Laurent rose stiffly. “Lord Zuma… what an unexpected surprise.”
Zuma bowed his head, though the gesture dripped with mockery. His tusked grin caught the torchlight. “Don’t patronize me with titles, Your Majesty. Noble blood does not run through my veins. Perhaps that is why my invitation was lost to the wind. For what other reason would Argyle’s lords exclude me and my kind, when treaties of this land are to be decided at your table?”
A ripple of murmurs stirred down the benches. Several nobles shifted uncomfortably, noses wrinkling. King Thalion’slip curled in a sneer, while Eldrik laughed as though their appearance amused him.
“Let the beasts join us, Laurent!” the prince called. “I would see how well they play politics.”
But the table was already full. It drew an awkward pause, Laurent cleared his throat, sitting slowly.
“Bring in another table,” he told the servants.
“No need,” Lord Alder said stiffly. His mouth pursed with distaste as he tossed his napkin aside, glowering at the king. “Seven lift me, are we to dine with animals now?”
At his sharp gesture, Theia and her mother rose at once. She shot Alora an apologetic wince and obediently followed her parents from the table. But as she passed through the doors, Theia spared Lord Zuma one last, curious glance.
Her father shook his head and waved dismissively. “Any more who wish to relinquish their seats? You may do so now.”
A handful of Calveron nobles and human lords stood. Eldrik cackled as they made their way out of the dining room. Anger stewed in Alora’s chest.
She glanced at the Minotaurs, but they made no show of reacting the embarrassing show of prejudice. Zuma’s stoic demeanor remained unruffled. As if he had expected this response, or they had become accustomed to it.
Her father motioned to the servants, who rushed to lay new place settings at the center of the table, away from the remaining lords.
Zuma and his companions strode forward and took their seats.
King Thalion raised his goblet, his smile cold. “How fortunate,” he drawled, “that Argyle keeps its beasts so well-groomed. In that garb, one might almost mistake you for lords. I wonder which wandering nobleman is missing his coat.”
Laughter rippled down the Calveron side of the table. Argyle nobles shifted in their seats with discomfort, but no one spoke up to defend them.
Alora’s nails bit into her palms beneath the tablecloth. The Minotaurs were fae, though the courts never claimed them. They had no ethereal grace, no sculpted beauty. To their kin, they were seen as lesser, to humans they were savages.
The old tales stirred in her mind.
It was said the Minotaurs had once been slaves in Arthal, their large strong bodies useful for labor. Zuma’s ancestors fled and crossed with the first fae to the Land of Urn and helped to establish the Midlands but were soon driven out. Decades ago, Zuma’s father had clashed with Argyle, demanding land of their own. The war was short, brutal, and ended in their defeat. Stripped of claim, they were driven into the far ranges of Karag Dûr, condemned to wander the barren mountains without a true home.
But to Alora, they weren’t beasts. They wanted what everyone one did: a place to call home.
Perhaps that was why Zuma arrived, daring to place himself among those who would rather erase him.
Eldrik leaned forward, eyes gleaming with cruel delight. “Tell me, beast, do your kind still remember the sound of whips? Or has the taste of bondage dulled with the years?”
Alora’s fingers clenched around her cup of wine. She wanted to throw it in Eldrik’s smug face, to name Zuma’s courage for what it was. But across the table, Caelum caught her eye, his warning glance holding her still.
Her father’s court was no place for truth.
The dining room hushed, tensing for the Minotaur’s reply. The air seemed to hold its breath, waiting.
Zuma reached for the bowl of walnuts, rolling a few in his palm. He crushed them in his fists one by one, the shellscrumbling to dust against the white linen as if they were nothing more than eggshells. His dark eyes caught the candlelight as he looked straight at Eldrik.
“Strange, princeling,” Zuma rumbled. “You speak of whips as if you miss them. Is that how you were raised? On your knees beneath your father’s lash?”
Shocked snickers and titters were quickly smothered behind hands. Alora hid a smile at the sight of Eldrik’s face flushing. He moved to stand. King Thalion gripped his arm, keeping him seated.
But the prince shrugged off his father’s hold and steel rang as he drew his blade. “For that insult I will take your head, beast—and mount it upon my wall.”
CHAPTER 11
Alora
