King of Nythra. The far eastern kingdom of Achyron, known to house the darkest of creatures and nightbound alike.
The word rattled around in her skull, but she could not grasp why the eastern king would have anything to do with her.
She wanted to protest, to tell him she belonged to no one, that he had made a mistake. But her tongue was heavy, paralyzed by the iron chill of his grip and the impossible grandeur of the place he had stolen her into.
Around them, the castle pulsed with a terrible, breathtaking beauty. Shadows stretched between black pillars tangled with roses whose thorns gleamed like daggers.
Other figures approached from the castle gates, drifting closer like pale moths drawn to a flame. Their faces were carved from a cruel kind of grace flawless yet cold, their expressions hungry and watchful, eyes shining with a hard, eerie silverlight.
Kael’s hold on her wrist softened, though he did not release her fully. Instead, he drew her half a step closer, so near she could feel the chill coming off his coat’s ornate embroidery.
“You will walk at my side,” he commanded, quiet but implacable.
Maris bristled, clutching a scrap of courage.
“I don’t belong here, my name is Maris, I'm just a seamstress.” she rasped, though her voice shook.
Kael tilted his head, something unreadable passing through his moonlit eyes amusement, perhaps, or a blade’s-edge of pity.
“Perhaps you do not, Maris,” he said softly, as if the words tasted strange in his mouth. “Yet you are here all the same.”
He turned then, guiding her through towering gates of black iron, their arches etched with pale moon phases. The great doors of the castle yawned open, revealing a hall so vast and echoing that her knees nearly gave way.
Moonstone lanterns burned overhead, sending down pale, shifting light that made the banners of deep red silk ripple as if moved by unseen hands. Statues lined the walls, some beautiful, some monstrous, each one watching with sightless eyes that made her skin crawl. Well dressed forms stood whispering in the expanse of the hall.
The smell of rose and pine clung to every surface, mingling with something metallic, that settled at the back of her throat.
Kael paused at the head of the hall, in front of a dais where a blackened throne towered, wrapped in thorn-vines that seemed to breathe in the flickering torchlight.
He released her wrist at last, his amused smirk disappearing. A cold scowl taking its place as he stepped up onto the dias to address the strange, waiting nobles who filled the shadows.
“This is Maris of Eryndor,” he announced, voice carrying a resonant chill. “She is under my ward, and under my protection.”
Maris’s heart skipped, confusion and terror tangling so tightly she thought she might choke.
Under his protection?
A ripple moved through the gathered nobles all heads turned towards her. Their gazes cut through her like knives, unreadable and calculating. One or two of them hissed softly, a sound that reminded her of snakes disturbed from sleep.
Maris took a step back, instinct screaming to run, but her legs refused to obey.
Kael turned toward her again, eyes the color of a winter moon.
“You will be treated with respect,” he said, each syllable like a blade. “No one will harm you while you remain within my walls.”
The words might have sounded kind from another man, but from Kael, they were a decree ironclad, merciless, final.
A woman stepped forward weaving through the crowd of the nobles. Older, with hair the shade of rusted iron braided tight to her scalp, her dark red irises assessed Maris with a look somewhere between curiosity and clinical detachment. Her dress was indigo, fastened with silver clasps in the shape of tiny thorns.
Kael nodded once to her.
“Valea. Prepare her rooms. See to it that she is bathed, fed, and she has proper quarters.”
Valea dipped her chin smoothly, though Maris sensed the power coiled behind every measured motion.
“As you wish, my King.”
Maris’s tongue turned to sand.King. Nightbound. Monster.
