“Was there something you needed, Sulon?” I grit out.
He shifts on his feet, mouth opening and closing.
“Out with it,” I snap. The noose around my lungs pulls tighter, and Skies, I just want tosleep.
He produces a wrinkled parchment from his cloak. I snatch it from his hands.
“This just arrived, sire,” he says haltingly, gaze riveted to the ground. “We should have received it days ago, but the courier was delayed. It appears that, uh…”
The coward trails off, but the neatly inked words scream at me.
…alliance between Arbinj and Tundrayn…
…betrothal to Princess Mayah…
…immediate ceasefire.
I rake my hand through my hair, tugging sharply at the strands.
“Fuck.”
Chapter Two
TheArbinjipalacerisesup before me as I dismount from my horse. It’s a fortress of dark stone and looming towers, each topped with a metal spire. As an adolescent, I’d practiced hitting each one with lightning—twenty-seven strikes in sixty-three seconds was my best time. I immediately fainted afterward.
A yawn stretches my mouth as I trudge toward the entrance. I barely slept after receiving the missive about the ceasefire. What a colossal fuck-up. But one thing has plagued me the entire ride: why would my father agree to an alliance? He despises Tundrayn. Has sent me deeper and deeper into their freezing territory each year to take more and more lives.
The massive wooden doors swing open before I reach the top step.
“Sire!” greets a servant dressed in customary brown trousers and a forest-green tunic. His energy signature hums around him in a frantic pulse. “Welcome home. Your father and brother await in the council chambers.” The lean man remains bowed until I grunt in acknowledgement.
Faint signatures pulse around me at various distances, and Skies, I miss the serenity of the ride. I wish I could say it’s good to be home, but Arbinj hasn’t been my home in years.
Not since my father murdered my mother.
Bitterness sparks across my tongue. I swallow it down, as I always have. My boots thud against the polished marble floor as I head toward the council chambers. I’ve scarcely taken three steps when an airy, feminine voice stops me in my tracks.
“Prince Zevayr! You’ve returned!”
My stomach plummets. A slender woman with long, blond curls rushes over, her precariously tall heels clacking on the shiny floor.
Fuck.
What was her name again? Lyra, I think. Third daughter of the middling House Ferapilt. I made the mistake of sharing her bed a few months ago, and she’s since clung to me like a lost puppy. I typically avoid entangling with noblewomen for this very reason—but clearly, I hadn’t been thinking with my head that particular night.
I manage a tight smile and a curt nod, hastening my stride toward the council chambers. Lyra manages to keep pace with me, each furious clack against the marble grating at my nerves.
“Prince Zevayr.” She lowers her voice to a husky whisper, fingers curling around my bicep. “I’ve missed you terribly. I’ve thought about you every day since our … night together.”
My neck prickles.
I grit my teeth. When Mother discovered my secondary ability, she’d kept me ensconced in her chambers for days, telling everyone I was ill, when really, we were practicing concealing my truthwielding. She’d tell me lie after lie after lie until I could refrain from scratching my neck—which was extremely difficult for an eight-year-old who felt like there was a swarm of bees stinging his neck.
In Arbinj, truth- and heartwielders are put to death upon discovery. It’s a gruesome task—one not assigned to me, thankfully. Mother ensured I understood my secondary ability was to be guarded with my life—because it would mean my death if it were revealed.
When I don’t respond, Lyra keeps lying. “I’ve not taken anyone to bed since. I think—I think, we’d be perfect together.”
The prickles sharpen into jabbing needles piercing my neck and shoulders.
