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Her eyes fluttered closed at his command, his soft breaths against her skin the only sound in the room apart from the occasional shuffling of Aegonar. The words hide your eyes echoed in her mind. She would need to become a master of concealment if she were to deceive more than a hundred elves. Endreth’s firm hand kept her head nestled against his chest. His other hand maintained a secure grip on her thigh, reinforcing the apparent intimacy of their position.
“And remember,” he added, “every action, every word, every expression matters.”
Aegonar’s voice chimed in. “These are not simple folk, Anthea. They are as observant as they are cunning. Your act must be flawless.”
“What is Vesilethia?” she whispered against Endreth’s chest, needing some form of distraction.
Endreth’s chest rose and fell with a deep breath, as if he was about to answer. But it was Aegonar’s voice that broke the silence. “Vesilethia,” he began, “is one of the most sacred nights in Isluma. It’s the night when Vesirion, our god of life, gets his beloved Laleth, the goddess of night, all to himself. You see, Vesirion, is one of our moons, he rules our skies from late winter through the beginning of summer. But on Vesilethia, both Vesirion and Laleth dominate the night sky, leaving no room for any other celestial.” Endreth’s fingers traced soft patterns on her back as Aegonar spoke. “The people of Isluma,” Aegonar’s voice grew softer, “celebrate this union. It is a night of love, of passion. Young couples often choose this night to consummate their relationships to symbolize the perfect union of Night and Life.”
Anthea’s eyes shot up, her eyes wide. “I don’t know what you expect of me, Endreth. But, I told you. I am not going to sleep with you.” She put her palms against the prince’s chest, pushing herself away from him.
Endreth held strong, his hand pulling her head back to his chest. “Don’t worry. This is not what this is. Tomorrow will only be for show—to protect your identity.”
Anthea held her breath, leaning into him once more.
All for show—this was all for show, she reminded herself.
A moment stretched into an eternity.
Then, Endreth’s cool hand finally released its grip on her. His other hand left her hair, letting her go. “Very well,” he said, a trace of approval creeping into his voice.
Anthea pushed herself off his lap, her knees feeling weak. A subtle tremble in her fingers betrayed her unease. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she locked eyes with Endreth, forcing the words out. “Could I . . . could I have a drink before the party? It might help calm me.”
His arched brows were the only indication of his surprise. A second later, he gave a curt nod. “That can be arranged.”
11
Clad in a dress more revealing than she was comfortable with, Anthea felt a surge of vulnerability as Endreth led her toward the grand double doors guarding the banquet hall of the Crimson castle. She clutched the flowy fabric, a deep blue silk that clung to her figure, against her chest protectively, attempting to prevent the plunging neckline from exposing more than it already did.
The grandeur of the hall made her pause. It was a sprawling expanse of towering pillars and sweeping arches, bathed in the bright silver light of countless floating orbs—it truly looked like the night sky outside. White banners of the Crimson court adorned the high walls, their sigil—an oval, crimson stone entwined in golden vines, had been stitched in every one of them. Large bouquets of blue and white flowers added a beautiful touch to the white stone walls, their sweet scent mingling with the rich aroma of roasted meats wafting from the banquet table. The gentle strains of elven music drifted through the air, played by an ensemble of servants on stringed instruments. It was a soothing melody, but it did nothing to calm the frantic beating of her heart.
Endreth’s tug on the chain attached to her neck brought her back to the reality of her situation—the golden collar bit into her throat as he yanked her forward. Anthea stumbled, desperately attempting to match the elven prince’s long strides, the slits on her dress baring her thighs with each hurried step. The drink had helped a little, had stopped the trembling of her hands. But seeing the crowd, it was too much. How could she do it, deceive them all?
She kept her gaze on the stone floor as she followed Endreth, sneaking glimpses of the elven nobles from beneath her lashes as she passed them by—all were lavishly dressed in hues of blues and silvers and blacks. As it was customary during Vesilethia. Endreth had told her as much when he had given her the deep blue fabric she was currently wearing. Every now and then, the nobles’ attention would shift toward her. Some glanced at her discreetly, their eyes assessing and filled with judgment. Others were more brazen, openly staring at Anthea with a mix of curiosity, amusement, and disdain.
Hide your eyes.
Anthea kept her eyes lowered.
She hadn’t realized she had slowed down her steps—the harsh tug of the chain attached to her neck made her trip. Her eyes widened as she crashed into a broad back clad in midnight blue. Her hands shot up to break her fall while the figure turned around abruptly. But before she hit the stone floor, a large hand grasped her elbow, stopping her fall. The grip was strong but surprisingly gentle.
“Watch your steps!” a deep voice said above her.
Anthea kept her eyes lowered; a slave wouldn’t look up. “I’m sorry, My Lord.” She kept her voice small.
“You can let go of my slave now.” Endreth had stepped closer, his voice was filled with cruel malice. Anthea had never heard him talk like that before.
“Prince Endreth.” The other male let go of her elbow. A warmth lingered.
“Come!”
She followed the Crimson prince, keeping her eyes on the ground. He led her to the grand table. Silver platters filled to the brink with delicacies: roasted meats, exotic looking fruits, roasted vegetables and dishes she couldn’t even begin to identify. Crystal goblets sparkled under the light, filled to the brim with wines of hues of golds and reds.
Endreth tugged her toward a small, plush pillow positioned behind one of the chairs. It was nestled between two large silver vases filled with flowers, their cobalt blue petals contrasting starkly with the white fabric of the pillow.
“Kneel!” The prince attached the end of the chain to one of the stone pillars. “And do not move. Wait here!” Then he turned away, disappearing into the throng of guests.
Stealing glances from beneath her lowered lashes, Anthea scanned through the sea of elven nobility, searching for the midnight blue tunic—there were so many. Which one of them had caught her? She wanted to know. Her palms, slick with sweat, clung to her dress. Her eyes landed on the High King. At least she thought he was the High King—tall and commanding, raven hair cascaded in a sleek waterfall down his back. The golden crown atop his head was a thing of beauty and intimidation, set with large gemstones darker than the deepest night. The High King’s eyes were like obsidian chips, skimming the crowd as he conversed with King Endoral. His movements were fluid and precise, predatory in their grace. She could have sworn shadows trailed in his veins, dark tendrils twisting and curling beneath his skin?—
