How are we supposed to talk from this far away? It feels almost as uncomfortable as if we were face to face.
“Hello, Lyra,” King Cyrus says gently, dipping his head.
“Good evening, King Cyrus.” I mirror his gesture.
Servers whisk in, pouring water into our chalices, along with blood-red wine. Moments later, they return with multiple plates, colorful with arrays of foods. After they’ve set them down and returned back to their servers’ quarters, I eye the room around us. A few guards are positioned at the walls, eyes set blankly ahead.
“Please. Eat,” King Cyrus says, motioning to the plates.
My hand shakes as I grab for the correct silverware, as Lady Bethany has taught us. I take careful, small bites. Slow chews, as to fill the prickling silence between us. When I glance up from my plate, he doesn’t eat. Hasn’t even touched his food.
“Devin,” he says, glancing up behind me. “You are excused.”
“S-sir?” Devin stutters, clearly caught off guard by the request. “Wouldn’t you prefer I?—”
King Cyrus lifts his chin. A silent demand.
I hear the door open and then close somewhere behind me. I don’t know why, but Devin had provided some sort of comfort in knowing I wasn’t completely alone with King Cyrus. Though guards still line the walls, I can't help but feel completely and utterly stranded.
“Lyra?” King Cyrus calls. “Would you mind coming closer?”
When I shake my head he motions to the guards. They pull out my chair and escort me to the one closest to him. As soon as I take my seat, a swallow rolls down my throat as thick as honey. My heart slams against my chest hard enough that he and anyone else within a five-foot radius might hear it. Competing with the relentless pounding in my head.
I’m overwhelmed.
I don’t drink. Hardly ever. It’s not that I don’t like the taste, but I don’tenjoy the buzz it creates in my mind. Still, I crave it in this situation. Something else to distract me from the fluttering in my gut and all the other sensations and pains warring for my attention.
I grab the wine and take a sip. Then another. Sighing, I set the glass down and begin to eat what’s on the plate in front of me.
Meanwhile, he touches nothing. Only traces a lazy finger around the bottom stem of his wine glass. Watching me from quick little side glances.
“The trials start tomorrow,” he whispers finally.
“Indeed.” I nod, not wanting to make eye contact with him this close. I scan his fingers, looking for the sign of that so-called Blood Ring Aelia had mentioned. But his long fingers are gloved in black leather. His hand is massive, and it strikes me that perhaps he can’t wear the ring because it simply wouldn’t fit.
“How are you feeling about it?” he asks gently.
I swallow, pushing around food on my plate with a fork. Unsure if I fake a confidence I can borrow from Devin. Rather, I answer honestly, “I’m conflicted. I think most of us are. We were told we’ve been hand chosen, and that we should have confidence in ourselves to pass the trials. But not knowing what they are until we face them…not getting any time to prepare beforehand?” I set the fork down to stop my fidgeting, then lean back in my chair. “I think most of us are quite nervous.”
He falls silent. For a moment, I wonder if I’ve said something wrong. Been too honest, rather than exuding gratitude for such an honorable opportunity to prove ourselves worthy of his hand. Perhaps I’ve already shoved my foot in my mouth. Wouldn’t be the first time.
“I-I’m sorry, my King. I shouldn’t have said that?—”
“Just Cyrus will do.” His voice is soft. Empathetic.
Refusing the title of his regency? I snap my gaze to him fully. At those haunting, white eyes set into dark lashes. His snowy white hair swept back in gracious waves from his sleek, shaven face. Every inch of him breathes royalty. The soft, sculpted set of his lips. That perfect slope of his nose. Even down to the authoritative set of his broad shoulders.
An unmistakable power rolls off him in waves, so great it nearly knocks me out of my seat just holding his gaze.
“Your honesty will not offend me, Lyra. In fact, I appreciate it. A man in my position is often met with dishonesty for fear of my reprimanding.”
That’s why he wants me to call him Cyrus? To break the rigid assumption of a dominating king?
He’s already taking me by surprise. The few glimpses I’ve had of him, he’s had a stone-cold façade that made me assume his demeanor was the same.
Perhaps it’s not.
A small smile lifts my cheeks as I tear my gaze out of his, reaching for the wine glass with a shaking hand, but accidentally knocking it over. He moves quickly, blotting out the wine that splashes onto the table as I right the cup.
