"True. Humans are so fragile. They freeze so easily." Malachar's attention returned to Briar. "This one seems sturdier than most. There's something about her that's quite unique."
The glass in Eliam's hand cracked.
The sound was small but sharp in the sudden silence, and Briar saw the finest line of blood where a shard had cut his palm. Through the warmth, she felt his rage like a physical thing—ice and violence barely leashed. The sight of his blood, dark against his pale skin, made her stomach twist with conflicting impulses. She wanted to go to him, to take his hand and heal the cut. She also wanted to run before that control shattered completely.
He set the broken glass down with deliberate care, and when a servant rushed forward with a cloth, he waved them away. The cut had already healed, but the message remained clear to everyone watching.
The tension ratcheted higher with each exchange. Other diners began finding excuses to leave. Soon only Malachar's inner circle and Eliam's most loyal remained.
"More wine," Eliam commanded, and Briar obeyed.
She'd just reached Malachar when he caught her wrist, not painful, but inescapable.
"Tell me, dear," he said, loud enough for all to hear. "Are you happy in this perpetual green? All this dirt and darkness, closing in, claiming space?"
She thought of the morning's training, of showing nothing they could use. "I am where I belong, my lord."
"Are you?" His thumb stroked her pulse point. "And you chose this belonging?"
"Choice is complicated in the forest," Eliam said softly. "As you well know."
"Indeed." Malachar's grip tightened slightly when Briar attempted to move away. "But belonging can be transferred, can't it? Bargains renegotiated?"
Through the warmth, she felt Eliam's control snap.
"Release her," he said quietly, "or lose the hand."
"Such passion." But Malachar let go, holding up both hands in mock surrender. "I merely wanted to see if the rumors were true. If the great Forest King had finally found something special enough to threaten war over."
Silence fell like a blade.
Eliam rose slowly. "I think we've had enough entertainment for one evening. Malachar, shall we discuss your actual purpose privately?"
It wasn't a suggestion. Courtiers fled with barely concealed relief, leaving only the three of them.
"Now then," Eliam said, and his voice was winter itself. "Let's discuss what you really came here for. Because we both know it wasn't border disputes."
Malachar leaned back in his chair, studying Briar with uncomfortable intensity. "Can't an old friend visit without ulterior motives?"
"We were never friends."
"No. But we could be allies, if you were willing to share certain resources."
"Some things," Eliam said very softly, "are not for sharing."
"Everything's for sharing, at the right price." Malachar rose, straightening his perfect clothes.
The temperature dropped another degree, frost creeping across the windows in delicate spirals.
"Briar," Eliam said without looking at her. "Leave us."
The dismissal stung more than it should have. She'd been the center of their conflict, and now she was being sent away like a child while the adults talked.
She rose on unsteady legs, feeling Malachar's eye track her movement. The silver dress whispered with each step, and she kept her chin high despite the dismissal. As she passed Malachar, he inclined his head mockingly.
"A pleasure, my dear," he murmured. "Perhaps we'll speak again before I leave."
Ice crawled down her spine at the promise in his words, but Eliam's voice cut through.
