Soren, of course, was in his element. He had managed to hide the bags under his eyes and the darkness that lurked in his gaze, wrenching himself away from Nevara to help the court she had spent her life keeping in line.
He moved through the crowd with the effortless grace of someone who understood exactly how power flowed through a room, and how to redirect it. With his silver tongue and his honeyed words, he spun stories with such elegant precision and delicious intrigue that even I almost believed them.
“You should have seen her,” he confided to a circle of nobles, lowering his voice just enough to make them lean closer. “The moment the frostbeasts attacked the villagers, she was already at their sides, pulling them to safety. Her mana is stronger than she lets on.”
The nobles straightened when they looked at me. Eyes wide. Respectful. Several bowed as though I’d suddenly become holy.
Soren leaned in closer, lowering his voice dramatically. “Of course, you won’t hear that from her. Her Majesty is far too modest. But I saw it myself.”
“Oh, he’s good,” Wynnie said from behind her glass of Shivermark gin.
Draven scoffed and took another long sip from his own glass before gesturing to a servant for another round.
The Autumn emissary moved again, landing next to another group with all the grace of a leaf elegantly drifting through the breeze.
“And that business at her sister’s estate,” he whispered loudly enough for half the hall to hear, “they tried to keep it quiet. They didn’t want to incite panic, of course. But while our king took on a horde of angry Tharnoks, the queen fought off several monsters on her own.”
Fought offfelt like too generous a statement. Not when there was so much screaming and crying and only barely staving off panic attacks involved.
It didn’t help that all I could remember about the attack was the fear and the blood and the bathwater that never felt clean afterward.
But for some reason, the crowd believed Soren. Or at the very least, wanted to. When their gazes turned toward me this time, their expressions held a bit of reverence. I shifted uncomfortably as Draven pressed his thumb against my pulse point once more.
Shadows crept beneath the surface of his skin, faint enough that I was sure only I had noticed. It was still a sobering reminder that I was a far cry from the warrior Soren was making me out to be.
Draven’s spine went rigid, a muscle working in his jaw.
You are not weak, Morta Mea,his words drifted through our bond in that same irritable tone he used when he would speak aloud.
I scoffed, heat rising to my cheeks as I wondered what other thoughts I had inadvertently shared with him this evening, or if he was just intuitive enough to somehow guess where my mind had drifted.
His grip around my wrist tightened. Not enough to be painful, but just enough to demand my attention.
Slowly, I raised my eyes to meet his, watching the auroras dance like flames in his irises. His gaze was unyielding, and it was an effort not to look away.
Impetuous, stubborn, inappropriate, and careless, yes. But not weak.
My stomach gave an uncomfortable lurch.
“That can’t be true,” an obnoxious and all too familiar voice sliced through the room, dragging my attention away from Draven’s furious expression toward a slender female adorned in silver fox furs and a gown that shimmered like starlight.
Lady Thessara’s pale blue brows were arched with even more condescension than usual. Her lips pursed in distaste, her arms crossed in front of her narrow frame.
Of course, she would be the one to argue… And of course she was right, too. She couldn’t even allow me the courtesy of righteous indignation when she was challenging something that was just a hair too close to a lie.
Or felt that way, at least.
“Can’t it?” my sister challenged, and the room went still.
Whether that was from her menacing tone, being the sister of the queen, or merely the status that her position as the Lady of Thistlerun Keep afforded her, I wasn’t sure.
Either way, I was probably more pleased than I should have been when Lady Thessara bristled.
And for a single, blissful moment, I thought she might back down, gently backtrack on this precarious tightrope we were all walking and leave well enough alone… But that was just as futileas hoping Batty might suddenly develop a good singing voice, or that hideous verglas-monkeys didn’t exist.
The female let out a small tutting noise. “I’m sure that Lord Redthorn’s intentions are well-meant. After all, the entire court knows about his friendship with Her Majesty.”
She emphasized the word friendship in a way that sounded far more scandalous than I would have liked. Than my husband would have liked as well, if the ice already creeping across the floor was anything to go by.
