And there he is—cutting through the throng in flowing robes trimmed with fur, long white beard gathered with a blue ribbon. He needs no crown. There’s an innate regality in his posture that I’ve tried to mimic for years.
I’ve never mastered it. Perhaps, I never will.
Father isn’t looking at me, though.
His icy gaze is frozen on Zev as he stalks toward the platform.
But my husband can’t be bothered to look at him.
His one open eye is riveted to me.
Father reaches the platform, long robes trailing behind him.
My lungs hold my breath captive. Zev is still watching me, hands clenched, knuckles white. Father follows his gaze—he could never stand to be ignored. His cold eyes land on me. For a second, I think—I hope—they might soften at seeing his only child after months.
But they don’t. The ice in his eyes doesn’t melt. His gaze doesn’t linger for even a breath. I may as well have been part of the scenery. He looksthroughme, as he so often has.
He turns back to Zev.
Crack.
Father backhands him.
The loud slap shears through my heart, and I lose another piece of it.
Zev’s face twists to the side, a stark white mark blooming before it flares red and melds into the patchwork of his other bruises. There’s a shallow rasp in his breath as he says, “Hello, father-in-law.”
Father sneers at him, hand clamping around Zev’s jaw. “You will die in this camp, Arbinji filth. I swear it by the Tides.”
A broken excuse for a laugh bubbles from Zev’s chapped lips. “Lord over me later, Tormik. I’m not going anywhere. But at leastpretendto be a good father and see your daughter first.”
All eyes swing to me.
My face burns.
Father grits his teeth before slapping Zev again. I stifle a gasp, biting my tongue until I taste copper. Vy’s gaze burns the side of my face, but I don’t dare move.
Father whirls, striding away. He doesn’t pay me a second glance.
I’m supposed to follow him. My legs obey, but my eyes refuse to listen.
They find Zev. He isn’t looking at me anymore, though. He stares at the ground, shoulders shuddering with labored breaths. Worry floods the chambers of my heart, drowning me even after I can’t see him anymore.
In Sorka’s tent, Father’s already seated, maps unfurled on the table before him. Sorka stands at attention behind him, jaw set and concern lighting his gaze as he assesses me. I fold myselfinto the rickety chair across from Father, and he finally,finallydeigns to look at me.
“Mayah,” he says softly. His gaze drops to my mother’s necklace, and his lips turn down at the corners. “You are … well?”
That’s a strange way to ask if I’m all right after months of sleeping in his enemy’s bed while risking my life to organize a coup.
“I am. All things considered.” I can’t help the sharp bite that creeps into my voice, but Father doesn’t notice. Or he pretends not to.
“Did you send search parties? After the Rebellion attacked the carriages?” My hands clench into fists in my lap.
“No. Our scouts found your tracks. They surmised that you were heading toward Arbinj. I knew you could handle yourself.”
“What if he had hurt me?”
“Did he?”
