Blackest black, crimson red and emerald green.
One of the green dresses toward the back catches my eye. Green at least reminds me of The Grove, and with a simple square neck and no train or puffy sleeves, it is the closest I will get to something modest in this wardrobe. I tug the dress from its hanger, pointedly bypassing the row of corsets.
Slipping it on, I'm relieved to find it fits well enough, and when I catch my reflection in the mirror, I don't look entirely ridiculous. With a sharp breath, I pull the combs from my hair, releasing the tension that’s been clawing at my scalp since last night. My brown waves tumble free, cascading over my shoulders and down my back, easing the tightness from my brow as they fall.
Yes. That will do.
I throw open the doors and find Arax still there, as he said he would be.
“I’m ready,” I announce, tossing his balled up cloak at him.
Arax catches it with one hand, and while he attaches it to his pauldrons, he looks me over again, likely checking that I am not half naked. His eyes linger on my toes, peeking out from beneath the gown.
“You’re not wearing any shoes,” he remarks, always with something to say.
“Well spotted, Arax—and I am grateful for it,” I reply. “Now let us walk.”
When I step into the hall, I look down both long passages. I remember the left leads to the throne room, and I have no desire to go anywhere near there. So I step right and begin my march while Arax follows close behind. We pass servants along the way who bow and avoid meeting my eyes and patrols of Blades who move aside for us before glaring at me bitterly. The stone walls are dreary and bare, and the balconies might be stunning if they did not overlook a tempestuous, endless sea below a sky of foreboding gray clouds.
In The Grove, there is always something interesting. A plant, or an insect; perhaps a bird I’ve never seen. But here it is only long halls of stone that lead to nowhere and seem to go on forever. Then we pass an open doorway and a burst of color catches the corner of my eye. I come to a sharp stop and Arax grumbles when he almost crashes into the back of me.
“What’s in there?”
“That is the royal portrait gallery,” he answers.
I do not hesitate entering. Inside the room, enormous paintings line the walls, illuminated by an open fire burning in the gallery’s center, with the flickering light of the orange flames dancing over the portraits. There are singular portraits of King Kaelus, Queen Lanneth, and Prince Daedalus. Then some of justthe king and queen regal at their thrones or arm in arm on a balcony with the Untold Sea at their backs. One portrait shows the king and his son in full battle armor with such ferocity in their eyes I’m surprised the artist did not flee in fear. But the largest of all and positioned at the center is the portrait of all three royals of House Mordorin.
The king and queen stand behind Daed, each with a hand on his shoulder. Daed sits in a stone throne at the forefront, his dark hair slicked back, his face hard and pensive, with lines and angles chiseled from rock and polished smooth with those slate-gray eyes of the storm staring straight ahead. His hands grasp the ornate, jeweled hilt of a magnificent sword, its silver blade plunging down so its dangerous point meets the floor. But the weapon is not nearly as lethal as his captivating mouth.
I recall how the Archdruid referred to him last night.
The favored son.
This portrait is the embodiment of that title. Here he sits, ruling over all beneath him, his parents presenting him as their champion. As their future. No wonder his ego is so disgustingly large. People shower him with more praise and worship than all the old gods combined.
When I drag my eyes away from his face, I notice that every portrait of the prince shows him as an adult. You would think in a royal portrait gallery, there would be at least one painting to celebrate the birth of the heir to a great Fae house, or even as a child, growing into he who would rule. But there are none. It is strange, but I do not think on it too long.
Who knows why the Fae do as they do?
When I’ve seen enough, I wander from the room and continue down the hall, with Arax still close behind. Eventually, we arrive at another divergence. Two more long, boring stone halls that stretch further than my eyes can follow.
“What’s down there?” I ask, gesturing to both options.
“Nothing of importance,” Arax replies. “Would you like to continue walking?”
The four walls of my room were more interesting than this excursion, and I can not even use the need of sunshine and fresh air as an excuse, as there is not a drop of either. I frown. Stranded on a remote island in a dreary fortress full of nothing. I notice Arax looks as bored as I do, but I would much rather be miserable in my own company.
“You do not have to stay, you know? I’m fine by myself.”
“No,” he replies. “I can not leave your side.”
I’m about to roll my eyes at him and his fussing when a Blade patrol approaches. The two towering warriors do not address me straight away, instead I see their mouths twisted as if something sour sits on their tongues. Then Arax glares and demands, “bow now before your princess.”
They move slowly as if their limbs are rusted, but eventually I receive the bow that I couldn’t care less about.
“Be swifter about it next time,” Arax growls. “Now. What do you want?”
I do not hear much of the hushed conversation, but whatever they say is enough to earn a surly grumble from Arax.
