Page 98 of Forged in Cursed Flames (Crown and Crest 2)

Thank goodness she doesn’t have her bow.

Clover glances at me as if reading my mind, flashing me a dark look. “I’ll behave,” she whispers.

I give her a subtle smile and then release her, but it’s already too late. Camellia’s eyes stray to my hand, and displeasure darkens her features.

My gaze moves to the noblewomen standing near the princess like common maids. All seem healthy and whole…and quite nervous to see Clover. The ladies-in-waiting look at their feet, acting particularly guilty.

Four scowling elven men stand near them—the guards Augmirian sent into Ferradelle with the wedding invitation.

They watch me, assessing just as I assess them.

“Your Highness,” says the man who can be no other than Duke Augmirian. “What an unexpected surprise. We didn’t plan on entertaining you and your father for another few days at least.”

He wears a crown like a faux king, tucked into his brown, curling hair. His clothing is well-tailored, but an apparent infatuation with gold makes it difficult to spare much attention for the fine fabric.

A heavy ruby pendant hangs from a thick chain at his neck, and rings grace most of his fingers. His belt, too, is constructed of golden links that gird his waist.

He’s not a large man, but rather slender, with delicate features. It seems a miracle he can walk under the weight of his adornments.

“You know me,” Lawrence answers dryly. “I love a good party. And how could I twiddle my thumbs at home when my lovely sister is at the heart of the celebration?”

“I don’t really know you, do I?” Augmirian answers. “As far as I’m aware, you’ve never deemed it necessary to take a trip to the Ferradelle swamps.”

Lawrence smiles. “I’ve only been waiting for an invitation. Imagine my pleasure as soon as I received one.”

Our audience watches eagerly, their eyes going between the duke and prince as though they’re spectating children kicking a leather ball in a field.

“Your Highness,” Lady Ellaine says, stepping forward. “Please allow me to introduce you to my nephew, Augmirian.”

“Duke,” Augmirian says stiffly, coming round the table and striding down the steps.

Lady Ellaine gives him an indulgent smile that’s little better than a polite slap across the knuckles. It’s obvious there is little love between the woman and her brother’s legitimate son.

As Augmirian joins us, one thing becomes clear—the rumors about his height are true. The duke is short for a High Vale, not even as tall as Bartholomew, though the gossip about his large ears has been grossly over-exaggerated.

But to be callously objective, Augmirian is not a handsome man. He’s certainly not someone who would turn Camellia’s head.

And yet, the princess lounges in her seat at Augmirian’s table, looking as if she has chosen to be there. But her leisurely posture is at odds with the predatory smile she has focused on me. If it is the duke she wants, why is she looking at me like that?

Augmirian extends his hand to Lawrence. “No matter the reason for your visit, we’re so grateful the great Phoenix Prince came to visit our lowly swamps.”

Lawrence accepts the gesture, giving the duke’s hand a firm shake. The two size each other up, neither impressed. After several moments, they pull apart, both wearing distaste like banners.

“And who are the rest of you?” Augmirian demands, wiping his hand on his tunic as he steps away. He pauses before me, and then he looks down at my sword, which Audra so graciously returned. To Lawrence, he pointedly says, “You brought a soldier? Do you insult my hospitality so openly?”

“Henrik is a dear friend,” Lawrence lies, pretending to be hurt by the accusation. “Though he is a part of my military, there is no reason for his presence to cause animosity between us, especially not on such a joyous occasion.”

Augmirian looks at Clover and Bartholomew, frowning, and then he stops in front of Pranmore. “You travel with a Woodmore as well?”

Pranmore bows, careful not to smack the duke in the face with his antlers. “My name is Pranmore Erming, and I am from Dulane. I am a healer, Your Grace.”

The duke grunts, dismissing him. To an attendant, he says, “Make room at my table.”

This sets off a flurry of action as noble elves are displaced and new settings are added. Camellia takes one last sip of her wine before she leaves the table to join us.

She moves like a seductress, subtly, but with purpose, swaying her hips to show off her curves. Many High Vale men watch her just as the human men do at home, and it’s obvious she relishes the attention.

How have I never noticed her wicked satisfaction before? Have I ever truly spared Camellia more than a cursory glance?

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