It’s late in the day when I wake, stiff and still exhausted. With Ingrid’s scent in my bed but the woman herself out of sight and out of reach, I’ve spent most of the time tossing and turning, trying not to think about her. I’ve done well to keep my distance since the Presentation, giving her the time and space to settle into the castle before being frightened off by me. Now that I’ve seen her again, I’ve been close enough to hold her, surrounded by her scent—that distance between us chafes. It feels unnatural.
And I don’t like how quickly that feeling has taken root. How quickly she becamemine.
It hardly matters, though. Ingrid is my bride. She will be at my side from now untilthe end of time—or my life, whichever comes sooner—so should I not feel some measure of affection for her? Wouldn’t it be more unnatural if I didn’t?
I might be less conflicted about it if it were reciprocated in any way, but I know that’s an impossible dream. Even before this morning, I knew that Ingrid would only see me as a fearsome monster; now there remains no doubt. She couldn’t get out of bed fast enough when she realized what was happening. Couldn’t stand the thought of sharing a bedchamber with me.
There’s no heat in my veins, no battle-ready determination this time. Only the sinking, hollow realization that Ingrid is going to be miserable here. With me.
What deal could she have possibly made that would be worth this?
Growling at my own thoughts, I pull myself out of bed, letting the ache of my overused muscles distract me. My mind has never been safe refuge for me, and the company of my own thoughts has only grown more unbearable after taking the throne.
Once dressed, I make my way down to the kitchens. The rich, mouth-watering smells and chaotic orders shouted over roaring fires is a better welcome than any royal procession.
My entrance goes unnoticed at first, everyone too busy with preparations for the next meal; even in its crumbling state, the castle has hundreds of mouths to feed. It’s no small feat, and the cook leads his army the same way I led mine. No room for errors, complete trust that your people can do what they’re put there to do. The leaders who look over shoulders and need proof of every minor task being completed have never garnered the respect or loyalty of their troops, in my experience. If you’ve done your job right in selecting your team and training them, doubting them is doubting yourself. And doubt gets people killed.
Finally, my bulk is impossible to ignore. Someone skirts around me, an admonishment on the tip of their tongue when their eyes widen and a stammer falls from their lips instead.
“Y-your Majesty! We weren’t told you would—”
I shake my head, gesturing for discretion. “No need to fuss. I only want a hot meal.”
“Oh! Well, we’ll get the table set and—”
“I want to admire the talent of my kitchens. Here is fine.”
“You mean… You want to… I’m sorry, Your Highness, I don’t think I understand.”
“He’shungry, Jois,” an older demon says in an exasperated tone. “Now stop tripping over yourself and get him a seat.”
Jois scampers off, looking like they’ve just escaped an angry ursow while the older demon wastes no time setting out plates and ladling up bowls of stew, each one smelling better than the last.
“Don’t mind them,” he says, tutting and shaking his head. “Means well. Farandir never darkened that doorway, they don’t know what to do. But king or no, everyone’s got a belly that needs filling.”
I nod, thanking him before I dig in, hunched over one of the counters. It might not be the grand gesture of appreciation that Morwen had in mind, but my presence is starting to be noticed. Suddenly, every station, every cook, is delivering a portion of their dish, forming a queue to place it in front of me, looking on expectantly until I take a taste and give a nod of approval. There’s no doubt that each and every one of them takes pride in their work, and for good reason. With the longest winter Emerald has had in centuries, supplies are stretched thin, anything fresh has to be imported, and I’ve drastically reduced the budget for those luxuries. Still, the kitchen produces hearty, filling meals that taste better than anything I ever had while serving with the Wardens.
Having eaten far more than my fill, I say my thanks to the kitchen staff and escape to the training grounds to see how much damage last night’s my angry outburst did. I’ve hardly stepped foot on the frozen ground when Hilduin approaches, a battle whip perched on her shoulder.
“Back for more?” she asks, a brow arched.
“Observing,” I reply, the scar in my side giving a twinge at the memory of her jab yesterday. A repeat of a fight like that would have me limping off the battlefield.
Hilduin huffs, dropping her arm so that the whip coils at her feet like a loyal hound. “Have I offended you?” she asks, catching me off-guard.
“What? No—”
“Have I disappointed you? Have I angered you?” Despite the line of questioning, it’s Hilduin who sounds angry, each question punctuated harder than the previous.
“I—”
“Because you dragged me all the way from the border—where I was very useful, I’ll add—and told me I’m the only one you trust to get your guard into shape, but not a day has gone by since I arrived that you haven’t come down to derail my drills and distract my troops. You either trust me to do this and get out of my damn way, or send me back to the border where I can serve the reach.”
Hilduin is small compared to me, but that doesn’t stop her from being an intimidating sight, eyes hard with a challenge, knuckles white where she grips the whip, the stubborn set of her jaw, and not even a heartbeat of hesitation anywhere in her. Looking past her, the drills continue, but they’re sloppy, too many glances our way, too many ears trying to listen in.
Shattered realms. She’s right. But this has nothing to do with not trusting Hilduin. It’s myself that I’m doubting, and now that doubt is spreading like rot to those who answer to me.
“My time here has more to do with my own inadequacies than anything I think of you and your abilities,” I assure her.
