Page 12 of Thorns of Deceit: The Beast Within

The force of the order hit Skylar like a physical blow. She felt the ancient curse stir within her, compelling her body to obey even as her mind rebelled. Disgust and fury warred within her as she lowered her knee, her muscles moving of their own accord.

Skylar’s knee hit the ground with a dull thud, the impact sending jolts of pain through her already battered body. Shame burned hot in her cheeks, anger roiling in her gut. She hated this, hated the way the King misused the pact for his own amusement.

The memory of her father’s fate flashed through her mind—how the King had sent him on a suicide mission to conquer an entire kingdom single-handedly, testing the limits of his loyalty and his basilisk. Is this what awaited her?

King Lyinell’s laughter filled the tent, cold and mocking. It grated on Skylar’s nerves, each chuckle another twist of the knife in her pride. She kept her gaze fixed on the ground, unable to bear the sight of Arye witnessing her humiliation.

“You see, boy?” the King’s tone dripped with satisfaction. “This is true power. Absolute obedience. I could make him bark like a dog if I wished. Shall we try?”

The words had barely left the King’s mouth when Arye moved. Skylar’s head snapped up, eyes wide. In a blur of motion, Arye tackled his father to the ground. The clash of armor against the packed earth echoed through the tent as Arye pinned his father, sword suddenly at King Lyinell’s throat.

“If you ever,” Arye snarled, his voice dripping with poison, “do that again, you might regret it.”

For a moment, Skylar thought she saw shock flash across the King’s face. Then, his expression hardened.

“Bold move,” King Lyinell said coldly. “But remember, a King must command respect, not just loyalty.” His eyes narrowed. “Release me now.”

Arye cautiously backed away, and the King stood, brushing off his armor with what seemed to Skylar a deliberate casualness. His gaze swept from Arye to her and back again. She shivered under the weight of his calculating stare.

“It was a mistake to let you befriend your subordinates.” His eyes slid to Skylar, still kneeling. “You may rise, Duke Anathemark.”

As the compulsion lifted, Skylar scrambled to her feet. Her entire body shook with rage, humiliation, and a potent cocktail of other emotions she couldn’t begin to untangle.

The King’s posture relaxed slightly, but his vigilant demeanor remained. “Thorncrest has invited us for peace negotiations tomorrow,” he said businesslike. “I expect you toaccompany me, Arye.” With that, he strode out, tension trailing in his wake.

Skylar noticed Arye’s fists clench at his sides, his gaze fixed intently on his father’s retreating form. The sudden absence of the King’s oppressive presence left the air in the tent feeling thin, almost unbreathable. Skylar’s legs trembled, the aftereffects of the compulsion leaving her feeling weak and unsteady.

Arye turned to her, his expression a mix of concern and barely contained rage. “Sky, I’m sorry,” he said, his voice raw. “He won’t do that again, I promise.”

She compelled herself to take a deep breath, trying to quell the trembling in her limbs. “It’s fine,” she managed. The lie tasted bitter. “It’s nothing I’m not used to.”

A dark look passed over Arye’s face, his eyes flashing dangerously. “Would it make you feel better if I offered you his head?” he asked, his tone deadly serious.

Despite everything, Skylar felt a bubble of hysterical laughter rise in her throat. This was Arye—her prince, her friend, the man who would threaten regicide for her sake. She shook her head, fighting to keep her voice steady. “Don’t joke about things like that.”

Silence fell again. Skylar watched as Arye moved to the table, filling the pewter cup with wine. His movements were tense, controlled, betraying the anger still simmering beneath the surface. She turned to leave, her mind reeling from everything that had transpired.

“Sky,” Arye’s tone halted her at the tent flap. She turned back to see him watching her intently, the cup raised to his lips. “In eight days, we return to the capital. You’ll ride at my side during the triumphal procession.”

Skylar raised an eyebrow at his tone, a hint of their usual banter creeping back into her voice. “Is that a command, Your Highness?”

Arye’s lips curled into a grin, his eyes never leaving hers as he took a long drink from the cup. When he lowered it, his voice was softer, almost playful. “No,” he said. “Just a request.”

5

The hairs on Skylar’s neck prickled. That unsettling sensation of being watched had haunted her for days now. She rolled her shoulders, trying to shake off the eerie feeling as she ran a curry comb through Noire’s glossy coat. The familiar rhythm of grooming her warhorse grounded her, offering a brief respite from the chaos swirling through her mind.

Noire nickered softly, leaning into her touch. His warmth seeped through her gloves, a comforting presence against the chill morning air. Skylar breathed in deeply, savoring the earthy scent of horse and hay that permeated the makeshift stables.

“There you go, boy,” she murmured, her voice pitched normally in a way she only allowed when alone with her mount. “Looking handsome as ever. Just like him.”

The memory of the day she got her horse flashed through her mind: her father’s proud smile when he presented it to her, the way she’d fallen in love with how different it looked from Blanche. The young black stallion had tossed his head, proud and defiant, his intelligent eyes reminding her instantly of Arye. The name had slipped out before she could stop it: Noire.

She moved to Blanche, Arye’s white mare, switching to a softer brush. As Skylar ran it along its flank, checking for any signs of injury or discomfort, her mind wandered to Arye. The memory of their last encounter in his tent sent a shiver down her spine that had nothing to do with the cool morning air. The intensity in his expression, the raw emotion in his voice when he’d asked her to never summon the Gryphon again… It stirred something deep within her, a hunger she’d suppressed for so long.

Skylar’s fingers trembled slightly as they combed through Blanche’s mane, the silky strands slipping through her grasp like water. She could almost feel Arye’s presence, his scent lingering on his horse’s coat. For a moment, she allowed herself to imagine his hands on her instead—strong and sure, caressing her with the same tenderness he showed his beloved mount.

“Compose yourself,” she muttered, pressing her forehead against Blanche’s warm neck, trying to banish the traitorous thoughts. The mare’s steady heartbeat thrummed against her skin, a soothing counterpoint to her own racing pulse.

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