Page 65 of Threaded

Well … not truly an attack. She darted her eyes to Drystan’s rich brown gaze, the hint of a smile playing on his lips as he stared down at her.

“You almost missed that block and let me in. Sloppy defense, Mariah.”

She flashed him a joking snarl before shoving her blade against his, pushing him away. Turning with a grin and an eye roll, she walked out of the training circle, resting her dulled sword against a tree before grabbing her canteen and taking a long, deep pull of the cold water. She brushed her heavy, damp braid out of her face and off the back of her neck—it was a rainy morning, a fall storm having moved in from the coast in the early hours before sunrise.

She’d bonded with Drystan the night before, just before that same storm rolled in. And just as she’d expected, it had been the golden threads reaching out to him, weaving the bridge between their souls. This new bond felt like warm, fresh-tilled earth and sharpened steel, and while he may be the youngest of her Armature, he carried himself with an ageless maturity that Mariah had never known she needed.

When she’d sat with him last night at her dining table and explained to him that she knew of how intense the bonding could be, for both of them, she’d also made it clear there was a physical boundary she wouldn’t cross with him. She’d further assured him that none of this had anything to do with him, and everything to do with her.

And, incredibly, he’d complied without so much as a question.

Once the bonding was complete, and they’d sat, bared and bleeding before their Goddess, their shared breath coming out in pants, he’d gently pulled her hand from his chest, placed it by her side, and pulled her to her feet, dressing them both in robes they’d laid out prior. He then proceeded to clean first the wound on her palm, and then the wound on his chest, all the while making comfortable conversation with her as they both settled back down to the earth.

His incredible self-control throughout the entire process had her watching him closely, his responses to her and to the bonding soverydifferent from that of Sebastian and Quentin. She wondered if perhaps there were more to his quiet layers, if perhaps his true preferences lay with someone who looked very different from her. Not that it bothered her, of course—she needed her Armature to be loyal to her, to be willing to lay down their own lives to save hers.

She didn’t, however, need them to crave her.

Actually, a part of her preferred it if they didn’t. It made everything so much more incredibly complicated for her when they did.

After their wounds were cleaned and they were again fully dressed, he’d joined her in bed … but not in the way Sebastian had. Offering her only steadfast comfort and companionship, they hadn’t even touched, instead continuing their quiet conversations until she’d drifted off to sleep.

And this morning, when she’d awoken with him still beside her, she’d forgotten for a moment about the Royals, about Zadione, even about that magic in her soul.

The reprieve had been short, but welcome nonetheless.

“M! Get back over here. Sparring training isn’t done yet.”

A mix of a grin and a grimace touched her face as she was pulled from her thoughts: a grin for the familial nickname Quentin had fallen into calling her far too easily, a grimace for the soreness already setting into her arms and the thought of returning to that sandy ring. She set her canteen against the tree and walked back to her waiting Armature, loosening her stiff shoulders with a light roll. Just as she reached Quentin, about to step down into the pit, a shout and the sound of footsteps sounded down the game path leading to their clearing.

As one, her Armature turned toward the noise, years of practice becoming instinct. A dart of her eyes to the left revealed that even Andrian, his dark clothes similarly damp from the morning rain, had pushed himself from the tree at the edge of the clearing he had been brooding against and joined the ring of warriors that settled into alert stances around her.

They all instantly relaxed, though, as a golden female came bursting from the treeline, dressed uncharacteristically in leggings and a long-sleeved tunic. Ciana doubled over, attempting to catch her breath, her chest heaving in deep pants. Mariah, chuckling to herself softly, shouldered her way around Quentin and jogged to her friend. As she neared, Ciana was able to compose herself enough to lift her head, amber gaze meeting Mariah’s, her face pale and signs of distress evident in her expression.

Mariah’s grin instantly fell as warning bells began to ring in her head.

“Mariah … you’re needed. Back at the palace. Now. Lord Shawth wishes to speak with you.”

* * *

Mariah stood before the white and gold doors of the meeting room, dressed in her usual preferred black leggings and gold sweater. She’d changed quickly after being summoned by Ciana, and her hair was still plaited down her back in a tight braid, a few errant, sweat-damp strands framing her face.

She raised a hand and knocked on the door lightly, her eyes darting to either side to where she was flanked by Drystan and Quentin, their postures rigid. The three of them stood there quietly for a few long heartbeats, none daring to speak, before the double doors swung open to reveal Lord Shawth dressed in the blood-red of his house. His watery blue stare took in her appearance, and Mariah could’ve sworn she saw annoyance flash across his expression before shifting back to his normal slimy coolness.

“Welcome, Your Highness. Thank you for agreeing to join me at such an early hour. I intend to return to my city estate this afternoon and wished to speak with you before I departed.”

Mariah nodded once to the Lord. “Of course, Lord Shawth. I’m happy to speak with you.” The lie was thick as poison on her tongue, but she choked it out, nonetheless. She took a step into the doorway, Drystan and Quentin moving with her. Shawth’s eyes darted to the two warriors, stepping back slightly at their advancement.

“I believe this conversation would be best kept between just our ears, My Lady. I can assure your Armature that you’ll be safe. They may remain just outside the doors if you or they are at all concerned, however.”

Mariah froze, hesitancy sweeping through her. She would rather vacation to the depths of Enfara than step into that conference room without Quentin and Drystan. But then she remembered Ryenne’s words, the queen’s voice tickling the back of her mind: “You are on very thin ice with the Royals. Tread carefully, Mariah. They may have begrudgingly accepted Beauchamp’s death simply because he was old and difficult, and they’ve found a gain in his loss, but that forgiveness may be withdrawn just as easily as it was given. And trust me—as despicable as they can be, ruling without those lords may prove to be an impossible task.”

She could also feel her grandfather’s dagger that she’d strapped down her back, beneath the flowing material of her sweater. Its presence gave her a modicum of confidence, at least.

Mariah turned slowly to face Quentin and Drystan. “Stay here. I’ll be fine.”And if I’m not, you’ll know.For good measure, she tugged gently on each of their bonds, communicating her unspoken order. They glanced at each other, wariness in their eyes, before looking back at her and nodding their heads. Together, they stepped back and took up positions on either side of the double doors. Mariah turned back to the waiting lord, smiling sweetly as she met his sour, smug expression. Shawth took one more step back from the doorway, inviting her in with a wave of his arm.

“Please, after you, My Lady.”

Eyeing him, Mariah stepped through the doors and into the room. They closed softly behind her with aclick, and she spotted another shape move out from behind a pillar against one of the walls.

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