Kael's mouth twitched — his version of laughter. "I've already forgot how to breathe in your presence, I'm sure that will follow as well."
They reached the feasting table just as murmurs rose behind them. Kael released her, pulling the chair out with surprising care, whispering near her ear as she moved to sit.
"Next time you plan to bring the court to its knees, warn me. I'd like to be kneeling first."
Maris's heart fluttered at the image of him before her formed in her mind, she didn't answer him but her smile gave away enough.
Once Kael was seated at her side, a noble woman approached.
“My King,” she purred, swathed in indigo silk with a Veil of crystal threads.
“Might I ask how long your… guest… is to remain unblooded?”
Unblooded. The room stilled slightly.
Maris felt the weight of a hundred gazes pivot to her.
Kael’s face didn’t move. “What concern is it of yours?”
“Only that some among us question,” she said sweetly, “whether your affections are distracting from more urgent matters. Like, oh, say rumors of Calanthean spies in our very halls.”
A low murmur passed through the court.
Kael stood once again, slow and deliberate. His shadows pulsed behind him like a living thing.
“If any wish to question my judgment, they may do so with a blade.”
No one stepped forward.
The lady inclined her head, but her smile remained razor-sharp.
Maris knew court alliances shifted like smoke, and loyalties lasted only as long as they were useful. But it shocked her that clearly no one was safe — not even their king.
Chapter twelve
Spark and Spoils
-Maris-
It had been a month since Maris collapsed in the ring with Kael’s gaze burning through her like a forge. A month since the high gathering. He had not brought up either since. Not in word. Not in tone. And yet, she felt the tension like a blade’s edge against her throat every time he looked at her too long. And the court?
They noticed.
The warriors, especially those loyal to Astrielle made no effort to hide their disdain. Their remarks were sharper now, veiled in civility but soaked in venom.
“Careful not to faint again, little mouse.”
“Does the mortal know which end of the blade is sharp yet?”
Even Valea had grown more silent, her lips thinner, her orders clipped.
The only solace came in stolen moments of quiet routine. Afternoons wandering the outer palace grounds where the pines grew silver and the wind carried whispers of the old gods — were occasionally she was joined by Serya and Leneth, the young wives of Corin and Riven, respectively. Nightbound women, elegant in a way that made Maris feel like unfinished embroidery, but warm in their strange, honest way. Serya was soft-spoken, with cascading chestnut curls and eyes like stormclouds before lightning. She had once been a seamstress, and her fingers still fidgeted with invisible threads when she spoke.Leneth, in contrast, was loud and blunt, a knife with a smile. Her hair was cropped short like a warrior’s, her laughter sharp and unafraid. She brought Maris candied almonds and court gossip, swearing they tasted sweeter with scandal.
They never asked why Kael kept her so close.
But sometimes they looked at her with the kind of pity reserved for creatures caged in gold.
It was after one such walk, when dusk clung low over Nythra, that the bell rang.
