Chapter 14
14
T he din of the Great Hall grated on Skylar. She sat stiff-backed in her ornate chair, eyes fixed on Princess Quince Spinewood across the table. The Thorncrest royal was undeniably beautiful, her flowing auburn hair catching every flicker of candlelight. But it was the way she leaned towards Arye that made Skylar’s stomach churn with acid jealousy.
Skylar’s formal attire felt like armor—a black coat adorned with gold embroidery and shoulder epaulets, paired with a dark blue brocade vest and black trousers. The high collar of her crisp white shirt constricted her throat, the ornate brooch a leaden weight. She reached for her goblet, the cool metal a stark contrast to her flushed skin. The wine inside was a deep crimson, similar to freshly spilled blood on a battlefield. She took a long swallow, letting the bitter liquid sear its way through her.
From her vantage point, Arye cut an imposing figure, seated to the King’s right. His raven hair contrasted starkly with the pristine white of his high-collared shirt. His black coat, intricately embroidered with gold thread, emphasized the breadth of his shoulders. A crimson sash crossed his chest—a subtle reminder of the power he wielded. His expression seemed distant as he listened to the Princess, but Skylar couldn’t be sure from this far away.
The scent of roasted meats and spiced wine hung heavy in the air, mingling with the cloying perfumes of the nobility. It clung to the back of Skylar’s throat, threatening to choke her with each breath. She fought the urge to tug at her collar, to loosen it just enough to give herself room to breathe. But such a gesture would be unbecoming for a Duke.
The Princess’s unexpected arrival with the peace delegation had thrown the court into chaos. Skylar could still see the shock on the faces of the courtiers as Princess Quince swept into the palace, flanked only by her personal guards and a handful of servants. Now, as platters of roasted swan and exotic fruits crowded the table, the air felt thick with unspoken tensions and political machinations.
King Lyinell presided at the head of the banquet, resplendent in his golden robes. His crown glinted in the candlelight, each jewel seeming to hold a flame of its own. His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes as his gaze swept over the assembled nobles, lingering for a moment on Arye and the Princess before moving on. Something about that look made Skylar’s skin crawl.
She shifted in her seat, acutely aware of the distance between her and Arye. It felt like a chasm, wider than the span of the table, deeper than the moat surrounding the castle. Days had passed since their last real conversation, each one an eternity of stolen glances and aborted attempts to speak.
Was he avoiding her? The thought gnawed at her insides, sharper than hunger. No. She knew Arye had been busy—he always was. Meetings with the King, strategy sessions with his advisors, and a flurry of letters exchanged with the neighboring kingdom. The sealed missives from Aequilibrium had been arriving with increasing frequency, each one whisked away to Arye’s private chambers before the wax had fully cooled.
Skylar wanted to talk to him, to spend whatever time she had left before her inevitable disappearance by his side. But their schedules never aligned. It was maddening, like trying to catch smoke with her bare hands.
Her attention snapped back to Arye as he nodded at something the Princess said. There seemed to be a tension in his jaw, a coolness in his eyes that belied his polite demeanor. He appeared to be tolerating the Princess’s advances, not welcoming them. Or was that just wishful thinking? Skylar’s fingers tightened around her goblet, the metal cool against her palm.
Time was slipping away, and with it, her chances to make things right. Soon, she’d leave this life behind—the weight of the duchy, the familiar press of bindings against her chest, the comfort of Arye’s presence. She’d become a woman, yes, but never one as refined or alluring as the Princess who now commanded Arye’s attention. The thought of living as a lady, free from the constraints of her current life, should have been liberating. Instead, it filled her with a nameless dread.
A burst of laughter from the Princess cut through Skylar’s brooding. The sound was like shattered glass, sharp and grating. She watched as Arye’s lips quirked in what might have been amusement, might have been disdain. It was impossible to tell from this distance, and the not knowing was maddening.
“Your Grace?”
Skylar blinked, realizing she’d been staring. A young nobleman to her left was watching her expectantly, hope shining in his eyes. She vaguely recalled him trying to engage her in conversation earlier. What was his name? Edmund? Edward?
“My apologies,” she said, forcing a polite smile. “You were saying?”
The nobleman brightened. His boyish face lit up with enthusiasm, reminding Skylar of an eager puppy. “I was just remarking on the excellent vintage they’ve brought out for the occasion. Though I daresay it pales in comparison to the Anathemark cellars. I’ve heard tales of your family’s collection.”
Skylar nodded, grateful for the distraction. “Yes, we’re quite proud of it. My father was particularly fond of the ‘Eulogiant Red.’ Have you had the pleasure?”
The young man’s eyes widened. “I… no, Your Grace. I can’t say that I have.”
“A pity,” Skylar said, warming to the topic. “It has notes of blackberry and oak, with just a hint of spice on the finish. Truly exquisite.”
As she spoke, she found herself relaxing slightly. The nobleman—Edwin, she finally remembered—proved to be an attentive listener, his questions thoughtful and occasionally amusing. When he made a particularly clever observation about the way certain nobles held their glasses, Skylar couldn’t help but laugh.
The sound had barely left her lips when a shadow fell across the table. The temperature seemed to drop several degrees as Skylar’s gaze lifted to find Arye looming over them, his expression dark and unreadable. The candlelight caught the angles of his face, leaving half obscured in darkness. He looked like something out of a nightmare—beautiful and terrifying in equal measure.
“I hope I’m not interrupting,” he said, his voice low and dangerous.
Edwin paled, shrinking back in his chair. “N-not at all, Your Highness,” he stammered. “The Duke and I were just discussing wine.”
Arye’s eyes never left Skylar’s face. “Is that so?”
Skylar met his gaze steadily, even as her heart raced. “Indeed. Lord Edwin was kind enough to keep me company.”
“How thoughtful of him,” Arye said, each word dripping with sarcasm. He turned to Edwin, who looked as though he’d rather be anywhere else. “I’m sure you have other guests to attend to.”
It wasn’t a suggestion. Edwin scrambled to his feet, nearly knocking over his wine in the process. He bowed deeply, his earlier grace forgotten. “Of course, Your Highness. Your Grace.” With a final, apologetic glance at Skylar, he hurried away, disappearing into the crowd of nobles.
Skylar watched him go, a mix of frustration and longing swirling in her chest. When she turned back, Arye was already striding towards his place, where Princess Quince waited. A cold weight settled in her stomach as Arye returned to his seat, though she couldn’t help but notice how he seemed to angle his body slightly away from the Princess.
The rest of the banquet passed in a blur of toasts and forced pleasantries. Skylar found herself reaching for her wine more often than was wise. By the time the last course was served, her head felt pleasantly fuzzy, the edges of the world softened.
Skylar excused herself from the table as soon as was polite, seeking refuge on one of the balconies overlooking the gardens. The cool night air was a balm against her flushed skin, carrying with it the scent of jasmine. Skylar leaned against the stone railing, letting the quiet envelop her. The dark sky stretched vast above her, the stars cold pinpricks of light indifferent to the court’s scheming below.
The creak of the door behind her made her stiffen. She didn’t need to turn to know who it was—she’d recognize those footsteps anywhere.
“Arye,” she said softly, still facing the gardens.
The door clicked shut. Silence stretched between them, taut as a bowstring. Skylar could feel Arye’s gaze on her back, heavy and expectant. Finally, he spoke.
“Damn it, why?” His voice was rough, as though the words had been dragged from him. “Why offer to use the Gryphon again?”
Skylar closed her eyes, feeling the weight of her decision anew. “Because I had to,” she said, turning to face him. “Our men suffered—died—because I was too afraid to summon that cursed beast. I can’t let that happen again.” She swallowed hard. “The guilt… it’s consuming me.”
Arye’s jaw clenched, a muscle ticking beneath the skin. His eyes, usually so guarded, were raw with emotion. “And what about you?” he demanded, taking a step closer. “What happens when you’ve used up all your life force summoning that… that thing?”
The vehemence in his voice took Skylar aback. She could see the fear lurking behind his anger, the desperation that mirrored her own.
“Then I’ll have done my duty,” Skylar said simply.
For a second, Arye looked as though he might argue. Then his shoulders sagged, defeat written in every line of his body. “I won’t let it come to that,” he growled with fierce determination. The intensity of his gaze pinned Skylar in place. “There won’t be another situation where you need to summon the Gryphon. Your sword will be enough.”
A bitter laugh escaped Skylar’s lips before she could stop it. “Is that why you’ve been so attentive to the Princess?”
Arye’s eyes flashed. “You think I care for her?” he spat, disgust evident in every syllable. “Ha. That vapid, scheming—” He cut himself off, running a hand through his hair in frustration. The movement disarranged the careful styling, leaving him looking younger, more vulnerable.
“Life is complicated.”
“It really is.” He sighed. “I’ve been trying to navigate this mess without resorting to war, but it’s… hard.”
The intensity in his voice made Skylar’s breath catch. She opened her mouth to respond, to offer some words of comfort or understanding, but Arye spoke again, his tone softer now.
“How was your trip to the estate? Your mother… is she well?”
Skylar blinked, surprised by the sudden change of subject. “She’s managing,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “The pregnancy is taking its toll, but she’s strong. My brother will be born soon.” A small smile tugged at her lips. “It’s strange to think about, really. After all this time…”
Arye nodded, his expression thoughtful. The moonlight caught in his dark hair, turning the edges to silver. “And what of you? Will you return to the estate after the birth?”
“For a while,” Skylar said, her heart heavy. She turned back to the railing, unable to meet his gaze as she continued. “There are some matters I need to look into—strange disappearances in my territory. And then…” She trailed off, unable to voice the reality of her impending departure.
“And then?” Arye prompted, his voice closer now. Her skin prickled with awareness of his presence at her back, so near yet impossibly far.
Skylar swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry. “I can’t stay at the palace forever. You know that.”
“Why not?” The question was sharp, almost angry. Skylar turned to find Arye mere inches away. “Your place is here. With?—”
He broke off as the balcony door swung open again and two noblewomen stumbled out, giggling and flushed with wine. They froze at the sight of Skylar and Arye, their eyes widening in recognition.
“Oh!” one of them gasped, dropping into a clumsy curtsy. Her golden hair, piled high in an intricate style, wobbled dangerously with the movement. “Your Highness, Your Grace. We didn’t realize?—”
Her companion, a willowy brunette with an expression like a startled deer, tugged at her sleeve, whispering none too quietly, “Careful! That’s the devil Duke.”
The words struck Skylar like a punch to the gut. She’d heard the whispers before, of course, but never so blatantly. Never right to her face. She didn’t expect that, but even less she expected Arye’s reaction which was immediate and terrifying.
His eyes blazed with a fury that Skylar had never seen before, not once in the heat of battle. He advanced on the women, each step measured and deliberate. The predatory grace of his movements reminded Skylar of a wolf closing in on its prey. Or the Gryphon.
“What did you say?” he snarled, his voice low. The women cowered, all trace of inebriation gone. “Repeat it. Now.”
“P-please, Your Highness,” the blonde stammered, her earlier confidence evaporating. “We meant no disrespect?—”
“Liar,” Arye spat, the word like venom from his lips. In one fluid motion, he drew his sword, the steel singing as it left its ornate scabbard. “On your knees, both of you. You’ll answer for this insult.”
Tears streamed down the women’s faces as they sank to the ground, their fine gowns pooling around them like spilled wine. Skylar watched, frozen, as Arye loomed over them. The air crackled with tension, thick enough to choke on. She remembered her mother’s warning. He was a Clawborne indeed. For a moment, Skylar could almost see the Gryphon’s shadow falling over Arye, its wings spread wide and terrible.
“Arye.” His name left her lips without conscious thought. She moved towards him, drawn by an instinct she couldn’t name. Her hand came to rest on his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath her palm. “That’s enough.”
For a long moment, Arye didn’t move. He stood rigid beneath her touch, coiled tight as a spring about to snap. Then, slowly, the tension began to drain from his body. With a controlled exhale, he sheathed his blade, the metal sliding smoothly into its gilded housing, though his eyes remained hard as he glared at the trembling women.
Skylar turned to them, keeping her voice calm and steady. It was the voice of Duke Anathemark, used to command armies and quell uprisings. “You will leave now. Fix your appearances, and speak of this to no one. Am I understood?”
The noblewomen nodded frantically, scrambling to their feet. Their movements were jerky, uncoordinated in their haste to escape. They cast fearful glances at Arye as they hurried past, a stream of apologies and thanks spilling from their lips. The door closed behind them with a soft click, leaving Skylar and Arye alone once more.
The monster they feared saved them. How ironic.
Silence fell, broken only by the distant sounds of the ongoing celebration and the ragged edge of Arye’s breathing. Skylar suddenly became acutely aware of her hand still pressed against his chest. She could feel the warmth of his skin through the fabric of his shirt, the steady thud of his heartbeat a counterpoint to her own racing pulse.
When she looked up, she found Arye’s eyes fixed on her, dark and intense. The fury from moments before had faded, replaced by something that made her breath catch in her throat and her skin tingle with awareness.