He couldn’t afford distraction. He had to show the court that she was his, protected, yes, but also claimed. If the court scented weakness, their loyalty could fracture.
He stepped past Valea without another word, his boots silent on the stone.
Steel yourself, Kael. She is a tool, nothing more. He reminded himself.
Valea’s mouth barely twitched, betraying a flicker of something respect, or perhaps fear.
Kael straightened, every line of him carved to radiate cold command. The King of Nythra, crowned by the gods’ curse, ruler of monsters.
He stepped out into the torchlit corridor, Valea following half a pace behind, their footsteps ringing through the polished halls of Calyrix. Valea peeling off from his side to take her place in preparation to bring Maris.
He could already hear the murmurs of the court gathered beyond the great doors — the sharp notes of laughter, the hush of conspiracy, the shifting of silks and polished armor.
His jaw tightened as the doors opened announcing his entrance, he made his way to the dais the picture of cool indifference.
They will see her. And they will not touch her. No matter the cost.
Upon finding his seat the court bowed before him as he signaled Valea to bring in his ward.
-Maris-
The doors opened so suddenly that Maris flinched. Valea stood beside her, one skeletal hand on her shoulder, guiding her forward with implacable strength.
“Do not show weakness human,” Valea hissed softly, just before pushing her through.
Maris’s slippers sank into a thick carpet the color of dried blood. The hall was even more enormous in the dusk light, grand beyond anything she had ever imagined. Pillars of black marble rose to a ceiling lost in shadow, their surfaces crawling with roses and thorns sculpted in a lifelike snarl.
Lanterns burned with silverlight, casting a glow that made the gathered nobles: fae, vampire, and nightbound alike, look like beautiful nightmares come alive.
The Court of Nythra.
Every eye in the room turned toward her, drinking her in, dissecting her, judging her with a cruelty that made her want to melt into the floor.
Kael sat at the far end, on his throne, as regal as a statue, clad in a high-collared black coat embroidered in moon-silver. His silver eyes met hers, unreadable, unyielding, and something in her chest clenched tight.
She forced herself to walk forward. Each step felt a thousand miles long, echoing in the silence that had fallen.
Someone whispered behind a gloved hand:
“A mortal? In the King’s hall?”
“Has he gone mad?”
After a trek that felt like a millennium she reached the foot of the dais and stopped, bowing awkwardly because she did not know the customs of these . . . people, these monsters.
Kael watched her with that impossible, searing focus, as if every mistake she made would cost them both their lives.
“Rise, Maris of Eryndor.”
His voice rang through the hall, calm, absolute.
Maris lifted her head. Her pale green eyes with their strange silver starbursts caught the silverlight and seemed to glow. She saw how several nobles leaned forward at the sight, hungry curiosity flaring in their eyes.
Kael’s lip curled, a silent warning that they look and do nothing more.
“As I stated last night, you stand under my protection,” he announced, cold and clear.
A murmur of disapproval rippled through the crowd, but no one dared challenge him. Many took a step away from her.
