The torches beside his head flickered as he walked past, as if eventheysensed the frustration in his magic.
She wasn’t here yet, thank the gods.
She was probably still in his tower, in the room across from his, getting dressed...or waiting on Kinlear.
Arawn grimaced as the doors closed behind him, and he saw how the tables had been drawn out, glittering cloths atop them. The flagons of winterwine had been poured, and the entire room training, meant for swords and shields and sparring...
It had been turned into a place todance.
Gods, he hated to dance, though he knew the steps as every good prince should.
This was hissanctuary,the one place he knew he could be himself in full... someone unafraid to fail, because when he had his sword and his magic?
He made very few mistakes. His mind simply shut off, and it was all body, allsoultied to the power of Vivorr, and he was no longerCrown Prince, Arawn Laroux.
He was a flame, and he was a blade.
He was a weapon that fought for the gods, and nothing else mattered...especially not her.
But he knew she’d be here tonight, amongst the tables and the servants touting goblets of winterwine. Musicians played the strings on a makeshift stage, and dancers spun beneath the torchlight in every color under the sun in the center of the room.
The very same spot where Arawn had once trained Soraya to be stronger.
Where she’d once laid with her body pressed beneath his on the mat, their hearts beating in time.
He should have told her how he felt back then.
He shouldn’t have been so damnedafraid.
A servant walked past, carrying goblets of drink, but Arawn refused it.
He’d never once seen his father drink, because a leader needed toalwaysbe ready to act, should the battle shift.
But when she entered the room?
He felt it even more...
Because heneverwanted to forget the way Soraya looked in her Absolution dress...how she glowed like a blazing sun – aflame to match hismagic –in a gown of brilliant gold.
Kinlear had commissioned the gown for her all the way from Touvre.
He’d been so proud of it, when it arrived by way of a worn carriage.She’ll want to be buried in this dress,he’d boasted, as he brought it by Arawn’s room and laid it out on his bed.
Arawn knew better. And he felt vindicated later that night, when Soraya had practicallygaggedas she’d told their aerie about it while they cleaned their blades. She hated dresses, hated anything but her flying leathers.
But seeing her in it now?
There was nothing to hate...andeverythingto love.
The dress clung to her body like a second skin. The gold fabric shone so bright, he swore all the light in the room had gone right for it, like she was a magnet, like she was--
“Your Highness!”
Arawn flinched as he lost sight of Soraya in the crowd.
Instead, his vision filled with Zey, an Eagleminder whose eyes had always seemed tohunthim. Even when they were children in this very room.
She was beautiful, and the object of many a Sacred’s eye, with her golden hair pulled to a thick braid that ran all the way to her waist. Her mask looked like it was spun from snowflakes and falling stars – a match to his, as if perhaps she’d bullied Izill into discovering what Arawn’s look would be. He wouldn’t put it past her. Apparently, Zey had waltzed into the War Table’s path just a few months ago, anddemandedshe be Matched with him.
