.
“I am the King of Regalclaw,” he declared, releasing Arye. “Isn’t that right, Duke Anathemark?”
Skylar’s mouth went dry. She tried to respond, but no words came out.
“I asked you a question, Duke,” the King pressed darkly.
Before she could speak, Arye stepped in. “Leave him out of this, Father,” he said threateningly.
A cruel smile curled the King’s lips as he turned fully towards Skylar. “Let me demonstrate the power of the Crown.”
Arye’s voice cut in, sharp with panic. “Don’t you dare?—”
But it was too late. The King’s words rang out, heavy with the weight of the pact. “Duke Anathemark, I command you to kneel before your King.”
The force of the order hit Skylar like a physical blow. She felt the ancient curse stir within her, compelling her body to obey even as her mind rebelled. Disgust and fury warred within her as she lowered her knee, her muscles moving of their own accord.
Skylar’s knee hit the ground with a dull thud, the impact sending jolts of pain through her already battered body. Shame burned hot in her cheeks, anger roiling in her gut. She hated this, hated the way the King misused the pact for his own amusement.
The memory of her father’s fate flashed through her mind—how the King had sent him on a suicide mission to conquer an entire kingdom single-handedly, testing the limits of his loyalty and his basilisk. Is this what awaited her?
King Lyinell’s laughter filled the tent, cold and mocking. It grated on Skylar’s nerves, each chuckle another twist of the knife in her pride. She kept her gaze fixed on the ground, unable to bear the sight of Arye witnessing her humiliation.
“You see, boy?” the King’s tone dripped with satisfaction. “This is true power. Absolute obedience. I could make him bark like a dog if I wished. Shall we try?”
The words had barely left the King’s mouth when Arye moved. Skylar’s head snapped up, eyes wide. In a blur of motion, Arye tackled his father to the ground. The clash of armor against the packed earth echoed through the tent as Arye pinned his father, sword suddenly at King Lyinell’s throat.
“If you ever,” Arye snarled, his voice dripping with poison, “do that again, you might regret it.”
For a moment, Skylar thought she saw shock flash across the King’s face. Then, his expression hardened.
“Bold move,” King Lyinell said coldly. “But remember, a King must command respect, not just loyalty.” His eyes narrowed. “Release me now.”
Arye cautiously backed away, and the King stood, brushing off his armor with what seemed to Skylar a deliberate casualness. His gaze swept from Arye to her and back again. She shivered under the weight of his calculating stare.
“It was a mistake to let you befriend your subordinates.” His eyes slid to Skylar, still kneeling. “You may rise, Duke Anathemark.”
As the compulsion lifted, Skylar scrambled to her feet. Her entire body shook with rage, humiliation, and a potent cocktail of other emotions she couldn’t begin to untangle.
The King’s posture relaxed slightly, but his vigilant demeanor remained. “Thorncrest has invited us for peace negotiations tomorrow,” he said businesslike. “I expect you to accompany me, Arye.” With that, he strode out, tension trailing in his wake.
Skylar noticed Arye’s fists clench at his sides, his gaze fixed intently on his father’s retreating form. The sudden absence of the King’s oppressive presence left the air in the tent feeling thin, almost unbreathable. Skylar’s legs trembled, the aftereffects of the compulsion leaving her feeling weak and unsteady.
Arye turned to her, his expression a mix of concern and barely contained rage. “Sky, I’m sorry,” he said, his voice raw. “He won’t do that again, I promise.”
She compelled herself to take a deep breath, trying to quell the trembling in her limbs. “It’s fine,” she managed. The lie tasted bitter. “It’s nothing I’m not used to.”
A dark look passed over Arye’s face, his eyes flashing dangerously. “Would it make you feel better if I offered you his head?” he asked, his tone deadly serious.
Despite everything, Skylar felt a bubble of hysterical laughter rise in her throat. This was Arye—her prince, her friend, the man who would threaten regicide for her sake. She shook her head, fighting to keep her voice steady. “Don’t joke about things like that.”
Silence fell again. Skylar watched as Arye moved to the table, filling the pewter cup with wine. His movements were tense, controlled, betraying the anger still simmering beneath the surface. She turned to leave, her mind reeling from everything that had transpired.
“Sky,” Arye’s tone halted her at the tent flap. She turned back to see him watching her intently, the cup raised to his lips. “In eight days, we return to the capital. You’ll ride at my side during the triumphal procession.”
Skylar raised an eyebrow at his tone, a hint of their usual banter creeping back into her voice. “Is that a command, Your Highness?”
Arye’s lips curled into a grin, his eyes never leaving hers as he took a long drink from the cup. When he lowered it, his voice was softer, almost playful. “No,” he said. “Just a request.”