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“Rev,” Tylea says from my side, where she has appeared from thin air like a shadowleech.
“What?”
“Rev is his name. In case you were wondering,” she adds, dipping her lips in the glass of a chilled infusion of berries and herbs. She nods toward the other guard, also missing the golden thread of a general who has his full attention on the same man Rev was observing mere moments ago. “That one is Olaf, and neither of them is worth the trouble.”
“What are you talking about?” I dare another glance at the guard, who has yet to cast his attention elsewhere.
Tylea picks up another glass from a passing servant’s tray, pressing it into my hand and forcing me to look at her instead of the captain. “Rev and Olaf are our father’s personal guards.”
My heart lurches in my chest, and I have to fight the urge to meet those black eyes.
My father can kill a man with a dull knife without spoiling a white shirt. He doesn’t need a bodyguard. Much less two. What he needs are men with a special set of skills. Men who can accomplish any task. Men who will sacrifice everything in order to achieve their goals. The generals awaiting the emperor might be winning battles, but these two men are winning wars.
“How do you know that?” I ask, soothing my thundering heart.
“Everyone knows it.”
“I don’t.”
“If you would spend less time on your little adventures, you might actually learn what happens in the real world.”
I open my mouth and close it back again. There is no point arguing with Tylea. She knows me better than anyone else. Better than I know myself, as she likes to say.
“You don’t want this life. You’ve made it painstakingly clear to me and to everyone else,” Tylea says over the rim of her glass. Her smile is as dazzling as ever as a member of a household lost somewhere deep in the desert passes by our side. “No matter how unfair everything is, to cause trouble today is just not worth it.”
Her words bring the prickle back to my eyes, but I fight it as well as I can and muster a smile. No matter how bright and beaming, it won’t fool Tylea.
“Evanae’s grace, won’t he stop,” she mutters, her gaze trailing over my shoulder.
I can no longer fight the urge and dare to look at the guard protecting the most powerful man in the empire. Our gazes cross with a silent clash of black steel and emerald will. Rev’s smile deepens further, adding a touch of mirth to his eyes. He takes a first step, and the sea of men parts in his path.
It seems no one else is as ignorant as I am.
He stops a few paces short and offers us a deep bow. When he lifts his head, his eyes find mine. “Princess Neylan of the House of Our Sun and Light,” he says, his voice as sharp as the blade on his hip. “It’s a pleasure to see such a refined jewel in the midst of the rabble.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks. I’ve never expected a guard of his rank to have such a way with words. “The pleasure is all mine, Rev of the House…” I hesitate, unsure of his provenance.
“No House, I’m afraid,” he says, gauging my reaction to the absence of his noble birthright. “Just Rev of The Jagged Stand.”
I’m no fool. Now that he’s close, I can see the scars peeking out from under his armor, tugging the skin under his lip, crossing the bridge of his nose. Medals of a silent war he’s waging against Magnar’s personal enemies. And those eyes of black. Cold and calculating.
I simply offer him the most radiant of my smiles, even if it must look false. “It’s an honor to have the attention of a man of such importance, Rev of The Jagged Stand.”
His features soften as he offers me his hand. “Might I ask for a dance?”
I glance around. “No one is dancing.”
“That’s not what I asked,” he says, and that smile of his dips into a full smirk.
From the corner of my eye, I can see Ofara stride toward us, her face set in a grimace of fury and contempt. Before I know what I’m doing, I press the glass into Tylea’s hand. “It seems sometimes trouble finds me,” I mutter low enough that only she can hear me.
Before Ofara can draw any closer, I slide my hand into Rev’s, and she stops in her tracks. Not even the second wife of Our Sun and Light would go against the will of his personal guard.
The calluses on his hand rasp my skin as we get closer to the dais. Rev gives me a twirl, and conversations come to a halt. Only shushed whispers ripple through the Throne Room. It’s only when he’s sure that everyone’s eyes are on us, that Rev wraps his other hand around my waist and takes the first step.
We float through the hall to soft notes from fifes and chords, undetectable a moment ago over the chorus of gossip. Swashes of color swirl before my eyes as Rev twirls me again. Others must have joined us, but I’m too busy keeping up with the intricate steps of the dance, careful not to stumble on the long hem of my kaftan or my own two feet. Rev seems to have no trouble, his posture radiating a calculated calmness I so earnestly crave.
We dance long enough for the musicians to change the rhythm three different times, and for the Throne Room to blur into streaks of gold above carved stone. For a moment, nothing exists except the endless darkness of Rev’s eyes.
