A snarl curled his lip as he kicked the passageway shut, wrestling the latch into place. “I amyours,” he hissed.
Nienna’s sobs softened, but the iron in her stature hadn’t returned. She folded inward, shrinking into herself. The sight gnawed at me, and I bit back the urge to tell Greaves to leave so I could offer her the solace she deserved.
But she didn’t need coddling. She needed to stand, to face this, and I had to lead her through it—not walk beside her like a crutch.
Greaves leveled her with a glare. I felt his anger, though it wasn’t aimed at her. It was the situation—the chaos, the helplessness—that stoked his frustration.
Yet it stoked mine too.
Fury simmered beneath my skin—not at her, but at the night that had stolen her resolve.
Greaves was mine, but right now, so was she. And I wouldn’t fail either of them.
Edith was exactly what Nienna needed, despite the silent rebuke etched into the older woman’s gaze as she dipped into a curtsy. The sharpness in her eyes cut through me. Was it because I refused to let the princess leave my chambers, or because the attack occurred under my roof?
Both were my fault, and her wordless condemnation only deepened my guilt.
I sat in the chair by the hearth, tipping back a mug of kahve. Wine tempted me, but war taught me the folly of drinking while danger prowled nearby.
The flicker of the fire played across the walls as I waited, restless, while Nienna finished changing her clothes behind the closed door of my dressing room. I wouldn’t let her out of my sight until Reem was cleared. Even then, the thought made my stomach tighten.
The queen’s quarters crossed my mind—more secure, more fitting. And only a few steps from my own.
I rubbed my brow, shame burning hot. Across the hall, she might be safe from assassins, but not from me—a man who had already failed to keep his distance.
That temptation would be more than I could bear.
The door to my receiving room creaked open, pulling me from my thoughts. Darius entered, his broad shoulders filling the frame, followed by a massive figure who seemed more stone than flesh. The tattoo curling above his collar marked him as a Thresher, vengeance sworn into his blood.
“You need a Thresher.” His voice was as blunt as his entrance, his gaze sweeping the room with military precision.
I grunted, the mug warming my palm as I took another drink. “I have Greaves.”
The general’s sharp eyes flicked to my body guard, lingering with unspoken skepticism. His sigh echoed with the burden of a battlefield veteran watching a fledgling soldier. “Fallione has gathered the council.”
“I’ll join you shortly.”
He frowned, his jaw tightening. Even at this late hour, with exhaustion shadowing his face, he stood as if carved from the same unyielding stone as his companion.
“Why delay?”
“Princess Nienna will accompany me.”
His reaction was immediate. His brow shot up, disbelief painting his features. “The princess?”
As king, I rarely waited on anyone, much less a princess who might not have the composure to face a council after such a harrowing night.
But I knew her. She was made of dragonfire and sunshine.
“We can take her guards’ accounts,” he argued.
“They’re dead.”
“And those posted in the hall?”
“Enough, Darius.” I stood, my tone brooking no further debate. “I won’t repeat myself. You’ll hear the full report in the council chamber.”
His jaw clenched, and his glare dropped to the floor. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
