He shrugs, stepping inside with an ease that makes my blood simmer. The door clicks shut behind him. “It’s best if you don’t think, princess. You’re far more pleasant that way.”
Hemoves through the room with an air of nonchalance that only adds to the fury curling in my chest. He sheds his red coat, draping it casually over the back of one of the leather chairs near the chess table. He adjusts his collar, his gaze flicking to me over his shoulder.
It would be impossible not to recognize him. That shock of pale blond hair, those eyes like the clearest, bluest ocean. But I’ve had to adjust to the new mask he wears. Before I was taken, I knew only one face. The gilded mask of flames, a symbol of fury and destruction, worn like a beacon on the battlefield.
Now, he wears something different. A simpler mask, a bronze thing that covers only half his face, curving from his brow to shield his left eye, around his nose, down to his jaw. His mouth is exposed, a cruel reminder of who he is beneath. I assume the scars he hides are confined to that side of his face.
The side he leaves visible is flawless. Fair, smooth skin with just the faintest hint of color in his cheeks. Even after all these months, it's unsettling, as though he’s trying to show me how perfect he once was. How human. I would rather he wore his full gold mask. At least then, he’d look every bit the monster I know him to be.
“You shouldn’t be surprised to see me.” His voice is smooth, almost mocking. “I visit you often, do I not?”
“Far too often, and always uninvited,” I snap back, sharp and cold.
He chuckles, his tone dripping with amusement. “I thought princesses were supposed to have better manners.”
“Maybe you need to do less thinking yourself,” I shoot back.
He smirks, dragging the leather chair with a loud scrape before sinking into it, legs spread wide. He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, eyes narrowing as they lock onto me.
“How have they been treating you?”
“Why do you care?” My words are low, growled with disdain.
“Because you are my prisoner,” he answers, the coolness in his voice matching the coldness in his eyes. “The Ithranor are just providing the cage. I couldn’t exactly take you back to the Sundered Kingdoms, could I? That’d be the first place they’d look for you.” He leans back, his posture arrogant, eyes never leaving mine. “So?”
My jaw clenches, and I force a sarcastic smile. “Oh, it’s beautiful. The view is stunning, and the fresh fruit and vegetables they serve are the most delicious I’ve ever tasted. Butby far, my favorite part is the magical collar around my neck that strangles me if I get anywhere near the balcony.”
He exhales sharply, nostrils flaring, but it’s his eyes that betray him, flicking to the rune carved into the side of my neck.
“If only it covered thatthingthey branded you with,” he says, voice low and bitter. “Wearing it, you spit on every human who ever bled under their rule.”
My chin lifts, the weight of his words striking something hot in my chest. But I don’t flinch.
Instead, I let my gaze drop deliberately to the edge of his sleeve, where a sliver of dark ink curls just beneath the fabric.
“You dare,” I say, voice smooth as glass. “When you wear their mark just the same?”
A low growl vibrates in his chest and he yanks the sleeve down.
“I had no choice,” he grits out. “How else would I travel through Driftspire? I need their winds.”
“I don’t give a damn how you come and go,” I snap, the fire in my throat finally breaking free. “What matters is my freedom. Whether I’m a prisoner of the Ithranor or the Golden Son, I belong to neither of you. I demand you release me.”
He leans forward, his gaze lowering to the marble floor, and then, with a voice like gravel, he says, “Ronin.”
I don’t respond, my silence louder than any words could be. But he knows I heard him, so he speaks again, his voice insistent, as if I haven’t. “I told you to call me Ronin.”
Still, I say nothing.
After the first month, when I was at my lowest and his visits became both more frequent and more unwelcome, he told me his name.
I don’t know why.
The only names that matter are the ones he’s stolen. The names of everyone I’ve lost to his blade.
Arax’s name.
I don’t care what his name is.
