I angle my head in curiosity. “And why is that?”
She smiles. “Power.”
“Believe it or not,” I huff a laugh, and the table tenses around us, “I’m not interested in that.”
“Well, what is it that you care for then, Briar?” Aerona angles her head. “My son?”
I glance in his direction, and he stiffens, anticipating my response. I let the silence fill the air for a moment, thickening it with tension, before turning my gaze back to Aerona.
“I care about peace. I care about the people of Daramveer, Eddris, Cammon, and Brinkym,” I say, placing my visibly stained hands on the table.
Her eyes shift to my hands. The black veins are ever-present against my sun-kissed skin.
I lean forward. “I care about the people of Andorwood, which means everyone at this table. And yes,” I pause, letting every ounce of the deserved tension build, “I love your son. Deeply.”
A hard breath leaves Silas’s lungs, and his grip around my knee tightens.
Aerona cuts her gaze to Silas before quickly reverting her attention back to me.
“You two would be extremely powerful together,” a soft smile curls her lips. “Dare I say, lethal.”
My brow raises. “It seems, apparently, that it’s only power you care for.”
Larkin clears his throat at my abruptness while Warrick nearly stands. The others seem shocked by the words I’m brave enough to speak, but I remain unfazed and stern.
She grins, glancing down to pick at her nails. “It would be no good for us to be on each other’s bad sides.” She straightens in her chair. “I fear the world may implode.”
I nod. “I believe that is something we both can agree on.”
“I look forward to getting to know you better, Queen,” she says, relaxing back in her chair.
Everyone’s eyes are on us as our conversation falls silent.
Silas’s grip loosens, and I feel his gaze burning into my side. I don’t look at him at first, but focus on Aerona, who has returned to speaking quietly with Fen. Silas and I haven’t said those words yet. Declaring them in front of an audience may have been a mistake.
Against my better judgment, I look at him. It’s as if his presence is pulling me in. Our eyes meet, and his piercing green eyes bore into mine. He slowly blinks, as if still processing everything since arriving, and I open my mouth to speak, but stop as my gaze is pulled to the large double doors.
The room goes cold, and our breaths quickly fill the air with a white fog. The doors we entered open with force, and four women rush in dressed in black silk that doesn’t leave much to the imagination. They carry long gray, silver, and black fabrics behind them that flow from their arms and across the floor like black rivers.
“Tonight’s entertainment,” Fen states, leaning over the table toward me. “An Andorwood tradition.”
I look back at the dancers as they line up before the table, preparing for the music to begin. A dark melody fills the room, signaling them to begin. As quickly as they rushed in, the fabric wraps around them like a second skin, and they begin to move. The fabric moves to the music like their limber bodies, whipping through the air in all directions. The bass builds in my chest like a thundering heartbeat, and the sounds of their footsteps fill the air alongside the melancholy tones.
They part for a moment, moving behind each of our chairs, causing the fabric to brush across our faces at times, and I fight the urge to swat it away.
Oak, Maines, and the others watch in awe as the beautiful women dance in unison around us.
One woman, in her late thirties, keeps her gaze fixed on Silas. Her white hair shines in the dark room like a blinding light. The haunting music moves her body around, but her stare never breaks from him, and my stomach begins to twist with jealousy.
Who is that?
The music intensifies. The blaring bass reverberates through the room, guiding their fluid bodies as each twists and grinds in its own way. With every boom, their bodies change direction, their arms and hands moving in sync to create angular gestures. It’s beautiful, yet I feel my rage surfacing as I watch another woman look at Silas with such an expression.
I take a second to look at him while the others are lost in the dance. Silas looks down, still haunted by whatever lives here, and clearly unaffected by the women around us—as if he doesn’t even see them or feel the stare from the woman so desperate to get his attention.
And that’s when I notice a new shadow rippling behind Silas’s large frame, like a creature of the night.
Malachi Nastronde sits at the head of the table.
