Behind her comes my father, and my heart lodges in my throat at the sight of him. He looks unharmed, but harried, his jaw clenching when he notices Draven’s arm looped around mine. I squirm a bit beneath the judgment in his eyes.
King Altair is not my king—not yet—but the druid people bow their heads as the seraphs pass, showing deference to them,and so I take their lead. When Altair and Silas face one another, the entire hall stills, watching.
King Altair approaches the dais, drawing his daughter to his side, and my father hovers at his other shoulder, apart from the seraph guards. His eyes flick between where Draven and I stand off to the right and back to his king.
King Silas rises, so much higher up on that dais, imposing as if he were cut from a twisted tree, looking down on us all like a dark god of old. He addresses the seraph king, but there’s not a trace of warmth in his features, like a fire frozen over.
“King Altair, I’m glad you’ve come in good faith to discuss this trade and the ending of our children’s betrothal. As much as my Court is dying to eat the feast of our exchanged words”—he looks around the hall with a smirk, and announces—“I think it best such important discussions occur between family.” King Silas steps down from the dais, and Draven’s mother and little brother, Ansel, follow.
Draven’s jaw clenches, his eyes on the seraph king as if a viper has slipped among our ranks. I’ve never seen a hint of fear on his features before, but I see tinges of it in his loathing.
As King Silas passes, Ansel tugs Draven’s other hand. I hear him whisper quietly to his brother, “Is everything going to be okay?”
He’s smaller than I remembered at the Selection, his wide sapphire eyes brimming with worry. As he anxiously bites his lip, I can see he’s missing a canine. Guilt pools inside me, thinking of how I wanted to manipulate him at the Selection.
Draven blinks the fury off his face, hitching on a genuine smile as he puts a hand on his brother’s shoulder, and whispers back, “Of course it is. I’m here.”
“Does this mean you get to stay?”
The hope in the boy’s voice breaks my heart. Draven doesn’t speak about his little brother with me, but seeing the soft way he interacts with Ansel, the way he always bends closer, his wing wrapping around the boy’s small form, shifts an icy blockage wedged in my heart.
Draven nods and Ansel grins, exhaling shakily.
“Is that your girlfriend?” Ansel whispers, but he’s a small child so his voice is loud.
“Quiet,” King Silas snaps, gesturing for the band to continue, to drown our words, the audience still silently watching us.
I notice a few druids whispering behind their hands, eyes on me.
Princess Reva shoots a look at Ansel, but I realize the young prince is referring to me, not her. Draven quickly mumbles something to his brother, who giggles behind his little hand. The princeling wets his lips when he meets my gaze, a smile that softens and then heats.
King Silas walks toward a small private seating room off the main ballroom and the rest of us trail after. The music fades as the door closes behind us. This dim space contains blackened wallpapers and furniture, sconces chiseled into skeletal hands, and stone gargoyles in every corner, perched as if they hold up the very ceiling. Druid guards fill in every shadow, standing still as statues. King Altair bristles at their presence, despite his own guards falling in around him.
At my side Prince Draven barely breathes, his hands fisted, eyes glued to King Altair’s movements, as if the seraph might just try to incinerate us all at the smallest insult. Draven’s mother, Queen Vesta, and little Ansel sit upon a rich velvet sectional, large enough for all of us. King Silas offers Altair a seat, but to his clear annoyance, Altair stands, so the rest of us follow suit.
I can’t help but notice the way Draven subtly puts his body between his family and the seraph king. His hand hovers against the middle of my back, his wing gently curling around me.
Across the room, my father and I glance at each other quickly. Years of waiting for this. Hope struggles to flare in my chest, and I hate that my fate lies in the hands of all these immortal men. The invisible strands of diplomacy stretching across the room fray with every razor-edged glower between King Altair and Draven. The tension between our two groups only grows within the silence, as if the wrong uttered word might lead to war.
“So … let’s settle our affairs. Prince Draven’s offer was not one I was privy to before he made it, but ultimately I agree with his logic.” King Silas glances at me, his hand out, and hesitantly I step away from Draven, the cold air causing me to shiver, until I’m at the king’s side. “If you will call off the forced betrothal between my son and your daughter, even for the high price of Rune Ryker, the only other World Arcana in centuries, we are ready to accept it.”
King Altair doesn’t bother to look at me, he only holds King Silas’s stare, until finally his expression breaks into something like a sneer. “I never said I was willing to break the betrothal. Merely consider delaying it.”
My gaze flicks to Draven first, his eyes liquid hot, a burning orange that glows in the dim light. Dread fills me as I glance to King Silas next, his face still as stone, clearly unamused. Princess Reva shifts on her feet, cheeks heated. King Silas scoffs, his head cocks, and I note a crease forming between his brows as they furrow together.
“You expect to take a Selected as valuable and as rare as Rune fornothingin return?” A deadly glint fills King Silas’s eyes.
My father meets my gaze, the warm gold the only comfort he can give me, and eyes widen as if a knife has slid into his gut. Hewas clearly not expecting this either. I force my eyes to remain dry, telling myself they did not give me this hope only to snatch it away in an instant.
“My consideration is something most woulddiefor.” King Altair finally turns his heated gaze toward me, though his tone doesn’t soften, even an inch. “Let me look at her, let us see if she’s as valuable as you pretend.”
King Altair reaches his hand for mine in such an entitled way I nearly draw back just to spite him. But my father’s jaw clenches and his eyes bulge as he watches his king lean toward me, and I think better of it, stepping forward and taking Altair’s proffered hand. He holds it in that stupid frail way men always try to take my hand in theirs, as if we’re about to engage in some dance. His bright golden eyes burn like liquid flame as he commands, “Kneel.”
I go to obey, despite the venom limning my body, but something stops me, some magic I don’t understand. It hits me like a lightning bolt, the Oath.
I turn to King Silas, and he waits a beat before nodding to me, as if he needed to prove that he still controls me. My body overcompensates, and my knees bend so fast and hard they thump against the black marble floor beneath us. I fume at the indignity. I’m sure I’m supposed to look at King Altair’s knees, or the ground, but I raise my eyes and look at him full-on.
King Altair holds his halo in his hands, a strange humming sound emanating from it, growing louder as he moves the ring of light toward me. I watch as it expands. He loops it over my head, where the bright firelight hums around my neck. My immediate reaction is to tear it off, to pull that heat away from my flesh, but Draven flinches so hard when my hand rises that I stop, fighting the instinct. A strand of white hair brushes the halo engulfing my collar like a ring blade, parting it into twosnowy filaments that float to my feet, having danced too close to the edge. It takes everything not to show my fear. My eyes swivel to my father for assurance, but he’s frozen.
