Page 71 of Thorns of Deceit: The Beast Within

The healer’s hands trembled, nearly upsetting the tray. “I… I understand, Your Grace. Thank you for the warning.”

Skylar slipped out, closing the door behind her with a soft click. She leaned against the wall, eyes shut tight. The full impact of recent events—the attack, Arye’s rescue, her brother’s birth—hit her with staggering force. She felt as if she were standing on the edge of a precipice, about to plunge into an unknown future.

“My lady?” Melody’s voice came softly from beside her. “Are you alright?”

Skylar opened her eyes to find her servant watching her with concern. She managed a weak smile. “I’m fine, Melody. Just tired.”

Melody nodded sympathetically. “It’s been a long night for all of us. Perhaps you should rest? I can have a bath drawn for you.”

The thought of scrubbing away the grime and memories of the past day once more was tempting, but Skylar shook her head. “No, thank you. I need to think. I’ll be in the study if anyone needs me.”

She made her way down the familiar corridors, her footsteps echoing in the quiet of the early morning. The study had always been her sanctuary, a place where she could be herself. Now, as she entered the room, she felt like a stranger in her own skin.

Skylar moved to the large window, gazing out at the estate grounds bathed in the gentle glow of dawn. She could see the countless lavender fields in the distance, their purple hue just beginning to show in the growing light.

Perhaps her mother was right.

Skylar closed her eyes, trying to imagine the life her mother wanted for her. A quiet life in the countryside, far from the palace. Children of her own, perhaps. A man who loved her for who she is.

It wasn’t the future she’d imagined for herself. It wasn’t a future with Arye.

But maybe, just maybe, it could be enough.

30

Skylar stood rigid at Arye’s side, her posture perfect despite the storm of emotions threatening to overwhelm her. The heavy fabric of her formal attire constricted with each breath, the high collar of her jacket chafing against her neck. Her fingers twitched, longing for the familiar weight of her sword—the sword that now hung at Arye’s hip.

So this was it. Her last day.

The slight elevation near the dais afforded Skylar a measure of privacy. The throne room hummed with barely contained energy, countless hushed conversations setting her teeth on edge. She observed the nobles from across Regalclaw jostling for position. Their faces were masks of practiced indifference, yet their eyes darted about, hungry for any morsel of gossip or advantage.

King Lyinell sat upon the ornate golden throne, his face a mask of regal detachment as he listened to the endless parade of petitioners. But Skylar knew better. She caught the calculating gleam in his gaze, the slight twitch of his fingers against the armrest—telltale signs of his growing impatience that she’d learned to recognize over years of court life. His crown glintedin the afternoon light streaming through the stained-glass windows, casting prismatic shadows across his aging features.

Skylar’s gaze drifted to Arye, noting the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers drummed an agitated rhythm against his thigh. As if sensing her scrutiny, he turned slightly, offering her a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. The sight made her heart clench painfully.

“How fares your mother?” Arye’s voice was low, barely audible above the hushed conversations of the court.

Skylar hesitated, weighing her words. “She’s well. Recovering her strength.” She swallowed hard. “And Conley… he grows stronger by the day.”

A muscle twitched in Arye’s cheek. “I see.” His gaze met hers, his tone carefully neutral. “And how long do you intend to stay with them?”

The question hung between them, heavy with unspoken implications. Skylar’s stomach churned. “For a while,” she managed. “I’ll be departing with Noire after today’s audiences conclude.”

Arye’s expression darkened. “Running away so soon?”

Before Skylar could formulate a response, a silky voice purred from her left. “Your Grace.” Lady Emma appeared at her elbow, resplendent in a gown of deep purple that showcased her ample cleavage. The cloying scent of roses wafted from her, so strong it nearly made Skylar’s eyes water. “You look positively dour. Surely the company isn’t that unbearable?”

Skylar forced a polite smile, even as her stomach churned with distaste. “Not at all, Lady Emma. I’m merely focused on the proceedings.”

Lady Emma’s high-pitched laugh grated on Skylar’s nerves. “Oh, come now. I’m certain you can spare a moment for idle chatter. I’ve heard the most fascinating rumors about the Princess’s illness…”

Arye’s voice interjected. “Lady Emma.” His eyes narrowed. “I believe the Duke has made his disinterest in gossip quite clear. Perhaps you’d find more willing ears elsewhere.”

Lady Emma’s lips parted in shock, color rising to her cheeks. She bobbed a hasty curtsy and retreated.

“That wasn’t necessary.”

Arye’s features hardened. “Wasn’t it?” His voice dripped with sarcasm. “Forgive me for not standing idly by while vultures circle.”

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