Page 68 of Essence of the Throne

The cobblestone streets gradually give way to wider, cleaner paths as we enter the noble district. Bastian’s family estate rises before us—all white stone and ornate red and gold architecture, desperately trying to mirror the grandeur of the royal palace. I roll my eyes. My cousin never could resist showing off his wealth.

Two guards stand at attention by the main gates, their postures stiffening as we approach. One of them, a younger man with sandy hair, steps forward with his hand on his sword.

“State your business.”

Before I can speak, Ariella moves past me. “TellLordBastian his cousin is here.” Her voice carries that deadly edge I’ve come to dream of—the one that makes most men’s blood run cold.

Such is that with the sentry she directed her words to. He hesitates, eyes lingering on her silver hair. Recognition flashes across his face, followed quickly by fear. “I…the lord isn’t accepting visitors today.”

The sound of metal scraping leather permeates the tense space, Ariella flawlessly spinning a blade through her fingers while continuing to watch the guard. “My apologies, I must have misheard you.” She takes another step forward, and the man flinches. “Because if you did just reject your prince in the name of some false, slimy lord, who’s a mockery to the fucking throne, you and I will have quite the problem.”

I should intervene, but watching her intimidate Bastian’s men brings me more satisfaction than I care to admit. Establishing her as my guard was a damn great decision.

“My lady, please—” the guard starts, but Ariella throws her fist into his throat, rendering him choking and breathless. She saunters past them both, and neither makes a move to stop her. Smart men.

“Coming?” she calls over her shoulder. The woman is in a mood today, and I love every second of it.

I share an amused look with Gavriel before following, though his expression looks far less entertained, his jaw clenched tight enough I can see the muscle jumping. He’s been on edge since we arrived in Meridian, though he refuses to tell me why, and has refrained from speaking often. All strange behavior; I’ll wait until we’re back in Valoria to address it.

The estate’s main doors swing open before we reach them, revealing a harried-looking steward. “Prince Caspian,” he greets with a hasty bow. “The king hadn’t sent—we weren’t expecting—”

“WHERE IS HE?” Bastian’s voice booms from inside, followed by hurried footsteps. He appears in the doorway, his face deep red and scrunched so hard I’m sure it will remain that way for the rest of his years. “What in the Angel’s name are you doing here? Get the fuck out, Caspian!” Always so dramatic.

“Is that any way to greet family?” I jeer, unable to keep the sickly sweet tone from my voice.

His eyes narrow before shifting to Ariella. Something complicated passes over his features—fear mixed with…desire? My hands clench at my sides as heat fills the space under my skin.

“Get them out,” he snaps at his staff, before physically snapping in their direction. No one moves.

Ariella chuckles and takes one step. I swear the temperature drops several degrees. “Hello, Bastian.” I curse at the carnality in her voice, biting my tongue hard to stop my hands from squeezing the life from my cousin. “We’re here to talk, so invite us in, won’t you?” The way he watches her is nauseating.

Until she allows her blade to catch in the light, and the color drains from his face.

“I don’t invite psycho women into my house.”

“No?” She moves closer, and he steps back. “That’s unfortunate. You see, we traveled all this way just to see you, Bastian. Surely you can make an exception just this once?” Her free hands whips out to grab the collar of his red, button-down shirt. She holds him tight as her blade drags up his abdomen.

Fucking Angel. She’s going to pay for touching him like this.

I swallow down the anger and watch with growing interest as Bastian’s composure crumbles further. His eyes search for help, though not even his staff aid him as they remain back in the foyer.

“Inside,” he manages after a minute, tossing some stiff gesture over his shoulder.

We follow him through marble halls decorated with expensive artwork and tapestries—each piece chosen to display his family’sfortune and status. The whole place reeks of desperate nobility trying to prove their worth.

He leads us to his study, dismissing the staff with a sharp wave. Only once the doors are closed does he turn to face us, though his eyes keep darting to Ariella like he expects her to strike at any moment. If she doesn't, I might.

“What do you want to know?” he asks, shuffling behind his desk as if it might offer some protection.

“I’d like to discuss someone by the name of Ally Dimir.”

His eyes widen. “What about Ally?”

“Everything,” Ariella replies. “Starting with how you knew her.”

Bastian laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Why don’t you ask your friend Isaiah? Oh, wait…”

I move before thinking, but Ariella’s hand on my chest stops me. Her touch burns through the fabric, grounding me.

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