“By my guards.”
Valdric’s hand twitched. I’d not seen him this unsettled in some time. Since it was customary for the king’s heirs to govern our own halls, there was little my father could say without breaching tradition.
His quick nod of approval, though expected, was clearly not welcome by Valdric.
Without another word, I bowed to my king and spun from them both, taking deep strides to move quickly out of the throne room. Taking a left at the arched corridor just beyond the throne room, I passed the towering banners of Gyoria, the echo of my boots sharp against the polished stone. The weight of the conversation clung to me, but I didn’t slow. My chambers lay just beyond the eastern wing, and her modest, but guarded one had been placed close by under my orders.
Guards straightened as I approached. I offered only a curt nod, my focus fixed on the door just ahead. Rapping on the heavy iron-cladded door, I was surprised how quickly it opened.
Alive for centuries, the beauty of one Aetherian woman—my enemy—should not have the ability to stop me short, especially when I’d seen her not long ago.
But it did.
Always had.
Elegant and graceful, Lyra’s long silver hair flowed behind her as if the wind she commanded had just blown through it. Piercing, pale-blue eyes waited for me to speak.
Dressed as she’d been earlier, Lyra wore a flowing tunic of deep midnight blue belted at the waist with silver cord, the fabric catching the firelight like moonlight on water.
“May I enter?”
It was a formality as I’d planned to do so no matter her response. I wanted answers, and would have them.
She stepped aside.
If she were not Aetherian, I’d have asked about her travels. Her comfort. If she’d enjoy the meal that had been brought to her. But her family had campaigned to have my father removed from his position. Her king’s actions had destabilized Elydor, killed my mother, and taken my brother from me. So instead, I asked the only question that mattered.
“Why are you here? And why is my father so intent on speaking with you?”
Instead of responding, Lyra raised her chin stubbornly.
Feigning a calm I did not feel, I glanced around her chamber. Though modest by royal standards, it was warm and well-appointed. A carved stone hearth crackled softly, casting a golden glow across the woven tapestries lining the walls. A narrow writing desk stood near the window beside a small table set for two. The bed, draped in deep green and silver linens, was simple but inviting. It was the kind of room chosen with quiet intention… close to mine, yet private enough to avoid suspicion.
“Lyra,” I warned.
“We have much to discuss.”
“Aye, we do,” I agreed.
She looked at me as I did her. With suspicion. A measure of trepidation. And perhaps a hint of longing.
“I expect you sent a copious amount of honeymead and an extra mug for this purpose?” she asked.
A quick glance at the table confirmed her words. Silently thanking my men, I neither confirmed nor denied her words.
To a Gyorian, there was no worse offense than a lie. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for Aetherians, who were as slippery with their words as they were with their allegiances.
“If you’re offering, I accept,” I said, striding toward the table. Pouring two ales, I waited for her to join me.
“A comfortable chamber,” she said, sitting. “So close to your own quarters. I assume used for such purposes as this?”
Whether she intended to goad me or not, I couldn’t be certain. But I took her bait gladly.
“This?” I deliberately misunderstood her insinuation. “It’s rare I host an enemy so close to my quarters. More often, ’tis the opposite.”
I sat across from her. The chair, unlike most things in Gyoria, was soft. Meant to cradle and relax. It had been created by my great-grandfather, a leatherworker, and his designs permeated our palace.
“Do you host many… guests?”
