Page 36 of A Chill in the Flame
Patience is a virtue, yes. Patience is also a ploy.
Dwyn was not in a hurry.
She’d carried a quill and stack of parchment with her to bed and doodled Sulgrave’s distant mountains as she waited. It took three days, but at long last, she heard a knock at her door.
“Who is it?” Dwyn called in a light, airy voice.
She smiled when Harland identified himself. This was patience’s reward.
A decade of vigilance had taught her what everyone knew: Raascot was ruled by King Ceneth. He bore no heirs, nor had his parents survived. Farehold’s king and queen had given birth to two daughters, Caris and Ophir. More careful reconnaissance had helped her to understand the heirs for who they were, and what she needed to do.
By the time she’d made her way to Aubade, Farehold’s princesses were already fully formed fae well into their adulthood. Caris was the princess of goodness and spring. She was the continent’s purest hope for love and unity, particularly after centuries of persecution of her people within the confines of her kingdom. Fae born with fearsome powers had been hunted nearly to extinction. Had Ceneth not opened his borders to Farehold’s refugees, the southern barbarians would have continued slaughtering anyone deemed unsafe.
Ophir was the continent’s afterthought. While the blood of centuries of monarchs coursed through her veins, little was expected of her. The eldest princess would marry King Ceneth and unite their sovereign kingdoms through a long-anticipated marriage. The youngest princess, on the other hand…
Caris and Ceneth would surely reproduce, multiplying Dwyn’s opportunities, should she wait. Whether she appeared as a kind, benevolent aunt to royal children, or waited until a male heir was procured who could be beholden by her guiles, time was her ally. There were other strategies, of course. There was always something she could do, a friend she could make, a path she could take, should she want.
The Blood Pact had nipped at her heels for decades, though they knew little of how she did what she did, let alone how to achieve their ultimate goals. When new players were revealed on the continent, her timeline was shoved forward with harsh, indelicate hands.
Further boldness came in the form of Berinth. She’d adapted before, and she could do it again. He’d arrived to snatch the noble title of Lord from someone he claimed to be his uncle, though any discerning party would have more than a few questions as to how such a peculiar stranger had tumbled upon this prominent role. He’d tried his hand at shows of opulence. It was a brazen, indelicate strategy.
Dwyn had watched from a distance as the other player in her blood sport attempted to summon an audience with the royal family. He’d thrown lavish parties, hosted dinners, sentinvitations, and made countless attempts to draw the women to him. While Dwyn’s strategy had been one intending to curry gradual favor, Berinth had attempted to lure. While she’d planned to ingratiate herself through trust and self-control, he had laid shameless, sparkling traps.
They were perfect opposites.
His impudence had revealed all of his cards to anyone who knew how to read the game.
The game was power, and the players were ones who knew how to advance.
The knock came again and she sat up with a light, kind smile on her lips for the royal guard as she called for him to enter. He didn’t need to see anything alluring or predatory from her. She withheld the vibrancy she utilized for sailors on the waves. She settled into a patient, somewhat indifferent smile as he entered her rooms. She arched a curious brow.
“Harland, is our princess okay?”
Her use of the possessive pronoun was intentional. She wanted him to know that she considered Ophir her monarch as well, even if it sounded unnatural coming from the foreign lilt of her words.
He was unmoved. “It’s time for honesty. I need to talk to you about what happened on the cliffs.”
Dwyn didn’t need to lie. She wasn’t interested in any too-hasty placating that might bite her further along the line. She hadn’t been left with only the past few days to think about her response but with decades far prior to the events that had brought him to her door.
“I’m ready,” she said, prompting the guard to speak first. She sat with a respectable rigidity to her spine, inclining her attentive, delicate features toward the man. She’d taken to borrowing a few of Ophir’s more modest pieces, covering up during the day to help herself appear somewhat less predatory. It seemed to be having the desired effect on all but the clever guard.
His expression was more than a little disconcerted. He closed the door behind him but did not move any closer to her.
“Dwyn, in your own words: tell me what happened on the cliffs.”
“Yes,” she said with cool certainty. “Princess Ophir conjured a snake.”
His brows lifted. He tripped over his inquiry as he pressed, “And you—you knew she had such abilities.”
This was where a lie was required, though all of the world’s best lies were born from truths. She answered his question with one of her own. “How do you manifest your abilities in Farehold?”
Parallel lines pinched between the guard’s ever-expressive brows. “Excuse me?”
“Your power, Harland. How was it discovered?”
“What does this have to do with what I can or can’t do?”
“Answer the question.”
