by Kyra Gregory
“It has been wise of you, your Majesty, to reconsider your course of action against Ludorum,” one of the nobles remarked.
“Agreed,” said another. “While you may have lost your wounded father’s favour, I’m sure your mother would’ve been proud of the decision, had she been here to witness it.”
Riffin clenched his molars around his tongue. “But my mother isn’t here,” he said. “If she was, I wouldn’t be King,” he added.
Manus glanced in his direction, “You sound almost...resentful,” he remarked. “Did you have no aspirations to be King?”
Riffin smiled, “Can we not all agree that my mother was the more suited ruler?” he asked. Most of the nobles bit their tongues, saying nothing to confirm or deny his statement. “Needless to say, I may have made different decisions to keep from having made it to the throne prematurely.”
His words piqued Manus’s interest, glancing in Malia’s direction as she shrunk into her seat and her shoulders dropped.
“My mother’s reign was short-lived to be sure. It was my decisions that caused it—it shouldn’t come as a surprise that I would do what is best for the kingdoms beneath my family’s rule.”
“Do you have regrets, your Majesty?”
Riffin licked his lips, giving it a brief thought. “I see now, my mother’s reasons behind the decisions she made,” he said. “Were I to have my current insight, back when I was making marial and military decisions, I might’ve acted differently. Thus, I might’ve spared my mother the humiliation of having to defend me before our allies, as well as spare our kingdoms the grief of losing a beloved Queen that none could compare to.”
Malia’s grip tightened around the armrests of her seat, a deep flush burning into her cheeks.
Riffin glanced in her direction, “Wouldn’t you agree?” he asked. “My mother was right. Ludorum was right. Had I listened, I might’ve married a woman who would’ve made a better Queen—one capable of defending herself, and bearing sons, rather than girls and a sickly boy.”
Malia shot to her feet, fuming, eyes misting. She took a step away, only to catch herself and stop abruptly. “I will be in the nursery,” she said, mustering a polite voice within a tense jaw, “your Majesty.”
Having stood at a short distance away, tending to the Queen, Gyles side-eyed the men who caused her insult before pulling himself away.
Riffin, Manus, and the rest of the nobles, watched as she marched away, leaving the room with no words of courtesy towards her guests.
“Your wife is very proud,” a noble remarked.
“A trait I once thought may have made her an adequate Queen,” he said. “But rather than allow it to teach her restraint, she allows it to rule her.”
“Perhaps she will grow,” Manus suggested. “I have heard people thought the same of your mother when she was just a girl.”
“One can only hope,” Riffin remarked. Taking a swig of wine from his chalice, he replaced the bitterness of his words with the bitterness of his drink.
Manus smiled, bowing his head, “You don’t sound convinced,” he remarked. He lifted his gaze alone, “The matter can be dealt with,” he said. “I hear your General is a Master of Poisons.”
Riffin sighed, biting the inside of his cheek as his eyes fell to the General in the distance. “While I won’t admit the truth to the man’s skills, my General seems to have been...distracted as of late.”
Manus cast a glance in Thane’s direction. The conversation he had with his new wife appeared to be heated, forcing himself to turn his attention away from his charges and all the potential traitors around his King. “Nothing that cannot be resolved, I’m sure,” he said.
Riffin smirked, chuckling softly as he extended his cup to his enemies to knock it against theirs. “Matters that will be dealt with in due time,” he said.
The four men smiled, nodding in agreement as they drank to their King’s words.
Chapter 37
WITH JUST A SLIVER of light filling the room, standing over the cradle of her young daughters, Malia enjoyed the tranquility of the quiet nursery amidst the ruckus that occurred elsewhere in the palace. Humming a gentle tune, she couldn’t help but smile to herself as she basked in the comfort the chambers brought her, skimming the back of her fingers against the blankets.
Quiet, the door opened ajar. As the handle creaked, the person on the other side stilled, as though wondering if they had disturbed the slumbering children into waking. They had no such concerns, however. Soon enough, a tall and daunting figure entered the room, unsurprised as he laid his green-eyed gaze on her.
“You have the wrong room,” Malia declared in a quiet voice, paying the man little mind as she turned her attention back to the cradle.
The young man, just about bursting out of his expensive attire, clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, as his hand dipped to pull back his jacket and reveal the blade strapped to his hip. “I don’t believe I do,” he whispered.
With not an ounce of regret in his tone, Malia recognised him as an assassin, dolled up for the occasion in an effort to fit in amongst the crowd of nobles. A smile tugged at the corners of her lips. “Was this part of the plan?” she asked. “Was it just the children, or was I always meant to be included in this?”
The assassin lowered his head and smiled, almost as though he were amused by her arrogant calm. “Kill the children,” he said, “and all who stand in the way.”
“Tell me,” she started, “what does the Alliance Council hope to gain from this?” she asked, never taking her eyes off the cradle. “Wed another to the King? Place their own sons and daughters on the throne in our place?”
The assassin smirked, a chuckle rumbling in his chest, “Do I look like I’ve come for a chat?” he asked.
Malia laughed, cocking her head to one side as she tipped a strand of hair out of her face, “Do I look like I took this throne only to lose it to the likes of you?” she asked. Having caressed the hilt for long enough, Malia tugged a dagger from inside the cradle.
Undoubtedly amused—considering himself a giant against a little girl—a smirk on his lips, the assassin lifted his own blade to strike, amused by her attempt. A bang rang out. Startling him, two figures joined them in the room, swords laid at his throat before he could so much as think to lower his hand onto the Queen. A short-sword struck his wrist, knocking the blade from his hand, only for it to be kicked away.
Shrouded in darkness, his head immobilised as steel brushed against his throat, only aware that the figures had emerged from what he thought to have been a wardrobe to the right of the room, the green-eyed assassin could make out nothing of those that held him captive.
“Have you met my mother and father?” Malia asked, paying a glance to each of those that brought him to his knees. She crinkled her nose, a touch of amusement on her lips, “I doubt it,” she said, “since the Alliance Council deems them...unfit associates of a Queen.” She hung her head, locking eyes with her parents. “Much like the Queen before me, I have found them to be a great asset—one that outsiders underestimate, each and every time.”
The assassin’s nostrils flared, a blazing anger emerging in his eyes.
“Enough about them,” Malia said, flipping the dagger in her hands, her stare intensifying, “tell me about the Alliance Council.”
“You won’t spare me no matter what I tell you,” he hissed.
Brisk, without need to give it any thought, Malia nodded, “You’re right about that,” she said. “But how much you tell me just might determine the manner in which I separate your neck from your shoulders,” she quipped, cheerfully. “So, tell me, what will it be? A single, painless, swing, or countless strikes, inflicting maximum pain?”
Chapter 38
STOOD TO THE SIDE of the ballroom, Thane shifted his weight with growing annoyance at having to let potentially treasonous men and women do as they pleased beneath the palace roof. Dining and dancing, they enjoyed the spoils of their King’s wealth, conspiring
against the family that hosted them in the same breath. It troubled him to tear his eyes from it, to act as though he were otherwise engaged, distracted from his duties even, but he knew it needed to be done.
As Malia stormed out of the room, the fire in her eyes threatened to burn a path before her in the same way Queen Sybelle’s fiery birds burned her path to victory in the war against Evrad. Her determination to see this through was beyond palpable, with many tearing their attentions away from the festivities to watch as the disgraced Queen separated herself from her husband for the second time that day.
A gentle hand laid itself on his shoulder, taking him by surprise. Beside him, Neyva put on her best smile, turning her back on the exiting Queen and giving him her full attention. “You needn’t worry,” she whispered.
He shook his head and a shiver ran down his spine. “I don’t know about that,” he murmured.
She licked her lips, shaking her head, “I don’t like this anymore than you do,” she said. “We do as we’re told and—”
“I know,” he said. He tore his eyes away from the King, turning his back on him as he returned his attentions to her.
Her gaze flitted over his shoulder for no longer than a second before they turned to him, a stiff smile tugging at her lips. “You’re my husband,” she whispered. “Act like it and ask me to dance.”
An order as quiet as that, spoken through a clenched jaw, he realised they’d gained attention. Putting on a smile of his own, bowing his head courteously, he extended a hand to her that was invitation enough.
She took it with some relief, allowing herself to be led closer to the other couples that danced, all the while very much kept to themselves along one side of the room.
Holding his attention with her gaze, she held her head up high, “I would have you share the bed with me,” she said.
He sighed, resisting rolling his eyes. “We’ve discussed this,” he said.
She scoffed, feigning a smile for all to see as he spun her around, “No, we haven’t. You’ve spoken of what you desire, or don’t desire, yet we haven’t shared thoughts of our vision of the future at all.” He stared blankly at her and, eventually, she clarified, “I wish for us to talk—both of us,” she said.
He sighed with displeasure. “Then let’s talk,” he said.
Without an ounce of fear of restraint, she started, “Do you truly despise me?”
He chuckled, drawing her in close, “What gives you that idea?” he asked.
“You don’t speak to me, you don’t share anything of your life with me and...sometimes, I wonder if I truly am standing in the path of everything you wish for,” she said.
Smiling, they withdrew, maintaining a gentle hold on her hand, before she closed the gap between them again, ready for his answer, “Like what?” he asked. “Your brother?”
Recalling his amusement, a grin crept to her lips, “Beyond that,” she said.
“I feel the same way,” he confessed. Hanging his head, and considering his words, with war lingering over them, now was the only time he could say anything, “You spoke so strongly of how you didn’t wish to marry. I had to talk you down from trying to kill yourself at the thought of returning to a husband you didn’t love! How do I know I won’t disappoint you further and be the reason you—“
“You watched me try to kill myself at the thought of returning to a man who would beat me for so much as having an opinion,” she said, a crack in her tone. ”And as much as you may fear disappointing me, why pull yourself away? Wouldn’t it be better to continue to close the gap between us?“
He held his breath, hesitating over his response. “Yes, that would be much more appropriate,” he murmured. “However…”
“However?” she asked. She closed the gap between them and seized the front of his jacket in her hands, clenching her fists around it in an effort to keep herself close. She was done with his hesitating, unwilling to be spun away again in an effort to give himself a moment of contemplation.
“However,” he said, clearing his throat and dropping the smile from his face, “I don’t have enough faith in myself to succeed.”
She recoiled, her gaze soft and sympathetic. “You don’t have such faith, yet it would be up to me to see the effort and appreciate it for what it is,” she said. “Though you may see your actions as slight and meaningless, I have seen them as the most anyone has ever done for me,” she confessed.
He shifted his weight again, the lump in his throat refusing to give way. He wanted to agree with her—he wanted to be optimistic and hopeful and let himself feel what he wanted to feel. But his mind, his conscience, wouldn’t let him speak any of it. He knew better than this. He knew better than to give in to emotion. He knew better than to be dragged away from his duties, be it by love or lust—temptation by any realm of the imagination.
Neyva glanced around. As all seemed to be very much in place, she slid her hand along his arm, tucking her delicate fingers within his palm. “Come with me,” she said.
Her words were soft, sympathetic and gentle in their own way, all the while heartbreakingly enticing. She took him by the hand, albeit for only a second before he pulled them apart.
Having gone to lead him away, the dejection she looked upon him with seemed just about capable of shattering his heart. He cleared his throat, casting his glance in the direction she planned to lead him in.
She looked at him with uncertainty and disbelief, almost as though she didn’t trust him to follow her out onto one of the palace’s wide balconies, away from prying eyes. Nonetheless, he gave her a look that spoke of his insistence, allowing her to turn away.
Closed against the chill in the air, he leapt two paces ahead of her as she reached the door. With a heavy tug at the metal handle, he extended his hand to allow her to go on ahead, bowing his head to offer her the respect she deserved.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked.
He snorted. Faced with yet another tiresome argument, he just about resisted rolling his eyes, “Doing what?” he asked.
“Why are you...going out of your way to open doors for me?”
This time, there was no stopping himself rolling his eyes—she sounded absolutely absurd. “What are you talking about?”
She shook her head, scrambling through her thoughts, pulling them together. “Why are you going out of your way to open doors for me? Why are you addressing me as you would a superior?”
“Because you are my superior,” he retorted, spinning on his heel to face her.
“I am your wife!”
“Yes, you are!” he agreed. “But my wife happens to be a Princess,” he said. Reeling, he pulled away, wiping the scowl of anger from around his mouth, “And I’m... I’m just a General.”
“You’re not,” she huffed.
“I am,” he said, nodding curtly. “I’m just a General and you’re a Princess. Our lives overlap only to the extent that people of my station protect and serve people of yours.”
She shook her head, about to run her fingers through her hair only to stop short at the touch of the intricate jewelled tiara placed within it. “I don’t want that for us,” she whispered.
He shook his head also, shrugging a shoulder. It didn’t matter what she wanted. It didn’t matter what he wanted either. “There’s a reason people of my station and yours don’t mix,” he whispered. “It would never work.”
She turned her bright-eyed gaze on him, her shoulders dropping as she played with her fingers against her dress. “And if there wasn’t such a thing between us?” she asked.
He rolled his eyes. This conversation had gone on too long. They needed to get back. “What are you talking about?” he countered.
Slowly, she took a step towards him, and he took a step back. “If I wasn’t a Princess,” she said, “and you weren’t weighted by your duties, what would you say?”
He smirked. The world she’d conjured with her question was far from their reality—it wasn’t worth thinking about.
She stopped short from taking another step forward, closing the gap between them. “If I wasn’t a Princess, and you weren’t a General, what then?” she asked.
His shoulders dropped, his hands falling at his sides, and he swallowed the swell of emotion forming in the back of his throat. Life would’ve been different then, he thought to himself. His whole life would’ve been completely different.
“If I was just a girl,” she persisted, softly, “and you were just a boy, what would you do?”
He glanced her way, eyes softened and blown by the thought of a life he never had—and could never have. He took one quick step towards her, closing the space he’d maintained, tucking his hand beneath her jaw and pressing his lips to hers without thinking for a moment longer.
The world fell away around them. Replaced, for just a second, with that fictitious world she’d conjured between them. Not a Princess, and not a General, they were just a boy and a girl, his passion released from its confines and her breath taken by the result of it.
Pulling apart felt like tearing at his soul, his hand lingering against her neck, his thumb against her jaw, as he withdrew his lips back and then retreated with two quick steps backwards. His heart raced, as did hers, but all for different reasons. As her eyes welled with the joy of his actions, his body trembled at having stepped out of line in such a way, doing his utmost to re-bottle all he had allowed to escape.
“That can never happen again,” he whispered, wiping the sensation of their kiss from his mouth.
Her eyes watered, speaking of her disappointment as a frown replaced her look of joy. “Why not?” she asked.
He shrugged, “Because you’re still a Princess,” he said, “and I’m still just a General—this changed nothing.”
Beyond the wide balcony, the skies opened up, the gardens in the distance now a haze by the thick veil of rain. He looked to the stained glass windows, back to the ballroom, sighing.
Living in a fantasy, if only for a second, tasted of freedom, but the real world awaited, and there was no freedom to be found within it.
