Page 79 of The Crown of a Fallen Queen
Thunder quakes the room. Magic hangs thick in the air, heavy and electric. A creeping shadow gathers above our heads, blotting out the already faint light. It feels as though I’m suddenly being held twenty feet under water, caught in the eyes of a storm. The air around me presses down on my legs, my arms, my throat, making it awkward even to breathe.
Every nerve ending begs me to flee and take refuge, and a tickle of warning cramps my gut. Mismatched eyes presses a wave-bladed dagger just below my ribs, the blade angled upright, toward my heart. “Calm down, Seth.”
Alaric faces my fiancé, unbothered to draw his weapon. “Have you known me to be anything but a gracious host? You never wanted for anything when you last visited. I’d even say I shared everything a host could share.”
“As I recall, you turned on me the next morning,” Seth says.
“Well...your woman should take that as an incentive to stay on my good side.”
I meet Seth’s gaze and give a slight nod. “You go. I’ll be okay.”
Seth raises his sword toward Mismatched eyes. “If you touch her?—”
The creepy man holding a blade to my side snickers. “And what could you do? You’re our prisoner.”
Seth’s nostrils flare. “I’ll slice off your balls, Nate. I swear it.”
“That’s enough,” Alaric barks. “Take him away.”
His features twist when he glares at Seth. He hates him much more than I do, most likely for more than just being Freya’s son.
The two brothers and guards leave with Seth, and I narrow my eyes at the warden. It’s bold of him to ask to be left alone with me, especially since he doesn’t know I can’t use my magic. But maybe women are never taken as threats around here.
A three-foot-tall white sprite with leathery wings, pink eyes, and floppy ears inches into the room once we’re alone.
“Wine for me and my guest in the study, Brel.”
“At once, Your Highness,” the sprite answers in a thick accent.
Alaric’s mouth purses at the overly formal address. “I told you to call me warden,” he barks unhappily at his servant, but the female sprite is already gone.
He walks toward the hallway behind the throne, motioning for me to follow, and whistles a high note. The three wolves rise to their feet. They stretch and yawn, pink tongues and gleaming teeth on display, before silently bringing up the rear.
No one thought to search me, so my end-all blade remains tucked safely inside my tunic.
Inside the study at the end of the hall, a cart near the hearth holds a jar of wine and two cups, waiting for us. Alaric pours both drinks with slow, deliberate grace.
The study feels like the back room of a rugged tavern. Wood-paneled walls frame a worn dartboard marked by countless throws. Heavy leather chairs circle a low, battered table. Shelves overflow with dark liquor and scattered trinkets. A faint haze of Storm magic lingers in the air, as if we’re standing inside the belly of a cloud, mixing with the scent of aged wood and spilled ale. Altogether, the room carries a volatile, masculine edge.
Alaric hands over one cup. “Here.”
Now that the others are gone, the bitterness and rage have lifted from his demeanor. His shoulders hunch as he sinks into one of the big leather chairs, and if anything, he looks a bit worn down.
I sniff the wine, making sure nothing’s been slipped into it. It’s classic Brimvale wine. The neighboring province is famous for its magic that clears the skies just long enough each day to ripen those tiny, fragile grapes grown in glass greenhouses. It’s expensive and bitter, like the Storm lords who flaunt it, proving they can command both the nature and wealth of their inhospitable lands.
Alaric clinks our cups. “So, why is the great Devi Eros lowering herself to the likes of a dual-wielding bastard? Is my cousin really that good in bed?” He grumbles the last part without passion before taking a sip.
I shrug. “Politics.”
“That’s interesting.”
“And you’re here because you’re hoping to get into Zepharion without using the sceawere?”
Smart guy.
“Yes.”
“Is that all?” He stares at me with a slight squint, like he’s certain there’s more to it.
