A deep, thunderous laugh blows the cigar smoke in our direction, and I use my hand to swat away the aroma of stout tobacco, sweet spices, and leather.
“And she’s a smartass,” he continues, laughing wildly. “Even better.”
“That is for certain,” Silas adds.
A whoosh of light erupts from his palm, illuminating the room with a bright glow. The sconces on the walls ignite, and the candles on the few tables surrounding us flicker. My eyes adjust to the light, focusing my gaze on his face.
He’s older, around my father’s age, and his eyes are as dark as the bottom of the ocean. His hair is white and gray, yet his face remains hard, and his features resemble Warrick’s handsome ones.
“That’s better,” I say, observing his expression.
“I prefer the shadows, Queen, because they’re quiet.” His aged eyes meet mine. “Less sarcasm. The light can be…blinding at times.”
I smile, propping my elbows on the table. “We need to talk.”
Cyrus settles back in his chair as the door creaks open. Without turning around, I see him wave the man inside. The bartender rushes in, carrying three cups filled with brown liquid, and he sets them on the table. The smell of dark ale hits my nose, making my mouth water. It’s been ages since I had a drink, and after today, I agree with Silas. A drink—or three—sounds delicious.
“I’ve closed the bar until your meeting is over, sir,” the man whispers. “You will not be disturbed.”
“No, need Kipp, this won’t take long,” Cyrus replies, putting out his cigar. “Right?”
I meet his gaze, and I smile sarcastically, dipping my chin.
The man bows. “Either way, sir, the entire bar is yours. Take your time.”
As quickly as the barkeep entered the room, he exits, leaving us alone once more. I can tell that Cyrus is a man of power, based on the way people interact with him. Even sitting before the King of Andorwood, he shows no nerves—no hesitation—and oozes confidence. Apparently, Cyrus has been asking Silas to join the rebels for years, and I can’t help but think of what those conversations looked like. I would have paid to be a fly on the wall for those meetings.
Silas stirs in his chair. “I’m assuming you saw the uproar we caused today?”
“I wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” Cyrus says. “Although I didn’t expect Briar to jump in like she did. You were seconds away from losing your mind, Nastronde. That wasn’t a good look.”
“I don’t respond well to threats against someone I love.” Silas adjusts his shirt. “I know you don’t understand what I mean, though.”
“Can you elaborate?” Cyrus furrows his brow. “Or do you want to continue being passive-aggressive?”
I huff a laugh.
“Have you ever loved anyone, Cyrus?” Silas replies. “Other than yourself?”
Cyrus huffs a laugh. “Always bringing up my family matters whenever you can, Silas.”
“Just calling it like I see it.”
“It gets old,” Cyrus responds. “Warrick is grown. He can fight his own battles and choose to speak to me should he see fit.”
“Bullshit,” Silas spits.
“I’m always available.”
“You know that isn’t the truth, Pierce.” Silas goes still, placing both hands on the table. “Available isn’t a word I would ever use in a sentence regarding you.”
I roll my eyes at their bickering.
“What word would you use to describe me, then?” Cyrus’s anger grows.
Silas opens his mouth to speak, and I clear my throat, punching him under the table.
“Are we going to discuss what the true threat is?” I scoff, taking a long drink of my ale. “Or are you two going to throw digs the entire time?”
