Page 17 of Lore of the Wicked Wood
“I did what I thought was best.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, then straightened his spine, something he always did whenever he refused to back down from anything. “Everinne is stubborn, but she’s also determined. I have no doubt she’ll be able to find employment decent enough to keep herself afloat. Whether or not she stays in one place for more than a few weeks is another matter entirely.”
Atlas couldn’t imagine Everinne working anywhere. She wasn’t exactly known for her…pleasant disposition. “I can make a few calls on her behalf and?—”
But Veros shook his head. “While I appreciate the gesture, this is something she needs to do on her own.”
Lounging in his chair, Atlas slung one arm over the back. “You’re really throwing her to the wolves this time, aren’t you?”
Veros stared at him, lifting one mirthless brow.
Wolves were the Skye family crest, the crown jewel of the Korvny fae. A lone wolf was emblazoned upon their seal and coat of arms—sleek black fur and slate eyes—and could be found in almost every room of the palace as well as scattered about all of Prava. Its image was woven into uniforms, sewn onto tapestries,carved as figureheads lining every entrance of the palace, and its likeness was mimicked with thousands of mosaic tiles on the floor of the ballroom.
Atlas shifted, tugging on the stiff, formal collar of his dark green shirt. He even had the wolf tattooed upon his flesh. One on his forearm, its jaws open like it was ready to snap through his veins, and another that wrapped around his left shoulder to the center of his chest.
He reached for his glass of water, downing the rest of the contents in an effort to ease his suddenly dry throat. “She’ll hate you for it.”
“No more than she does you,” Veros replied. “If the Prince of Prava can withstand my sister’s hatred for so long, I’m sure I can as well.”
His tone was light, but the words somehow twisted through Atlas like a sharpened blade.
The door to the dining hall swung open and a guard entered, dressed in the svelte black and gold of Korvny fae. He bowed, his movements stiff.
“Your Imperial Highness.” The guard’s gaze slid to Veros, and he inclined his head. “Lord of Time.”
Veros returned the gesture.
The guard puffed out his chest as though he was preparing to make a proclamation. “His Esteemed Imperial Majesty, Kralv Oldrich Skye.”
Atlas silenced a groan, rolling his eyes where rainbows danced and flickered around the chandeliers. His father, the Kralv of Prava, was a pompous asshole. Only he would find it fitting to use his excessive title when entering the same room as his son.
A moment later, his father strolled into the room.
Oldrich had been on the throne for nearly three hundred years, and though fae aged far differently than most and livedan immensely longer life, he’d gained a few faint lines around his eyes. His hair was a dark brown and threaded with strands of gray at the sides, and his beard was trimmed, though longer than Atlas’s mother would’ve liked, were she still alive. He was a boulder of a male, large and intimidating, with a broad chest and meaty fists capable of crushing a windpipe. Dressed in black pants and boots, with a deep gray shirt and a vest stitched in gold, he carried himself like a male who knew the world he ruled bowed to him.
Atlas, however, imagined it had more to do with Oldrich’s magic than any real kind of fortitude. His father’s magic allowed him to sense and prey on someone’s fear, and he used that ability to his advantage by forcing others to bend to his will.
He tried not to recoil at the sight of his father, but he stood from his seat out of habit, not out of respect. Veros followed suit, bowing before the kralv.
“Veros, I hope the prince isn’t wasting too much of your time.” Oldrich gave him a hearty clap on the back and to Veros’s credit, he didn’t even falter.
“Not at all, Your Imperial Majesty.” He clasped his hands behind his back, straightening.
“Good, good,” Oldrich muttered, already disinterested. “You wouldn’t mind giving us a moment? I need to speak with myson.”
Contempt dripped from his voice.
Atlas’s relationship with his father was strained beyond measure. It had been that way since he was born and had only amplified following the death of his mother. Oldrich loathed the fact that he resembled his mother, claiming that because of his looks, Atlas would never be threatening. Coupled with his “sex magic” as his father so aptly described it, Atlas was relegated to a disgrace of an heir. A disappointment. A mistake.
Skepticism lined Veros’s face but he nodded once. “Of course, Your Imperial Majesty.”
It would only be a matter of time before Veros learned what was discussed after he left the room. The walls within the palace whispered, and Oldrich was never known for maintaining a calm demeanor, especially when he wanted something.
And the only time he ever approached Atlas was when he wanted something.
As Veros left the dining hall, Oldrich seated himself at the table. He demanded a servant fill his plate, and once it was placed before him, he ordered everyone to clear out of the room immediately, leaving Atlas alone with his father.
It must be a serious matter indeed if he didn’t want to speak in front of the palace staff. A prickle of unease trekked its way down Atlas’s spine.
“Sit.” Oldrich pointed at him with a knife, then carved into his roasted beef. “Now.”