Chapter 31
“ I would rather die.” The door to Jade’s suite slammed with a loud bang, and her footsteps trailed deep inside.
Alora’s cheeks swelled as she stifled the small chuckle bubbling in her chest. Garrik had informed them of their expected attire for that evening’s dinner; trading in their battle leathers for something more appropriate for a royal spectacle.
It wasn’t long before Thalon disappeared through a threshold five doors down from Jade’s, leaving her High Prince to escort her to the end of the hallway. Aiden had, indeed, received a room at the other end of the castle. And before Garrik left her to her privacy, he was sure to inform her that his rooms were at the very top of the staircases.
Shimmering light invaded her chambers, drifting in through windows that seemed to be portals into another world. And beside those windows stretching the entire length of the outer walls, Alora couldn’t help but glide through the crystal doors and marvel into the beyond.
Cut between the walls of the castles, royal gardens waited far below her marbled balcony. She could smell the aroma of sweet spices, the mastery of hybrid florals, a richness like wine blooming from the maze of shrubbery and vines. Leaning over the smooth balustrade, Alora glimpsed granite pillars, winding streams with pillowed benches by its side, and walkways between impeccably sculpted and towering trees. Moving among it all, small figures of High Fae nobility and dignitaries promenaded in the afternoon sun.
But inside … it was even more of a dream.
The bedroom was an extension of the castle, overhanging the mountain so the skylight above the bed would allow the stars to caress her to sleep. Surrounded by windows allowing her to see in three directions, golden ribbon gathered sheer white curtains and the hems tickled plush white furs covering a gray-washed stone floor. Beneath the windows, lamps and chaises waited. Each one practically begged to be curled up under fleece with a book in hand.
Alora imagined she would spend much time doing just that if given the chance.
And the bed.
Practically covered in a fresh cloud. Fluffy with glistening specks resembling raindrops sparkled across the blankets. And the pillows … like the foam of the sea. Perfectly white, perfectly soft and plump, and so many that she saw no end.
Across the bedroom, across the seating area to entertain guests, beyond the full-room closets and armoires and vanities, passed overflowing bookshelves and the coziest fireplace she’d ever seen, a soothing, constant splash drew her attention until she stood in the bathing room, gaping at?—
A waterfall.
A waterfall that flowed straight from the mountain wall and collected in a hot spring pool. Steam misted from the crystal-clear water, dancing in tendrils across the rippling surface. All the way to the far side of the room, where it escaped over the open edge of the mountain and collected in a river far below.
She couldn’t decide whether to leap onto the bed made of clouds or to sink into the steaming spring first.
According to Garrik, dinner was in four hours, which left plenty of time to bathe away the stench of camp and deep condition her hair—a luxury she quickly missed once spotting vials of citrus-scented soaps peppering the ledge of the pool. And it was also more than enough time to rest before she’d need to prepare her attire.
Battle leathers groaning in the movement, Alora decided to choose her expected fashion before jumping into the steaming waters. Her mind settled on entering the full-roomed closet that, upon a careful glance, was littered with long fabrics and tabletops overflowing with jewelry and shoes, when something on the bedside table captured her attention.
Sealed, folded parchment with a hint of lettering in black ink. A single name written on top.
It hadn’t been there before walking into the bath. There was no mistaking who it was from because, as she inched forward, her heart fluttering expectantly, shadows coiled above it.
The scratch of the paper reminded her of cold, calloused hands.
She cracked and unfurled it. And for a moment pictured him standing there, wishing he was.
Someone told me that a stunning white-haired queen will grace dinner tonight.
Alora scoffed but found herself smiling, tracing her thumb over the perfectly elegant penmanship.
Before her eyes, the ink faded with a lick of Smokeshadows. Perfect lines and alluring curves appeared, written as if an invisible quill scratched at the surface. As if Garrik was there, writing beside her.
I can hardly contain my excitement.
She studied the ink. Imagining all the curves and lines and dots where his hand may have shaken. Where he could’ve hesitated, retracing his thoughts under uncertainty. But there were no blotches where the ink could have pooled. Garrik meant it. Every word.
Something warm tickled low in her belly, a flutter as she thought, Excited for dinner or ? —
The ink instantly disappeared, stopping her thought before she finished.
That is not even a question.
The writing paused for a few breaths. Her heart quickened when ink continued on, filling the parchment.
Dinner, obviously.
She snorted a laugh and imagined slapping his chest. “I hate you.”
In the depths of her mind, Garrik’s dark chuckle echoed, sending more heat through her belly when the parchment went blank and filled once more.
I know.
Too easy. This was too easy. Almost dangerous.
Alora spun on her heel and plummeted backward, falling to the plushness of pillows on her bed. She studied those two simple words, and with a taunting grin, murmured, “I hear there will be a dreadfully reserved High Prince there tonight. That all the courtiers will desire to dance with. I can’t possibly imagine why.”
She could’ve sworn she heard a sharp laugh seep through the ceiling.
He sounds quite charming. Mysterious. Perhaps I will dance with him, too.
So, so easy.
Alora rolled her lip between her teeth when he wrote again.
Though I am sure no one will be looking at him. Not with you in the room.
“Stop.” She blushed, eyes burning for a moment. The inside of her nose filled with pressure as she blinked away tears. Though she didn’t know why, or perhaps, refused to acknowledge why, they threatened to fall.
Save a dance for me? I will be the one wearing black.
“Of course you will…” And her blood emptied entirely.
Visions of a small ballroom flooded her memory. Expensive fabrics, mounds of gowns, and finery laced amassed with pompous tongues and scrutinizing eyes. A hard elbow for her hand to hold while she unnoticeably trembled. Music and dancing and laughter flowed around her perfectly poised and stiff body, which was displayed against the outer walls.
Nothing but a trophy.
Alora’s throat constricted, and those tears molded into cursed longing and pain.
No. Her snarl commanded the tears to recede, threatening them to draw away.
She was no longer Kaine’s trophy. She was much more than that. No longer the lady of a lord who collected pain as pleasure. No longer the female in his shadow, the ornament for his status.
She was more. So much-starsdamned-more.
Alora gritted her teeth and allowed the single thought of a dance with Garrik to roll over her in a blissful wave and whispered to the parchment, “I can hardly wait to see you, too.”
A gentle knock had her jolting upright, only to bite down a curse when she noticed how dim the afternoon sun had become. Hiding behind the peaks, it showcased precisely how much time had passed after her eyes had drifted closed.
Another knock.
Dinner. Starsdamnit.
That panic settled deep in her bones as she rushed to her door. Rich, glowing, golden eyes gleamed down at her, along with a pinched, confused expression.
Thalon rubbed the back of his neck and cleared his throat. “I came to escort you.” He stepped back. Had it not been for his voice, she wouldn’t have recognized him. The fine silver stitching of his dark gray waistcoat shimmered in the hallway’s faelights. His incredible shadow did, too.
Alora fought to remember there was a skilled warrior standing before her. Gaping at the tattoos combined with clothing fit for royalty. Scanning, and with considerable surprise, noticing no golden sword in a scabbard bound to his back.
“No one has tended to you?” Thalon asked, breaking her stare. Leaning forward into the threshold, he scanned the suite, confused.
“No I?—”
“My lady!” At a pace much quicker than Alora’s panicking heart, a brown-skinned female rushed down the hallway. Her pearly-white feathered wings were tucked in tight as long, tight teal curls bounced over her shoulders and her purple dress. “My deepest apologies. I should have been more insistent earlier. When I knocked, there was no answer. It was not my intention to make you late for dinner.”
Thalon gave her a long, considering scowl, then turned to Alora.
Odd.
“It’s okay,” she told the maidservant before glancing at Thalon. That critical glower still hadn’t receded before she spoke to him. “I’ll be just a minute.”
A nod from Thalon.
So, Alora returned to her suite, determined to grab the first gown she could find when his voice simmered with fury.
“ What in Firekeeper-filled-hell are you doing? ” His growl shook the walls. Shook Alora, too. There was that warrior she knew lay hidden inside. But why was he so uptight about Alora not being presentable for dinner? That was … unlike him. “ Unleash Michael. We never show them in public. This is not war. Cast them away.”
The female managed to speak, though Alora couldn’t imagine how. “What are you?—”
“ Get rid of them, ” Thalon demanded so wrathfully Alora pictured holy fire glowing in his eyes.
The door latched before the female stepped inside the closet with her. An irritated look stole her amber eyes. Alora’s back was turned when the female began, “If you’re under duress, you can tell me.”
Alora whirled, and the golden fabric of a silk gown slipped through her fingers as her eyebrows pinched. “What?”
Teal hair shifted as the maid gestured a tight jerk of her head over her shoulder, past the wings. “He seems … lovely,” she jeered. “If you’re being held against your will?—”
“I’m not,” Alora said flatly and narrowed her eyes. Scanning the female’s wrists for any markings, scars, bruises, for any indication if she was enslaved—knowing who her king was. But when she saw none, that burning desire to rip someone’s head off relaxed as she slouched her shoulders a little and asked, “What was that about out there?” With Thalon. With her kind-hearted , gentle, and caring Guardian.
The maid sauntered forward, a little careless and spirited to resemble any maidservant Alora had ever known. Save for one.
For a moment, Alora almost pictured one of her old maidservants. Sensing the same spirit as Saher, her most trusted maidservant inside Kaine’s manor, who had soothed many bruises and wounds over the years. The one who kept her horrific secrets and stashed away her muddy boots when she returned from rebellious outings.
A sharp ache cleaved through Alora’s heart, wondering what became of Saher. Perhaps Garrik could?—
“No idea,” the maidservant said. “Then again, when do we ever understand what goes on in a male’s tiny, tiny brain?” She spoke with an air of detestation. Alora almost pictured fiery red hair and green eyes on the female instead.
Jade would like her.
“I’m Miwa, one of your maidservants. You’ll meet Esmeray sometime soon.” When Alora said nothing but scanned her, still regarding her vibrant uniqueness, Miwa arched a brow and crossed her arms with an amusing grin. Her wings flared ever so slightly. “Am I to call you Lady Dragon or perhaps there is another name you favor?”
That snapped her out of it. “Apologies. I’m Alora. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Lady Alora.” Miwa curtsied, lifting her skirt.
“Just Alora.”
Miwa frowned. “That’s quite informal. I’m sure your barbarian would flay me if he heard me address you as such.” That amber gaze burned over her shoulder, gesturing to the door beyond her wings as if she could still see Thalon standing there, scowling.
Alora sighed. “Then in private, call me Alora. Lady is…” too much like Kaine’s property . She brushed a long piece of white hair behind her ear, and Miwa sauntered forward.
“I need to dress you for dinner.” She strode to a vanity and quickly returned—a brush and bottle of some sort of styling serum in her hands as a feline grin widened on her face. “Sit while I work a little magic.”
And she did—work magic.
Soon after Alora had relaxed on the fur-cushioned stool, her face and hair transformed. The feeling of someone combing through her hair, gently twisting braids and curling strands, splaying fingers across her scalp to soothe and massage, was something she admittedly missed. It was an effort to keep from groaning from the pure bliss of it. Fully understanding why Garrik lost himself when she ran her fingers through his gorgeous hair.
It felt heavenly.
So heavenly that Alora did groan, and her cheeks warmed when her sapphire met amber in the vanity mirror.
Miwa’s smile widened into a complacent grin. “I’ve been told I have the hands of an angel.”
“With wings like one, too,” Alora added as Miwa placed a pin in a braid, her wings flaring as if in agreement. Miwa’s wrist caught Alora’s attention, and noting the smooth skin there, she wondered, “Are you treated respectfully? As a maidservant.” It might’ve been an odd question to ask any servant because most of the higher class cared little about the well-being of those lower in status. But Miwa seemed to understand why she asked. After all, in the first real conversation they held, Miwa had inquired about her well-being.
“I’m a maidservant for the king’s wives. Their houses are quite kind and generous in temperament and payment.”
Not enslaved. Not shackled. “So you’re employed then?” Alora’s eyebrows lifted, surprised by the information.
“Indeed. I’m free to do as I wish. Own a residence, permitted to shop in the High City. To attend worship houses. I have days with no duties. And was given the choice to serve you this week or continue serving the wives. I found it rather exciting to attend to a Dragon. You must carry incredible stories.”
Wives. She said it again.
“Wives? Ladomyr has more than one?”
“There are seven. I think by now, he is striving to own one from each kingdom.” Alora didn’t miss the disgusted eye-roll, but it didn’t affect the gentle attention of Miwa’s hands in her hair.
Seven. Alora shook her head. “Who is queen?” There couldn’t be more than one. That was unheard of. And from what she knew of heirs and the magic of each kingdom, the lands only bestowed gifts upon one monarch when the previous died—be that male or female. It was up to that kingdom’s magic to choose a worthy vessel. More than one queen would likely result in a bloodbath of bastards who thought themselves to be heirs. It’d be nothing short of a complete mess.
Miwa fell silent, face grim, before she finally murmured, “We lost Queen MiraBelle nearly sixty years ago … mere months before the High Queen took her life. The king has given no such title to any other since. Though their daughter, Princess Erissa, is expected to take that honor one day.” She deepened a long, slow breath. “Be careful of that one. She dines with foxes and wolves.”
“Isn’t this entire court filled with them?” Perhaps she shouldn’t have said anything, but Miwa appeared in a way that suggested her troubled agreement.
“Indeed… And you’d be wise to keep to observations alone. Even as a Dragon and especially as a female. The males take little notice of dresses unless breasts are displayed. Otherwise, you can learn a great deal in your silence.” Miwa settled the hairbrush on the vanity before resting her palms on Alora’s shoulders and gently squeezing. “Now, let’s get you dressed. I want to show off these shoulders.”
Alora glanced at the mirror and studied the colors of gowns reflecting in it when Miwa’s palm brushed over her battle leathers and?—
She willed herself not to swallow. Willed the rising panic in her blood to settle but failed.
Because it wasn’t unmarked skin under those leathers.
That was a death mark beneath them.
‘Servants here gossip worse than a horde of mothers boasting of their sons,’ Garrik had said .
“No,” Alora breathed, stiffening her spine as casually as she could. No , she couldn’t show her shoulders. Couldn’t show her death mark. Couldn’t risk Miwa seeing, couldn’t risk?—
“I …” What would she say? What could she do ?
Miwa stepped closer, giving her an assessing, critical stare.
But before her maidservant could speak, Alora blurted, “ Jade. Please find Lady Jade.” It was all she could think of before panicking again. “ No— don’t call her that,” she countered, tightly. Her breaths sporadic, chest heaving. She imagined Jade being addressed as such would go over as well as that male calling her princess in Alynthia’s tavern.
Stars. She must think her as utterly mad. Out of her mind, on the edge of insanity.
Like a pillar of stone within a storm, Miwa insisted, “Alora. Take a breath. What’s wrong?”
No, no, no! The roaring flames beneath her skin threatened to detonate. Her stomach hollowed out. If anyone found out who— what she was … if they informed the High King?—
“ Jade ,” Alora pleaded. “ Please. Get her.”
Miwa’s concern rippled across her features before she held out her hands in a way to reassure her. “Yes, of course. Sit. Breathe. I’ll find her at once.” Through her unsettled vision, Alora watched Miwa, without hesitation, run to her door and rip it open. Only stopping when Thalon’s head snapped up, his monstrous arms crossed, as he leaned against the hallway and shoved her face close to his. “Where is the female named Jade?”
Thalon’s mouth formed a tight line.
“ Where ? Damn you!” she snarled and Thalon stiffened before he pointed up the hallway. Then she was running.
Alora fled to the door, gripping the threshold as she panted.
“Are you alright?” Thalon’s hands reached out to steady her, to grip her shoulders, but he hesitated, hovering there. Offering his warmth and protection if she needed it.
“She wanted to dress me.”
The alarm on his face morphed into something perplexed. “And that is … a problem?” He arched a brow.
“ Yeah .” Alora tapped her battle leathers, her left upper arm twice. “ Kind of .”
Glowing, golden eyes widened. Thalon cursed under his breath and reached for his sword, which wasn’t there. “I’ll find Garrik.” He half-stumbled backward and rushed down the hallway.
Jade strolled casually down the center at the same time, nearly missing a collision with Thalon’s shoulder as he passed by.
“What?” Jade sharply said in a way of greeting, still strolling as if Alora wasn’t in the middle of a panic. She probably didn’t know.
Alora gripped the fabric of Jade’s dress, said, “Shut up and get in here,” and pulled her inside with a harsh tug.