Her brow pinches as she nibbles on her bottom lip for a few seconds. When her eyes meet mine again, her shoulders pull back, lips thinning into a straight line.
“Peace is a lovely story we used to tell, but stories are only written by those who survive. I want my people to survive, Wren.”
Chapter 6
Wren
“He was not pleased with us being there,” I whisper, ducking instinctively as we pass an attendant who gives us a suspicious glance on the way out of the kitchens. “That chef looked like he was ready to gut us with a knife.”
“Hewasready,” Ilyria retorts as she offers me a wink. “He just couldn’t catch us.”
We hadn’t meant to sabotage the meal being prepared for tonight. It was supposed to be harmless, having Ilyria help me remember more things about this world…but the bottle she accidentally dumped into the pot from a loose lid turned out to be a heavily concentrated spice blend.
Accident or not, it’s in the stew now and we may have started a small fire in our rush to leave.
We slip into the dining hall that’s full of heatfrom a flame-lit hearth and quickly close the door behind us. Candles flicker in silver sconces, casting long, golden reflections across the glossy obsidian table in front of us. Three places are set, each marked by black linen and polished cutlery. A clear container of red wine glows from the light of the fire in the center.
After exchanging a knowing smirk in the tense silence of wondering if we were followed, laughter peels out of us. It flows through the room, and there’s an unfamiliar lightness in my steps as we head toward the table.
I’m actually…enjoying myself.
I may not know who I am, or if anyone out there is even wondering where I am, but for now, I’ll soak in this moment of joy. In contrast, every moment around the kings earlier had felt so heavy. Every word and movement from me had been heavily watched and read into.
Right now, I can just exist. I can just be Wren–whoever I decide that is for now, until my memories return.
Ilyria kicks off her boots before sitting and leaning back in her high-backed chair. I quietly sit and fold my hands in my lap as a nervousness settles in me.
What will this dinner with the wraith king bring?
“Az is late,” Ilyria says, as if sensing my thoughts. She pours herself a glass of wine before filling asecond and pushing it toward me. “Probably sulking over a ledger or glaring at his council again.”
I glance at the empty seat to my left, where the third place setting waits untouched. I know that the moment he arrives his energy will consume the easy-going nature that Ilyria and I have kindled together.
The thought makes me sad, but for a more complicated reason than that I will miss it. More so, it makes me crestfallen to think that every room he walks into has no joy.
Maybe it’s better to not know who I am or what responsibilities come with a life I don’t remember. If Azyric and I were to trade places and there were no expectations placed so heavily upon his shoulders, who would he be?
Just as I lift the glass to my lips and swallow the sweet liquid, the doors swing open. It feels as if all the air in the room is sucked out, and the hair on my arms stands on end.
Azyric enters as I place my glass down. His button-down shirt is black with the sleeves rolled to the elbows. He doesn’t speak as he approaches the table, but his silver eyes flick briefly to Ilyria as he rounds her to his spot at the head.
“I thought we agreed on a quiet service and modest clothing for Wren,” he says, voice smooth but tired as he lowers himself into the seat beside mine.
My eyes widen in confusion as I look between them and then down at my dress. Ilyria had reassured me that this cut that allowed the top swell of breasts to be shown was a common style for ladies in the court.
“We also probably would have agreed not to set the kitchen on fire,” Ilyria says sweetly, lifting her glass. “And yet, here we are. Life’s full of broken promises.”
I try not to meet his gaze as I feel the weight of it turn to me. I also try not to think about the fact that his shadows curl toward my chair before slipping back.
Attendants emerge with silver trays, blissfully taking his attention off of me as they place three bowls of dark, fragrant stew in front of us. Steam rises in lazy curls, rich with the scent of meat and spiced broth. The moment the bowls touch the table, Ilyria’s eyes flick to mine. There’s no mistaking the scent we’d been consumed in a cloud of.
We both avoid our meal and sip on our wine.
A fuzzy feeling begins to prickle my mind the more I drink. It’s soothing, the way it helps alleviate some of my unease around him.
Azyric picks his spoon up without hesitation and our eyes dart to him. The first bite lands without reaction. On the second bite, he pauses and his jaw tightens. His cheeks turn pink as he clears his throat. Then,very calmly, he sets his spoon down, folds his hands, and looks straight at Ilyria.
“What did you do?”
