Draven leads me down an enormous flight of steps. Every head lingering in the ebony and ruby-painted hall turns my way, noting my diamond-lined slippers, my plunging neckline, the lace of my sleeves covering as little as leaves in a pool. I am smoke, a ghost, a rippling fog, and he is the darkness, the unforgiving night, his suit so onyx it seems to warp the eye, never catching the light, only the glints of gold accents along it showing like stars in the midnight sky.
We pass druids dressed in resplendent gowns and rich suits. They wear either makeup as a veneer or dainty skeletal domino masks, and most are tattooed up to the neckline, yet every one of them takes note of Prince Draven and then, belatedly, me. It’s difficult to not shy from their obvious stares and the way so many seem to dissect every inch of this gown and my lightbrown skin beneath it. I’ve never had as many eyes on me in my life as when I came to Sedah.
“Stop craning, start preening.” He whispers, “You look gorgeous.”
Draven turns away, as if he didn’t just utter that riling commentary into the curve of my ear, causing my toes to curl. Now he nods to every passerby, as if they’re all just as interesting as I am. I glare at him, silently daring him to look back at me, so I can search those ever-changing eyes for a hint of honesty. He doesn’t meet my gaze but his arm crooks around my lower back, pulling me against his heat, bathing me in his heady scent. Why does he have to vex me like this? The warmth he gives ebbs and flows. Quick as the summer tide that first leaves me burning and then cold as the shortest day of winter. I lift my chin and look ahead, trying to blur those bright-eyed gazes to the background, but they graze me all the same, like hounds nipping at my heels.
Passing them by, we enter a room that’s a little of everything I imagined and yet so much more. Four thrones are placed at the end of the hall, black and gilded in gold, the backs arched and pointed toward the ceiling. The king’s sits highest, and all are already occupied except for the one left for my date.
The room itself is decorated as though we’ve sunk into the bottommost pits of the deepest sea. It’s a show of sheer power, staggering in its brilliance. The walls are jet-black, with great columns of onyx crystals puncturing the space here and there, electricity undulating inside each, like bottled storms that flash and ripple within their glass. It illuminates the hall in unfiltered pulses of whites and blues, like the heartbeat of a great slumbering beast. Druids linger in pockets, eating or talking, or both, but all consumed by conversations, or else gyrating to theethereal music echoing through the throne room, invigorated by the atmosphere.
Like dominoes ticking over, the crowd heaves and their eyes find him, then me.
There’s a flurry of curtsying, and bowing, and some glaring. Then the music softens to nothing, revealing the whispers underneath.
Prince Draven walks forward as if he doesn’t notice any of it. I wish I didn’t. I long for whenever their eyes will quit piercing through me like needles. I hate that my mind tries to diagnose what each of them is thinking, sorting through the cancer of their cruel looks.
Draven whispers to me again, but this time his eyes slide to mine and stick. “Just look at me.”
I nod, swallowing down my fear and worry.
We stay together, and my gaze doesn’t leave his face. Even if he glances forward, his attention always floats back to me. I try to keep a smile hitched to the corners of my mouth, challenging myself to look at every angle of his cheeks, his chin, the fine bones around his brow and eyes as if I will need to recreate it to perfection later, but truly I’m looking for a single flaw.
Something to make this feel easier. Itshouldbe easy. Any good daughter would think it was. I finally get to be reunited with my father, I just never thought it would feel like leaving something else behind, too. Every beat of unease in my heart feels traitorous.
My hand twitches, and I’m unsure if it’s the tarot deck I want to reach for, or those gloved hands of Draven’s. His shoulders flex near imperceptibly, given away only by his black velvet jacket scrunching over muscles, a slight shift of those wings. He lifts his chin, fingering the gilt buttons at his chest.
“Watch your step,” he tells me in a hushed breath, and I look forward, realizing we’ve reached the thrones.
King Silas is the only one in attendance without a mask or makeup, and I swallow a gasp before it can sustain any air. I study him closely—he is as beautiful as any of them, his skin pale, but his angular features strangely alluring. The edges of his face bear a few stylistic tattoos in black, symmetrically matched against his cheekbones, an upward-sweeping crescent moon across his forehead like a set crown. Parting his hair, those antlers are bone white and ridged. Wisps of night float off his back, eddying swirls that line the space between those dragon wings.
The king is handsome, compelling, yet I can finally tell he and Draven share no blood.
For the prince is staggering in his beauty, more striking than any other I’ve seen.
King Silas looks down on us, eyes flitting between us as if he can sense something growing there, but I’m unsure if it gives him pause or makes him eager to be rid of me. Prince Draven smiles, bowing his head, though I know more is expected of me, so I copy the curtsy we practiced. The corner of the king’s lips pulls up in a smirk at my clumsy movements, but he doesn’t seem dismissive, thank the gods.
“She learns quicker than you,” King Silas tells Prince Draven.
I watch only his feet, noticing the intricacies of the throne, scales chiseled into its sidings like a great black python. For all my spite, I’d love to glare him down, but the love for my father keeps me in a perfect pose of submission. For now.
“She’d have made a better heir to be sure,” Draven responds facetiously. “Unfortunately for our kingdom, she has somewhere holier to be. When will our guests arrive?”
Draven’s so casual, thumbs looping into his pockets. With that strange electric energy highlighting his suit, the crushed velvet pattern of little skulls mixing into the ivy and thorny roses stands out more starkly.
“They’re already here.” King Silas looks behind us.
I turn, my breath catching desperately in my chest as I spot the seraph king entering the hall, my father at his side.
12The Halo
When the Seven of Wands represents a person, it is someone who is dynamic, a born fighter, one who will defend others’ honor, and rise to the challenge.
THE SERAPH ROYALSare an imperious, humorless lot. There’s the king with his golden eyes, hair, and wings that match as if he were dipped in molten gilt. He’d be handsome if it weren’t for the sour look he wore, the symmetrical features of his face darkened by the thunderous temper in his stare. Gazing upon everything as if it spoiled his day. He makes King Silas seem temperate by comparison.
Then there’s Princess Reva at his side, full lips pursed to a thinning line as she tries to catch Draven’s attention, but he only watches me.
Despite what he said, I’d bet my life she still wants him.
