“Get out.” Cold fury coats my voice.
For once, he doesn’t have a sharp retort. Just looks incredulously at our father, face still red.
My father stares at him, eyes hard. “Return to your chambers. Get some rest.”
Faramir’s mouth falls open, then snaps shut. His hands shake violently at his sides as he rises and exits the room.
The door has barely closed when I motion over a servant. “Station four more guards outside my chambers.”
Silence echoes throughout the room, almost tangible in its heavy weight. Each gaze rests on me—some afraid, some resigned, some pitiful.
I rake a hand through my hair, trying to quell the rapid beat of my heart. Outside the windows, dark clouds conceal the sun. I take deep, steadying breaths until the sky clears.
Jeyzar clears his throat. “The combined battalions is a fine idea, sire. Perhaps…” He shifts on his feet, as if reluctant to voice his thought. “Perhaps, you might head to the border and oversee the training?”
A beat of stretched silence, every eye watching me.
“No.”
The remainder of the meeting passes without further incident.
Faramir doesn’t return.
It’s midday when a servant enters and presents me with a letter, sealed with a drop of unadorned green wax.Fatheris scrawled across the front in neat penmanship.
It’s the first time I’ve seen Mayah’s handwriting.
I take the parchment from the servant’s grasp, staring at the letter.
My father watches me closely, his eyes searing the side of my face. “You must read it, Zevayr. Or I will.”
Shame creeps up my spine, but I break the unmarked seal and read my wife’s letter to her father.
I imagine you must be shocked.
You need not worry for my safety.
Zevayr has treated me with kindness and respect.
Please accept my decision.
I haven’t seen the capital yet.
I am safe.
I can’t quite parse my convoluted feelings. Her words about me are formal and polite—not glowing praise or adoration, though I can hardly expect she’d declare her feelings in a letter to her father.
I’d hope she’d tellmefirst.
“It’s fine to send.” My voice is hoarse.
“Are you certain? No plotting, no—”
“I’m certain.”
My father purses his lips but doesn’t object when I tilt a candle over the parchment, letting the dark wax cool into a sigil-less circle.
“Give us the room.” The king’s eyes are fixed on me. With quiet murmurs, the advisers file out.
