"Yes, but what does that have to do with you?"
The stranger blinked at her, his mouth contorting from an almost-sneer into a confused expression. "Did you hit your head or something? Iam Oran Yaarborough."
She was too wet to be embarrassed. Nymiria raised her chin, shrugging. "You should have said that first. You could have been trying to tell me you were his lover."
"Some days, I am." He grumbled. A look of disgust formed, her cheeks turning a deep shade of pink that matched her dress. "I was joking—youcanlaugh."
"I'm not in the mood to laugh."
Oran continued his marching through the palace grounds until they reached the veranda outside of the throne room. Servants wove around them, carrying large boxes of food and imported flowers that were surely for Oran's engagement party. When perfectly concealed under the shade of the awning above them, Oran spun around to face her. "Why aren't you in the mood to laugh?" He asked.
Nymiria frowned. "I just had a group of ten men running after me trying to take me against my will." She cocked her head to the side. "Didyouhit your head? Or did you think that I purposefully fell because I wanted one of you ill-mannered, beetle-browedbratsto mount me?"
The look he wore was one that she would never forget. For a moment, there was anger behind those stormy blue eyes, but then he smiled. And it was not a smile of malice, nor was it villainous in any form. His laughter was a shocking surprise. Nymiria didn't think it was much of a laughing matter. Once his laughter died away, Oran shook his head and ushered her into the throne room. All she could do was stare at him, watching his shoulders roll as they approached the dais and how his shirt was plastered to the corded muscles along his back as he stooped to a bow.
She was shocked. Perhaps she expected him to look more like his father. Or for him to be just a hateful, spoiled prince that would demand her to bend over for him upon their first encounter. Nymiria certainly didn’t expect for him to drag her, sopping wet, into the throne room and start yelling about the barbaric practice of Hunting Day.
She certainly did not expect for Oran to pull her forward and demand that his father look at her and see her state of dishevelment for what it was. “You wrote to me about Nymiria, father, and you claimed she was a bright and intelligent young woman that was worth more than all of the courtesans combined. Isthiswhat her worth amounts to?”
Dorid looked at her with the same air of pride he always did. His smile was apologetic, like a chastised child, as his eyes trailed over her dripping form andNymiria watched as he ran a finger over his jeweled ring. “I suppose you’re right.” He sighed. “Fine. Call off the dogs and send all of them to me immediately. Have Nansia dismiss the women they’ve already caught.” After exchanging a few more words with one another, Oran turned to leave. He didn’t spare her another glance, his jaw still tight and shoulders rigid with anger.
“Nymiria,” the king called. “I believe that I owe you an apology of sorts.”
Nymiria shook her head, fingers knotting in the drenched fabric of her skirts. “No, Your Majesty. You are not indebted to me in the slightest. If anything, it is I who must apologize for trampling your son.”
He let out a soft laugh and with one look directed at his peers, they dismissed themselves from the throne room. Nymiria watched them leave, her breathing unsteady as the king rose from his throne and approached her with a serpentine slowness. His eyes twinkled in the sunlight that spilled through the arched windows, catching the silver strands of hair that were just visible under the golden, spired crown he wore on his head. Her body went rigid when his hand extended in her direction, brushing her hair away from her heaving chest.
"I've been looking for you." Dorid sighed. "I have another task for you. Two, actually."
"Oh?" She tried to mask her disappointment, squeezing her hands together so hard that the rings on her fingers dug into her skin.
“You have grown into a lovely woman, Nymiria. You remind me of someone I once knew, long ago. She was full of life. She had…heart.” His fingers skimmed over her collarbone, dipping just below the fabric that covered the silver flower on her chest. Nymiria gritted her teeth, eyes closing to will herself to remain calm. It was enough to make her stomach churn, just the thought of where this could go—what he could force her to do. “My sons have returned from their quests overseas. Oran has become somewhat of a problem. He harbors a lot of anger towards me that I fear I do not deserve. I blame it on his brother, who I also have reason to believe is plotting against me."
He clicked his tongue as he brushed his fingers over the flower, shaking his head as if this one feature made Nymiria just as disgusting of a creature as he believed the other Mystics to be. Anger rose to the back of her throat in the form of a stifled scream, eyes prickling with unshed tears as he pulled her dress back into place. “I want you to kill him. Use whatever power you have to manipulate him and do well, my precious girl. Because it is only someone like you who has the capability of that form of trickery. And I need Aziel Haze dead.”
“Trickery?” She stammered. “I… I’m not sure I understand.”
Dorid smirked. “Trickery is in your blood, Nymiria. Creatures like you have the ability to make us fall in love with you, ensnaring us with your charms.”
He was wrong. It may have been a decade since she'd left the Beyond, but Nymiria knew that what he spoke of was a lie. The only time manipulation or trickery was allowed in her society was strictly for survival.
Even though her anger was rising inside of her like an overgrowth of thorns that prickled at one’s throat, she swallowed it down. She hid her ire behind the timid smile she flashed at him and the obedient nod of her head.
"First, I need you to take care of the ambassador from Grennick. He's been snooping around the palace far too much for my liking. Found him near the vaults the other day." Despite her desire that he would simply just let her go and complete her task, Dorid kept talking. He'd told her about the vaults hundreds of times, but he insisted on talking about them anytime the opportunity arose. They were his pride.
Nymiria let him speak. She'd let him talk for hours if it meant that she could stave off the inevitable. Her stomach twisted into knots, her palms started to sweat. She knew that it would be hard to breathe next, but she did her best to focus on Dorid talking.
When he finally approached her with that gentle, caring look in his eyes, Dorid smoothed her hair out of her face and gave her a loving smile. "Do not fail me. You know there are wonderful rewards for when you do well."
One down, one more death to go.
Her body trembled as she walked through her bedroom, a sob bubbled from her chest the moment she closed the washroom door. She let the dagger that the king gifted her fall to the ground, the clattering of it against the tile floor shook her to her core. Shedding her gown and kicking away her boots, Nymiria stuffed a rag into her mouth and let out the scream she’d so desperately tried to hold in.
This should not have bothered her. For the past decade, she was made into the king's secret weapon—slipping deadly powders into drinks at parties, slicing throats in brothels…. she knew what this life entailed, what politics would come with it. But it felt like a betrayal to the side of her—the roots of her being that still dwelled in the Beyond.
The water was at it’s hottest temperature, steaming as it spilled from the spigot and into the porcelain basin below. Her sobs were muffled by the rag as she slipped from her undergarments and lowered herself into the water. When she closed her eyes, all she could see were those beautiful green eyes looking at her as she plunged her blade into his heart.
A scream burned at her throat, her fingers digging into her skin, hoping that if she dug deep enough, she could physically pull the pain from her body. Images of Seelie faces, all of them flashing with shock and betrayal, bombarded her. She felt ropes against her wrists, felt the burn as they sliced into her skin. She clawed at the feeling of oily disgust. But no matter how much she clawed or scrubbed at herself, she couldn’t rid herself of that feeling. The guilt. The humiliation. The heartbreak.
