Chapter 7
7
T he words “wedding” and “Arye” collided in Skylar’s mind like two warring kingdoms, leaving devastation in their wake. Her heart clenched, a sharp pain threatening to steal her breath. How could she not have known? A bitter laugh caught in her throat. Of course, he was to be married. Crown Princes didn’t remain bachelors, especially not ones as coveted as Arye.
The realization crashed over her: the perfumed letters wafting through palace corridors, silken noblewomen tittering at court, knowing glances laden with unspoken gossip. It all made sense now. Skylar’s grip on Noire’s reins tightened, leather creaking beneath her gloves.
She knew this day would come. She had always known it would.
Skylar stole a glance at Arye, drinking in his profile. The strong line of his jaw, the intensity in his gray eyes as he surveyed the crowd. A wayward lock of raven hair fell across his forehead, stirred by the summer breeze. For a heartbeat, she allowed herself to imagine a different world—one where she wasn’t bound by duty and deception, where she could stand beside him not as his loyal Duke, but as…
No. She couldn’t indulge such thoughts. The pain was too raw, too real.
Taking a deep breath, she forced a smile, the muscles in her face straining with the effort. “So, Your Highness,” she began, injecting a teasing lilt into her voice that she didn’t feel, “should I be offering congratulations? I hadn’t realized you’d chosen a bride.”
Arye’s head whipped toward her, shock etched across his features. “What did you just?—”
A faint flutter of feathers tickled at the edges of Skylar’s consciousness. Too loud, too close. It didn’t make sense. Was it the Gryphon? She scanned the cheering crowd, the Divine Beast’s growing turmoil roiling beneath her skin.
Something was wrong. Terribly wrong.
Her hand found her sword, fingers curling around the hilt. Leather creaked as she tightened her grip. Her eyes darted through the sea of jubilant faces, searching for any hint of threat. The atmosphere crackled with an energy that raised the hairs on her neck.
Then the world exploded into chaos.
A high-pitched whistle cut through the air, followed by the sickening thud of an arrow embedding itself in her saddle. Time slowed. Skylar’s body moved on instinct, launching from Noire’s back, arms outstretched toward Arye.
“Down!” she roared, colliding with him mid-air.
As they fell, Skylar twisted, cradling Arye’s neck. An arrow whizzed past, grazing her wig. The rush of air against her cheek sent ice through her veins. For a terrifying moment, she thought it would tear away her disguise, exposing her secret to the world.
They hit the cobblestones hard, Skylar cushioning Arye’s fall. The impact drove the air from her lungs, stars exploding behind her eyes. Pain lanced through her wrist. Rough stones bit into her back through layers of formal attire. She pushed it all aside, focusing on the immediate threat. For a heartbeat, they lay there, chests heaving, faces mere inches apart.
Heat rushed to Skylar’s cheeks. She could see the softness of his freshly shaved jaw, smell the familiar cedarwood and citrus that clung to his skin. His breath was warm against her face, coming in short, rapid bursts. Her gaze dropped to his lips for a fraction of a second before she caught herself.
Get it together, Anathemark.
Surrounding them, chaos reigned. Horses reared in panic, shrill neighs piercing the air. The crowd erupted into screams, people pushing and shoving in their desperation to escape. Armor clanked as guards rushed to form a protective circle around the King.
“Stay down,” she hissed, massaging her throbbing wrist. Her eyes scanned the rooftops for the source of the attack, adrenaline dulling the pain.
Skylar’s senses sharpened to a razor’s edge. She rolled off Arye, body coiled and ready to spring. Her gaze darted from shadow to shadow, searching for any sign of movement. The sun beat down mercilessly, its glare reflecting off windows and polished armor, creating dazzling flashes that made her eyes water.
“Captain Knox!” she bellowed over the pandemonium. “Secure the perimeter! Every rooftop and alley searched!”
The Captain’s gruff voice rang out, issuing rapid-fire orders. “You heard the Duke! Move your arses! Eyes on every damn shadow in this city!” Skylar caught a glimpse of his weathered face set in grim determination as he organized the chaos into a semblance of order. Armored boots clattered on stone as soldiers rushed to obey.
Skylar turned back to Arye, extending her hand. Her glove was torn, revealing scraped raw skin beneath. Sweat seeped into the exposed wounds, causing them to sting. “Are you hurt?” she asked, quickly scanning him for injuries. Her heart raced, fear and relief warring within her.
Arye grasped her hand, his grip firm as he pulled himself up. “I’m fine,” he said, his voice a husky whisper. “Thank you, Sky.” His gaze locked onto hers, and Skylar found herself drowning in the storm of emotions swirling in their depths.
Skylar swallowed hard, forcing herself to step back. The loss of contact left her feeling strangely bereft. “It’s my duty to protect the royal family,” she said, adopting a more formal tone. She straightened, ignoring her protesting muscles. “We need to get you and His Majesty to safety immediately.”
Arye’s brow furrowed, a crease forming between his eyebrows. “Is that the only reason?” he pressed, his tone challenging. “Duty?”
The question caught her off guard. Skylar’s heart raced, but she managed a grin, falling back on their usual banter. “Of course not, Your Highness. We’re friends first and foremost, aren’t we?”
“Friends,” Arye repeated, the word dripping with contempt. Something dark and unreadable flashed across his face before he turned away. “I should check on my father.”
As Arye strode toward the King, barking orders at nearby guards, Skylar stood rooted to the spot, uncertainty gnawing at her.
She had a job to do. Skylar scanned the area, assessing the situation. The initial panic had subsided, replaced by a tense, nervous energy. Guards swarmed buildings, shouts and the sound of splintering doors echoing off stone walls. In the distance, soldiers pursued potential suspects, the clatter of their armor growing fainter as they disappeared down winding alleys.
Her gaze fell on King Lyinell, surrounded by a phalanx of guards. His face was set in cold fury, golden armor catching the sunlight. Arye stood beside him, posture rigid, eyes scanning the crowd with predatory intensity. The contrast between father and son was stark—one gleaming, the other dark. Different yet similar. Dangerous in their own ways.
Skylar approached, her stride purposeful. As she drew near, the King’s voice reached her, stern and menacing.
“I want the perpetrator found and brought to me,” King Lyinell was saying, words clipped and precise. “Alive, if possible. Dead, if necessary.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Captain Knox replied, inclining his head respectfully. Sweat glistened on his bald head as he straightened. “We’ve already apprehended several suspects. They’re being questioned as we speak.”
Skylar cleared her throat. “Your Majesty, Your Highness,” she said, bowing respectfully. “We should move to a more secure location. It’s not safe to remain exposed.”
King Lyinell’s cold gaze fell upon her, and Skylar fought the urge to flinch. There was something in his eyes, a calculation that made her skin crawl. The weight of his stare felt almost physical, as if it could pin her in place.
“Ah, Duke Anathemark,” he said, tone deceptively light. “I see your… unique talents continue to aid the Crown well. Though one wonders why you didn’t unleash that beast of yours to prevent this… unfortunate incident.”
Skylar’s jaw clenched at the implied insult. She forced herself to remain impassive, her voice steady. “I live to serve, Your Majesty. The Divine Beast is not to be summoned lightly, as you surely know. The cost?—”
“Yes, yes,” the King interrupted, waving dismissively. “The cost. Always the cost with you Anathemarks. As if your very existence isn’t payment enough for the power you wield.”
Arye stepped forward, eyes flashing dangerously. “Father,” he said, voice tight with barely contained anger, “now is not the time for?—”
“You’re right, of course,” King Lyinell interrupted, a cold smile playing at his lips. “We have more pressing matters. Captain Knox, lead the way to the palace. Duke Anathemark, you will join us.”
Skylar nodded, falling into step beside Arye as they made their way toward the waiting carriages. The crowd parted before them, a sea of frightened faces and whispered speculation.
As they walked, Skylar’s wrist throbbed relentlessly. She flexed her fingers experimentally, wincing at the sharp twinge that shot up her arm. The movement sent a fresh wave of pain through her, making her grit her teeth to keep from gasping aloud.
She noticed Arye’s gaze on her, his brow furrowed with concern. His eyes swept over her, lingering on her injured wrist. “You’re hurt,” he said, voice low enough that only she could hear.
Skylar waved off his concern, forcing a smile. “It’s nothing. Just a minor sprain.”
Arye’s eyes narrowed, clearly not believing her. “You should have it looked at when we reach the palace.”
“There are more important things to worry about right now,” Skylar argued firmly. “We need to call a physician to check on you.”
A muscle ticked in Arye’s jaw, but he didn’t press the issue. Instead, he said, “You saved my life today.”
Skylar’s step faltered for a moment before she recovered. “As I said, it’s my duty?—”
“Stop,” Arye cut her off, tone sharp. “Don’t give me that ‘duty’ nonsense again.”
Skylar fell silent, unsure how to respond. They walked in tense silence for a few moments before Arye resumed speaking, his voice so quiet she had to strain to hear him.
“When I saw that arrow coming toward me,” he said, gaze fixed ahead, “do you know what my first thought was?”
Skylar shook her head, not trusting herself to speak.
“It wasn’t fear for my own life,” Arye continued. “It was fear for yours. I knew you would throw yourself in harm’s way to protect me.”
Skylar’s heart stuttered in her chest. She opened her mouth to respond, but no words came out. What could she possibly say to that?
Before she could formulate a reply, they reached the carriages. King Lyinell was already being helped into the first one, surrounded by a protective ring of guards.
Arye paused, turning to face Skylar fully. “This conversation isn’t over,” he said, tone brooking no argument. “We’ll speak more at the palace.”
With that, he climbed into the carriage after his father, leaving Skylar standing there, mind reeling. She took a deep breath, centering herself. There would be time to process all of this later.
As she moved to follow Arye, a commotion near the edge of the crowd caught her attention. A group of guards was dragging a struggling figure toward them. Skylar’s hand went to her sword, body tensing for another potential threat.
“Your Grace!” a guard shouted, voice strained with exertion. “We’ve caught one of the assassins!”
Skylar closed the distance, her gaze sharpening as she assessed the captive. It was a young man, barely more than a boy. His clothes were ragged, face smeared with dirt and blood. But it was his eyes that caught her attention—wide with fear, yet burning with a fanatical light.
“Bring him here,” she commanded, voice cold and authoritative.
The guards shoved him to his knees before her. He glared up, defiance written across his features.
“Who sent you?” Skylar demanded, hand resting on her sword’s pommel.
The assassin spat at her feet, lips curling into a sneer. Blood-tinged saliva landed on the cobblestones, stark crimson against gray stone. “Death to the demons!” he shouted, voice raw with hatred. “Long live Thorncrest!”
A wave of dread washed over Skylar. Thorncrest. Of course. The peace negotiations must have failed spectacularly for them to resort to such a brazen attack.
She bent down, face inches from the assassin’s. The stench of fear and unwashed body assaulted her nostrils, nearly making her gag. “You’ve made a grave mistake,” she said, voice low and dangerous. “You’ve signed your death warrant. But lucky you, your kingdom will be safe. For now.”
“What—?”
Skylar leaned closer, lips near his ears to ensure no one else would hear. Her breath stirred the grimy hair at his temple as she whispered, “If you’d even scratched the Crown Prince…” She paused, letting the words sink in. “I wonder how long it would take the Gryphon to devour every single human in your kingdom. Men. Women. Children. All of them.”
Her own brutality shocked her, but she embraced the darkness for a moment. The Gryphon stirred within her, responding to her anger and thirst for revenge. She could almost feel its beak nibbling at her heart, begging gently to be unleashed.
Fear flickered in the young man’s eyes, quickly masked by bravado. “You’re a monster!” he spat, voice trembling despite his attempt at defiance.
Skylar straightened, her face grim. “Perhaps,” she said coldly. “Take him to the dungeons,” she ordered. “I want him questioned thoroughly.”
As the guards dragged the assassin away, Skylar turned back. She caught Arye watching her from the distance, his expression unreadable.
She climbed in, the carriage creaking slightly under her weight. The interior was plush, all velvet cushions and intricately carved woodwork. The scent of leather and polish mingled with the sharper notes of Arye’s cologne. She settled across from him and King Lyinell, acutely aware of the limited space. Her knee brushed against Arye’s, sending a jolt of electricity through her body.
“Thorncrest,” she said simply, meeting Arye’s gaze.
Arye’s eyes hardened, a muscle ticking in his jaw as he looked at his father. “I told you,” he growled. “Their promises of peace were nothing but lies.”
King Lyinell leaned forward, his features etched with cold fury. “We pretend it never happened,” he declared. “A few fanatics won’t jeopardize the agreement.”
“Father, you can’t be serious,” Arye protested, voice rising. “They just tried to assassinate me in broad daylight! This isn’t something we can sweep under the rug.”
“Can’t I?” King Lyinell’s words slithered out, dangerously soft, barely above a whisper.
Skylar watched the exchange, mind racing. The tension between them crackled in the air, threatening to ignite at any moment. She knew she should stay silent, but the words tumbled out before she could stop them.
“Your Majesty,” she began cautiously, “perhaps there’s a middle ground. We could increase security measures, demand concessions from Thorncrest without breaking the peace entirely.”
King Lyinell’s gaze snapped to her, cold and calculating. “An interesting suggestion, Duke Anathemark,” he said, voice dripping with false sweetness. “And tell me, how would you propose we do that without appearing weak?”
Skylar swallowed hard, feeling the weight of both the King’s and Arye’s attention. “We could demand that Thorncrest hand over any conspirators involved in the assassination attempt. Frame it as a show of good faith on their part.”
A slow smile spread across the King’s face, never reaching his eyes. “Clever,” he mused. “Very clever indeed. It seems your value extends beyond mere brute force, doesn’t it?”
Skylar saw Arye’s hand clench into a fist on his knee. “Father?—”
“Enough,” King Lyinell cut him off. “We’ll discuss this further at the palace. For now, we focus on damage control. Duke Anathemark, I want you to oversee the investigation personally. Find out everything you can about this plot.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Skylar replied, bowing her head.
As the carriage rattled through the streets, Skylar’s mind whirled with the implications of what had just transpired. The assassination attempt, the tensions with Thorncrest… and Arye. Always Arye.
The gravity of the situation crashed over her like a tidal wave. Her hands trembled as the adrenaline ebbed, leaving her feeling hollow and drained. She clasped them tightly in her lap, hoping neither Arye nor the King would notice.
If she had been a second slower, if the Gryphon hadn’t warned her…
The thought of losing Arye, of a world without his cutting wit and rare smiles, without the warmth of his gaze or the strength of his presence, left her feeling cold and empty. It was a void she knew she could never fill, a loss she could never recover from. The mere idea of it made her chest tighten, her breath catching in her throat.
“Get a grip,” she muttered to herself, so softly that even she could barely hear it. She clenched her fists to stop the shaking, looking out the window.
He’s safe. That’s all that matters.
And in a few weeks, she wouldn’t see him ever again.