Chapter 5
5
T he hairs on Skylar’s neck prickled. That unsettling sensation of being watched had haunted her for days now. She rolled her shoulders, trying to shake off the eerie feeling as she ran a curry comb through Noire’s glossy coat. The familiar rhythm of grooming her warhorse grounded her, offering a brief respite from the chaos swirling through her mind.
Noire nickered softly, leaning into her touch. His warmth seeped through her gloves, a comforting presence against the chill morning air. Skylar breathed in deeply, savoring the earthy scent of horse and hay that permeated the makeshift stables.
“There you go, boy,” she murmured, her voice pitched normally in a way she only allowed when alone with her mount. “Looking handsome as ever. Just like him.”
The memory of the day she got her horse flashed through her mind: her father’s proud smile when he presented it to her, the way she’d fallen in love with how different it looked from Blanche. The young black stallion had tossed his head, proud and defiant, his intelligent eyes reminding her instantly of Arye. The name had slipped out before she could stop it: Noire.
She moved to Blanche, Arye’s white mare, switching to a softer brush. As Skylar ran it along its flank, checking for any signs of injury or discomfort, her mind wandered to Arye. The memory of their last encounter in his tent sent a shiver down her spine that had nothing to do with the cool morning air. The intensity in his expression, the raw emotion in his voice when he’d asked her to never summon the Gryphon again… It stirred something deep within her, a hunger she’d suppressed for so long.
Skylar’s fingers trembled slightly as they combed through Blanche’s mane, the silky strands slipping through her grasp like water. She could almost feel Arye’s presence, his scent lingering on his horse’s coat. For a moment, she allowed herself to imagine his hands on her instead—strong and sure, caressing her with the same tenderness he showed his beloved mount.
“Compose yourself,” she muttered, pressing her forehead against Blanche’s warm neck, trying to banish the traitorous thoughts. The mare’s steady heartbeat thrummed against her skin, a soothing counterpoint to her own racing pulse.
She was a living lie. Arye saw her as his friend, his confidant, his right-hand man. Nothing more. Nothing less. And that’s how it had to stay, no matter how much it tore her apart inside.
The sound of approaching footsteps snapped Skylar back to reality. She straightened, shoulders tensing as she adopted the rigid posture expected of Duke Anathemark. Gone was the vulnerable woman of moments ago, replaced by the unflappable leader the world needed her to be.
“Your Grace?”
Skylar turned to see the Chief Servant approaching with a stack of papers clutched to his chest. His perpetually worried frown seemed deeper than usual, the lines etched into his face more pronounced in the harsh morning light.
Damn, that was close.
“Anthony,” she greeted, straightening her posture and deepening her voice slightly. Even here, in the relative privacy of the stables, she couldn’t risk dropping her guard. “What news?”
Anthony’s gaze darted nervously before he spoke, his words low and efficient. “The preparations for our departure are nearly complete, Your Grace. We should be ready to leave for Regalton in two days’ time, as planned.”
Skylar nodded, her mind already racing ahead to the triumphal procession awaiting them in the capital. The prospect of parading through streets lined with cheering crowds made her stomach churn. “Excellent. Make sure the wounded are comfortable for the journey.”
“Certainly, Your Grace,” Anthony replied with a slight bow. He hesitated, shifting his weight from foot to foot. The movement stirred up small clouds of dust. “And… there’s one other matter.”
Skylar raised an eyebrow, prompting him to continue.
Anthony glanced anxiously at the stable entrance. “A young man has been lingering around your quarters for the past few days. He seems harmless enough, but I thought you should be aware.”
Curiosity piqued, Skylar followed his line of sight. At the edge of the encampment stood a figure hobbling near her lodgings. Even from this distance, she could see the awkward gait, the way he supported himself on crutches, the empty trouser leg that flapped as he moved. Recognition hit her like a punch to the gut.
Billy.
The soldier she’d tried to save on the battlefield. The one she’d lied to, promising him he was going home when she knew deep inside he likely wouldn’t survive the night. Guilt surged through her, threatening to drown her in its murky depths.
There were countless others like him—young men who could have been unharmed if she had favored the Divine Beast over tactical warfare. If she had been willing to shorten her lifespan in exchange for the raw power to end the battle swiftly.
The Gryphon was right.
She could have ended it all, saved so many lives. But she had hesitated, clinging to her own existence like the coward she was. She wasn’t Duke Anathemark, protector of the kingdom. She was just a fraud. Scum.
“Your Grace?” Anthony’s concerned voice cut through her spiraling thoughts. “Are you alright?”
Skylar swallowed hard, forcing her features into a neutral expression. The taste of bile burned the back of her throat. “I’m fine. Thank you for bringing this to my attention.”
She turned back to Blanche, running the brush along the mare’s flank with perhaps more force than necessary. The horse snorted in protest, shifting away from her touch. Noire nudged her softly, his warm breath ghosting over her neck as if sensing her distress.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, gentling her strokes.
Her mind raced, grappling with the implications of Billy’s presence. Why was he here? Did he blame her for being crippled? The thought of facing him, of seeing the accusation in his eyes, made her chest tighten with anxiety.
As she worked, movement caught her attention. Arye stood some distance away, engaged in a heated discussion with several advisors. She could easily spot the tension in his posture, the sharp set of his jaw. His black tunic, adorned with intricate gold embroidery, seemed to absorb the morning light. The cape draped over his shoulders rippled with each agitated gesture, revealing flashes of its blood-red lining.
Noire nickered softly, nudging Skylar’s shoulder. She absently stroked his nose, her eyes still fixed on Arye.
“How has the Crown Prince been lately?” she asked, trying to keep her voice neutral.
Anthony shifted uncomfortably, his gaze darting towards Arye before returning to Skylar. “Well, Your Grace, if I’m being honest…” He paused, leaning in closer and speaking softly. “His Highness has been in quite a state these past few days.”
“How so?”
The Chief Servant ran a hand through his thinning hair, a nervous habit she’d noticed over the years. “Some say he hasn’t been sleeping much—just pacing his tent, snapping at anyone who dares interrupt him.”
“That doesn’t sound like him.” Skylar’s brow furrowed. “His Highness usually keeps his temper in check, at least in public.”
“Aye, that’s what’s got everyone on edge,” Anthony agreed. “Some of the younger servants are terrified to go near his tent.”
As if sensing their conversation, Arye suddenly looked over. Their eyes met across the busy camp, and for a heartbeat, the world fell away, leaving only the two of them. Then his attention snapped back to the advisors, his expression hardening as he bit out what appeared to be a harsh reprimand.
Skylar watched as a senior advisor attempted to interject. Arye cut him off with a sharp gesture, his other hand clenching into a fist at his side.
Not good. The peace negotiations weren’t going well.
“Gods above,” Anthony muttered, following her gaze. “I haven’t seen him this worked up since… frankly, since we lost that outpost on the northern border last year.”
Skylar nodded, remembering vividly the cold fury that had radiated from Arye in the aftermath of that disaster. She’d been the only one able to approach him then, to offer a steady presence as he plotted his ruthless counterattack.
As the heated discussion continued, Arye’s eyes kept finding their way back to Skylar. Each glance felt like a physical touch, leaving her skin tingling in their wake. She forced herself to look away, her heart racing.
“Your Grace?” Anthony’s voice was hesitant. “If I may… perhaps you might speak with His Highness? You’ve always had a way of… calming him.”
Skylar’s lips quirked in a humorless smile. If only Anthony knew the cost of that “calming” influence. The lies. The secrets.
“Perhaps,” she said noncommittally. “We’ll see how the day unfolds.”
As if on cue, Arye’s gaze found her once more. This time, Skylar allowed herself to meet his eyes directly. She arched an eyebrow, then winked—a quick, barely perceptible gesture. For a fraction of a second, Arye’s stern expression cracked. The corner of his mouth twitched, fighting a grin before he turned sharply back to his advisors.
“A futile effort, it seems,” Skylar muttered, her tone dry.
“Pardon, Your Grace?” Anthony asked, confusion evident in his voice.
“Nothing, just thinking aloud.”
Skylar kept looking at Arye until he disappeared behind the tents. She didn’t know what she hoped for. These small moments were all she had. All she could ever have. Deserved.
Talking about punishments…
“That young man you mentioned…” she said suddenly, an idea forming. “I want you to hire him as one of the palace stablemen.”
Anthony’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Your Grace? Are you certain that’s wise? We know nothing about?—”
“You heard me,” Skylar continued, her tone brooking no argument. “But don’t mention that the request came from me. Understood?”
Anthony nodded slowly, his expression puzzled. “Of course, Your Grace. But… if I may ask, why not hire him for the Anathemark Estate instead?”
A wry grin tugged at Skylar’s lips. “That would be too obvious, wouldn’t it?”
She didn’t elaborate further, leaving the Chief Servant to ponder her cryptic response. In truth, she couldn’t bear the thought of Billy being under her direct employ—a constant reminder of her failure to protect him. At least this way, she could ensure he had a stable position without having to face him regularly.
As Anthony hurried off to carry out her instructions, Skylar allowed herself a small, grim smile. In a few weeks, it wouldn’t matter if she ran into Billy at the palace stables. By then, Duke Skylar Anathemark would be nothing more than a memory.
With a soft sigh, she finished grooming Blanche, her hands lingering briefly on the mare’s warm flank. She gathered her supplies and made her way back toward her tent, her steps measured and deliberate.
The camp bustled around her, soldiers and servants alike giving her a wide berth. Some bowed their heads respectfully as she passed, while others averted their gaze entirely. She could feel the weight of their stares on her back, a prickling sensation between her shoulder blades. They either respected or feared her. Both were fine; she didn’t want to talk with anyone today anyway.
As she neared her tent, she saw Billy again—maybe fifteen feet away, talking with one of the healers. He seemed to straighten as she passed, his eyes widening with recognition. For a moment, it looked as though he might try to speak to her.
But he wouldn’t be able to. Not if she didn’t initiate contact first.
Billy stayed where he was, held back by the invisible barriers of rank and protocol. Skylar felt a mixture of relief and shame wash over her. She truly was a coward, unable to face the young man she’d failed to protect.
Her wounds may have healed, the physical pain faded to memory, but the guilt… that remained as sharp and present as ever.
Just before reaching her tent, a snippet of conversation caught her attention. A group of soldiers, partially hidden behind a stack of supply crates, were speaking in hushed tones. The smell of cheap ale wafted from their direction, biting and sour in the morning air.
“Did you see it?” one whispered, his tone tinged with disgust. “It was like something out of a nightmare.”
“I wonder why he didn’t summon the Divine Beast earlier,” another mused. “Could have saved a lot of lives.”
“Divine? There was nothing divine about it!” a third exclaimed, his voice trembling slightly. “It was unholy, I tell you.”
“Give me a good, honest sword any day over that… that abomination.”
“Shut up, you fools!” one of them hissed, fear evident in his tone. “It’s dangerous to talk like that. What if someone hears?”
Skylar’s steps faltered. She wanted to confront them, to defend herself, to explain… but what could she say? They weren’t entirely wrong.
She ducked into her tent, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The canvas walls seemed to close in around her, suffocating in their familiarity. She paced the small space, mind whirling with dark thoughts.
What were her ancestors thinking, making a pact with the devil? Did they know the true cost of the power they sought?
A life less than human. A will bound to the royal bloodline.
Skylar’s hands trembled as she reached for parchment and quill. She needed to write to her mother, to inform her of her impending visit. But as she stared at the blank page, the words wouldn’t come. How could she explain everything that had happened? The horrors she’d witnessed, the horrors she’d committed?
Her mother had her own burdens to bear. Being pregnant for nearly ten years was its own kind of hell, and Skylar couldn’t bring herself to add to that weight.