Page 14 of The Ballad of the Vampire Prince

I like that meetings in Windhaven follow less protocol than the rigid rules of the capital, but there’s one thing that bothers me.

There are no chairs at the table.

“We have received good tidings from Lady Tierra,” Lord Wesley announces in his deep, rich voice. “The Hlaryan elves at the Anastarros temple have successfully healed Commissioner Eamon. He is expected to make a full recovery.”

No one says anything.

Eamon is not very popular in public and even less so in court. His life was in peril when Svenn buried his hand in the messenger’s chest. I feel a tinge of guilt because the commissioner was just following his master’s orders. I mutter a silent prayer to the seventy-seven gods, thanking them for the good news.

The door swings open, bringing an air of chill with it. A wave of unease swells in my chest in the presence of the noble whoenters the room. He is tall, lean built, with striking blonde hair. I know instantly that this handsome male has to be the Aeonian’s new messenger, Lord Sylas Duvall.

He half glances at me before taking his place on the other end of the long table, his movements are slow and unhurried. Whatever warmth that was once there in those piercing blue eyes is now replaced with something predatory.

“Shall we begin the session?” Lord Duvall asks with a smile. He looks at me like I’m a fragile glass cup he wants to shatter.

No.

The Aeonians will not break me. They will not destroy me.

The council proceeds with their endless talk of war. It feels like the air itself is choking me when the delegation from Vorathil suggests on marching to Tavan next week.

“It’s meaningless. The place was abandoned by the orcs and the fae for a reason,” Lady Eilidh rebukes the proposal, speaking on behalf of Stormhaven and her father. “The land is not fertile nor strategic. It’s just a hiding site for bandits and criminals now, just like Celestria and Ashenmoor.”

Most of the emissaries agree with her. This is good progression in the council. The Aldarelfs are all reluctant to go to war. I run a finger over the marking tattooed on my wrist.

Kill the Fae King.

The moment my uncle saw the Arawynn agreement between me and Svenn, he stops pushing for a great war with Avalon. Rainer only desired revenge for Aerin’s death. Now he simply retreats into his solitude until the time come for the vampire to fulfill his end of the bargain. It’s comforting that I don’t have to work against my uncle anymore in the council meetings, but I miss his guidance.

“The next on our agenda is the matter of the Maiden of Arawynn,” Lord Tulane of Aetherglen says, flipping the papers in his hand. “We have all heard of the ridiculous ransom.”

Two thousand chests of gold and silver.

I ignore the laughter in the room.

Breathe. One at a time.

It’s so odd… The Orc tribes of Myrkheim lead a simple life. They barter and trade with the fae and dwarves. Why do these outlaws need such a large amount of wealth? Silver and gold can only mean that the bandits need to buy something that is Elven made.

“Why was the maiden’s procession en route to Myrkheim instead of coming home straight to the capital after she visited the Demon Lord?“ Wesley asks, his brows pinching with confusion.

“Because we ask her to,” Duvall says easily. “She failed to bind the Demon Lord with the Arawynn bond. The least she can do is secure an alliance with the Orc King.”

“The King of Myrkheim, Mavren has been married and mated for years,” General Raleich muses. The warlord with salt and pepper hair is dressed in full body armor, like he is going to battle the next hour or so.

“We offered him to take the Maiden of Arawynn as his second wife or a concubine.” The Aeonians’ cruel decree filters through Duvall’s mouth. “Of course, the maiden failed that as well.”

My eyes begin to burn with the threat of tears. I meet his gaze from across the room.

Duvall surveys my reaction coldly, his eyes as sharp as knives. Rainer taught me to never show any weakness in front of the enemy. I bite my inner cheeks to keep myself from saying things I’ll regret later.

“Is the maiden even alive?” Lord Nemarion asks, another western frontier warlord in full body golden armor. His sun-kissed complexion and heavy muscles were earned from the harsh training in Kvatosh temple in Wivencrest. “We didn’t pay her ransom to the bandits.”

My heart shatters into a thousand tiny shards. Völundr would have willingly settled that sum had the Aeonians told us what was requested.

“She’s alive.”

I look at the owner of that voice, Caladrim of Oakenveil. His face is stern, full of sharp angles and planes, as he places a box on the table. “It appears that the Fae King paid the insurgents handsomely with their precious Fae Wine.”

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