Two carriages ahead, King Silas descends, his posture as rigid as the blade at his side. His expression is unreadable, but the tension in his jaw is unmistakable. A moment later, a second carriage door opens, and Queen Eleanor steps out, a soft, onyx-colored shawl wrapped around her slender frame. Her eyes do not find the king.
Though they stand a couple of feet apart, the distance between them feels colder than the dusk air.
The words from the fight they had play in my mind.
“I gave you plenty of seed with which to bear another heir, and yet here we are. Emptyhanded.”
“Perhaps if you hadn’t been so rough—”
“Don’t you fucking dare!”
My throat tightens, the ache of it sudden and sharp. Eleanor wears grace like a mask, but I’ve seen what’s beneath. The quiet grief, the way she carries it in her eyes. And I’ve heard the king’s voice—clipped, cruel, never softened for her sake. I know what he’s capable of.
A flicker of movement draws my attention to the next carriage as Dante steps down, his silhouette backlit by the lanterns. He rakes a hand through his wind-tossed hair, and my heart stumbles over itself.
Gods, he’s beautiful.
His tunic is travel-worn, the laces at his collar loosened, but still, he looks every bit the prince he’s being presented as. When his eyes lift and find mine, the world dulls around the edges. Just for a moment.
His expression softens, just slightly, and I feel it—low in my chest, in the pit of my stomach—the thing that draws me to him like a tide sweeping me into the shore.
I force myself to look away. There are too many eyes. Too many rules. And I’m afraid there would be no disguising the heat behind our gazes.
A shuffling of feet and mumbled voices break the silence, and the innkeeper and his family step out in a practiced line, their heads bowed, hands folded respectfully. A chorus of greetings rises, warm and full of pride at hosting the crown.
Stablehands hurry forward to tend to the weary horses, bowing their heads respectfully as they take the reins. The innkeeper, a round-bellied man with a kindly face, stands at the entrance, wringing his hands in nervous excitement. His wife, a tall, sharp-eyed woman with flame-red hair, swiftly directs their staff to prepare for our arrival. The weight of our presence is not lost on them.
As we step closer, the innkeeper steps forward, bowing so low, his forehead nearly brushes his knee. “Your Majesty,” he says, voice trembling slightly. “It is our greatest honor to host you and your royal delegation of Hedera. Everything is prepared to your liking.”
King Silas merely nods, stepping past him with a slow and deliberate stride. A pair of swinging iron lanterns creak in the breeze above the entry as the door is pushed open and our party begins to file in. Queen Eleanor follows, moving with quiet grace, her black mourning attire a stark contrast to the inn’s cozy glow.
Dante lingers behind them, his gaze sweeping the area as if assessing every shadow, every movement. Our eyes meet briefly before I turn away,taking in the inn’s surroundings.
The honor of housing a royal entourage is apparent in the meticulous care given to the surroundings. The hearth crackles invitingly within, a contrast to the crisp, night air settling over the village. The scent of roasted meat mingles with pipe smoke and the faint tang of vinegar from the mop water still drying in the corners. The floorboards gleam from recent scrubbing, and though the ceiling beams are low and thick with age, they carry the place’s history like strong shoulders bearing familiar burdens. Not a single cobweb to be found. It is a pleasant enough place to rest, but even here, miles away from Ivystone, there is no true reprieve from the weight of duty that has us all in its clutches.
The innkeeper leads the king and his courtiers toward the wide, winding staircase. As the king and his men pass, the innkeeper gestures with both pride and humility. “Our suites on the uppermost floor overlook the town square. They’re the quietest in the house, if not the most spacious.”
Dante moves with them, shoulders squared in his black coat, the silver fastenings catching the light of the chandeliers. His expression is unreadable, but just before he follows the rest of them up the steps, he glances back at me.
It’s a fleeting look, but his eyes find mine like a touch in the dark, and something in my chest shifts. When Sir Donovan steps in and blocks the view, a muscle feathers in Dante’s jaw.
Nadya nudges me as we linger in the foyer, waiting our turn. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Dante look so uncomfortable. You think he’s going to survive the trip?”
I murmur, “I think he doesn’t have a choice.”
“Mm. It’s tragic the way he’s jumping through loops for the king. I liked him better when he was mysterious and half-brooding.”
“You like anything with a jawline.”
“Speaking of,” she whispers, tilting her chin toward the tavern’s bar as the innkeeper’s wife emerges from the back hallway. Behind her, a tall man with rolled shirtsleeves and sun-warmed skin lifts a crate of bottles and sets it on the counter like it weighs nothing at all. His muscles ripplewith the movement, and when his eyes catch Nadya’s, he grins—slow and deliberate.
Nadya bats her lashes, her hips swaying a touch. “That’s a dangerously pretty man.”
I let out a small laugh, hiding my mouth immediately when I remember I’m supposed to me in mourning and not giggling like I have no care in the world. “You’re going to get me in trouble,” I whisper to Nadya.
“Sorry. I can’t help that I’m observant.”
The innkeeper’s wife gives me a slight curtsey as she approaches. “Your rooms are just up this way, Your Highness. I’m sure it’s not what you’re used to, but the beds are warm and the linens are clean.”
