CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
LIFE WENT ON.
The party went on.
After the ceremonies, a crowning and pledging of all the noble houses, Fyar had made a speech. He’d stood in his finest clothes, and announced Lord Anders Aykal as the winner of the hunt before moving on to more somber topics. He spoke gravely on the unfortunate circumstances surrounding Porthos’ death. He spoke of who the prince had been to Netyere and her people. Of who he had been to Fyar.
Lies wrapped up and delivered as pretty words.
The lords and ladies of Netyere didn’t know Porthos, he hadn’t made much of an impression compared to his brother, but they honored him nonetheless.
They raised their glasses to the fallen prince and moved on. Porthos’ death a blip in time that would soon be forgotten.
The feast and the music and the drinking kicked off immediately.The hall filling with the sounds of laughter and life.
Killian stayed on the edges of the room, hiding in the shadows, instead of next to Fyar. For the first time in a century, he was unsure of his place there.
Killian had been tense the entire walk to Fyar’s quarters, he’d half expected to be sent away as soon as he was seen, told to go back to his room and stay there like a naughty child. Instead, Fyar had simply turned up his nose, continued to allow his servants to dress him, and pretended Killian wasn’t there.
Loran and a few other guards were present as well. Dantel looked starstruck to be in the king’s quarters, a flush across his cheeks at the skin left on display, his eyes bouncing every which way in an attempt to not linger on the king’s semi-nude form. If Killian were in better spirits, it would have made him laugh.
Loran avoided him altogether. It stung. They had been friends for so long, but Killian understood. The lieutenant was right to stay away from him. He’d lost the trust of his right hand and Killian didn’t know if he would ever get it back.
Killian spotted Loran across the great hall, mingling with the guests when spoken to but otherwise focused and attentive.
The black haired healer’s apprentice—Taiga—sat at a table by the open doors. Alone. A goblet in clutched in both hands, a haunted expression on his face.
Lord Anders Aykal looked stunned as he was clapped on the back and congratulated for his win. He had the most kills aside from Fyar, solo and assisted combined. The young lord had handled himself well, considering the circumstances. He stayed calm and steady, taking control of the scene and organizing the others after Lyra left with Porthos’ body.
There was no sign of Kade. Killian hadn’t caught a glimpse of him all night. Not with the other apprentices during the feast or after, as the real festivities started.
Killian was worried. He was tempted to try and slip away togo and find Kade, but he hadn’t been lying when he said his absence would be noticed.
Fyar’s searching gaze often found him in his little corner, there and away, over and over and over again, as if the king expected him to vanish into thin air in the three seconds he took his eyes off him.
All night, the king had been pretending there was nothing wrong, acting like nothing had happened, like there wasn’t a scheme afoot. Fyar was good at pretending. Too good. His mask fit firmly in place.
Killian hated him for it.
Kade wasn’t talking, and now Fyar. Killian hated the silence of it. He’d rather Fyar scream at him, rage at him, than shut him out like this.
But betrayal was betrayal.
Everyone scrambled to their feet as Fyar drifted around the hall, greeting and making small talk with his guests, thanking them for their support and their condolences.
Then, surprisingly, he joined Killian in his little corner. Fyar leaned close to speak into Killian’s ear, “Do you hate this as much as I do?”
“More.”
“Surely not. Hidden in the shadows over here I’m sure you hear all the juicy gossip.” Fyar bumped their shoulders lightly. “What’ve you heard? Tell me everything.”
It felt too normal. Too easy. Too much like how the formal functions played out, where they would spend the entire night learning what skeletons each lord and lady kept in their closets. To better know our enemy, Fyar had once said.
Lips twitching, Killian obliged and began to regale Fyar withthe bits and pieces he’d picked up despite most of his attention being caught up elsewhere. Fyar listened with bright eyes.
They must have been quite the sight, huddled together, gossiping. No one dared to try and eavesdrop.
“I knew it,” Fyar hissed, interrupting Killian. “I knew Lady Fiora was trying to marry her daughter into a position closer to the capital. She’s been sending out feelers to every house in the surrounding lands. The retainers holding the lands seized from Lyra even received a message.”
