Chapter 19
It took two days to reach Aric’s city center, and during that time, it became clear that the only major difference between this Territory and Harthon’s was geography.
Fourth Territory was a blend of woodlands, flat fields, and the hills around the city center, while Sixth existed in a low-lying valley bracketed on one side by the mountain range I’d seen on the maps.
It acted as a natural border between this Territory and First.
Everything else was similar. The villages were small and modest, and the soldiers who rode with us were organized and well-trained, with tight formations, focused eyes, and systematic efficiency. Even the high walls of Aric’s city center resembled Harthon’s.
Those walls were a reminder that the Territories were once united under one king.
While there’d always been periods of rebellion, these realms weren’t built by separate peoples under their own regimes.
This was the longest it’d been divided in recent history—something that didn’t bode well for a potential reunification.
I stole a glance at Harthon, who rode beside me. He’d kept a close eye on me, but we’d hardly spoken over the last two days. It was like one of the city’s walls had been erected between us. He’d laid the first bricks when he came to me that morning on the ship, and I’d helped him complete it.
Despite that, I still knew he was the best choice for a king.
If anyone could overcome the odds and reunite the Territories, it was this man.
And while it wasn’t his primary goal, accessing the resources beneath the Domus would make it a real possibility.
Controlling those resources in this withering world would give him near limitless power—a power he might have within the week.
Beyond him, domineering mountains rose like giants from the valley, ragged lines and peaks capped in startling white. We only had to make it past those.
And the people who lived beyond them.
And then into the Domus and back out.
No problem, right?
We reached the main gate of the city center, and I set my shoulders, focusing on my role as the wooden slabs cranked open. With every pull on that gate, more and more people appeared, lining the street ahead like they did in Harthon’s city center.
Nerves twisted my belly. You are the magvis. She who summons sea birds, apparently. These people cow to you.
The doors lurched to a stop, quiet following in their wake.
I shifted uncomfortably in my saddle, because that quiet—it was deafening.
I didn’t expect trumpets, but at the very least murmurs of conversation.
Signs of life. Yet a coin could drop yards ahead, and I would hear it flutter against the packed dirt.
You’re the magvis. You like unsettling quiet.
Most likely.
Led by a stone-faced Torr, we loped down the street.
Stefano, Joris, and Jac were at our backs, Torr’s soldiers behind them.
Without shackles binding his hands, Jac presented just as he used to: as one of Harthon’s most trusted soldiers, aged with wisdom and thick with strength.
I wondered if the weight of every person’s eyes sat on his chest like it did on mine.
I perused the townspeople as we paraded before them, and what I saw only unsettled me further. It wasn’t how they all watched Harthon. That was normal.
It was the open disdain smeared in their frowns and sneers, the lack of fearful respect in their eyes.
As Harthon had said some time ago, fear was a valuable weapon. It seemed we may be without it here.
Harthon must have noticed, but he didn’t react, so neither did I.
To react would give them power. So my face remained impassive, and I managed to keep it that way as we trekked past the thatched huts and stone buildings tightly packed along the road.
We marinated in more of that silence as we waited for the Citadel’s gates to open, welcoming us into the heart of Aric’s Territory.
Plain stone walls and towers rose high above, a few carts nestled here and there, men and women bustling around in plainclothes or soldiers’ uniforms as they worked. Like Harthon, Aric hadn’t bothered to decorate with flags, paintings, or flashy ornaments.
He waited for us inside, standing apart from his men in the same black, scale-like leather armor as Torr.
His gray-streaked hair bore no crown, and the jagged scar running across his golden-brown skin from eye to mouth cut through the stubble shadowing his jaw.
He was a far cry from the clean-shaven, more diplomatic appearance he’d had when we first secured our alliance.
Standing before us, a cocky tilt to his posture, muscular physique relaxed in the comfort of his own home, he was more intimidating than I remembered.
I reminded myself I was with Harthon, who could intimidate the most ferocious of men.
“You’re early,” Aric said.
“You sound like your second-in-command,” Harthon replied.
Lovely. Beginning our diplomatic visit with an insult.
Torr spun like an attack dog, waiting for Aric’s signal, but the Princeps only smirked. “We don’t like surprises.”
“If I planned to surprise you, it would be more dramatic than this.”
I think the word Harthon meant to use was “violent,” not “dramatic.”
Aric humphed, the sound almost humored, and waved us toward the stables. When we dismounted, he made a point of approaching me first. With a glint in his eye, he extended a hand. Propriety had me taking it.
His hold surprisingly gentle, he drawled, “Etarla, what a pleasure to see you again.” He unhurriedly kissed the back of my hand, lips lingering longer than proper.
“Thank you for welcoming us,” I replied.
Still grasping my hand, he smoothly said, “You are welcome here at any time.”
He’d shamelessly flirted with me at our last meeting. Apparently, that hadn’t been a one-time occurrence. I hardly knew what to do with it, but at the very least, I recognized his interest as an advantage—especially if Harthon wanted to start our visit with insults.
Aric leisurely dragged his fingers away and glanced at Harthon. “Come inside for a meal and drink. Torr will show your men their rooms.”
Harthon grunted in acknowledgement, his posture painfully rigid.
With the way this was going, it seemed I would be responsible for ensuring relations between our two Territories remained intact.
In line with that effort, I attempted small talk with the Princeps as Harthon and I followed him through a labyrinth of hallways.
“No welcome party?” I asked.
“Not my style.”
“And why is that?”
He slowed his step so that I walked beside him. “Waste of resources. That, and I hate parties.”
“That appears to be a rarity among Princepes.”
“Just as you are a rarity amongst women,” he replied.
“I would not compare myself to a woman.”
I didn’t like the smile that hitched his mouth as he said, “Of course not, magvis.”
Maybe I was reading into it too much, but the “magvis” felt intentional. It reminded me how suspicious he was of my magvis status when we last met. I needed to play my part well.
“What do you know about me, Etarla?” he asked.
“Very little,” I answered honestly. “You’ve never concerned me.”
I knew he was a powerful Princeps, strong in battle and capable as a leader, and I assumed the scar on his face came from a fight. I also knew he’d inherited his position, but that was all.
“My father was a rather brutal man,” he said, leading us around a corner. “He killed for sport—men, women, animals. He found it thrilling—the chase, the anticipation of capture, that moment where you hold something’s life in your hands and break it.”
Sounded like a lovely person.
“That is the man who raised me, and while I am not the same as he, it would be impossible to escape the influences and environments I learned and grew in. Because of that, frilly parties give me no satisfaction.” He halted us outside a set of double doors.
“My indulgences lie elsewhere.” Hauling a door open, he ushered me inside.
Unease settled in my gut as I met the very indulgences he likely referred to. The stone walls were adorned with rows of tall glass cases, each containing bones.
Not just bones.
Entire human skeletons, every single one propped up, legs long and arms hanging by their sides, as if they were standing. Some wore jewels and capes, some were missing limbs, and others were painted gold.
I glanced at Harthon, who took in the scene with disinterest. His lack of concern helped me settle—as much as one could, given Aric displayed skeletons on his walls like trophies.
At least there was no flesh on those bones.
Feigning apathy, I said, “You consider yourself different from your father, yet you hunt men, too?”
Aric walked over to a small table holding various carafes. “Only in battle. These were all won fairly, my dear.” He lifted an empty goblet. “Wine? Spirits?”
I declined.
Harthon said, “Pour me what you’re having.”
Aric smiled broadly, then gestured to a group of upholstered chairs near a roaring fire. Twenty pairs of empty, soulless eyes followed me to my seat, like they were warning I might be the next skeleton to join them.
Aric needs this alliance.
But Harthon’s skeleton would also make a damn good trophy.
“This is some of my best. It was made before King Donon’s time,” he informed Harthon, handing him his cup while sipping from his own.
Harthon ignored the offering. When Aric finished drinking, Harthon reached for his used goblet instead.
Aric withheld. “How can we have a secure alliance without trust?”
“Alliances are about power, not trust,” Harthon replied flatly.
Aric’s scar shifted as his mouth curved. He acquiesced, handing Harthon his goblet before making a point of taking a healthy swallow from the other.
No poison, then. A promising sign.