“I hear your plea, and grant your forgiveness,” she continued, brushing imaginary dust from her sleeve. “Rise. We are hungry and weary from our travels.”
The Phares straightened, their eyes flickering between the princess—who tossed her golden hair over her shoulder—and me.
The Nienna I knew held my heart in ways I could never express, but Princess Nienna claimed my very soul.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Nienna
The noblewoman’s voice carried through the room, invasive and unwelcome. “Late Queen Eldeiade would have appreciated the roast pig, would she not, Your Majesty?”
My patience frayed beneath her words—the fifth time the dead queen’s name intruded on the evening. Could Takal’phares speak of nothing else? Years had passed since Eldeiade’s death, yet her fixation clung like a shadow, teetering on obsession. A glance toward Kallias confirmed my growing irritation was shared. His jaw tightened, the only crack in his otherwise rigid expression, as stoic as the estate’s carved stone pillars.
Though I had never met Eldeiade, the king’s bitter recounting painted a vivid picture—one that Lady Phares would not care to hear.
“Yes.” He leaned back in his chair, his focus sharp and unwavering as he fixed Takal with a gaze that could cleave iron. He chewed with deliberate precision, his scrutiny impossible to miss.
The animosity between the king and the Phares was palpable. Their history lurked in the shadows of every pointed remark. I longed to ask him about it, but no opportunity would come. Not here. Not in this grand estate where privacy was a myth, and each move was scrutinized under the guise of propriety.
“Doyouenjoy it, Princess?” Takal’s sharp eyes found me, her tone deceptively pleasant.
My spine straightened as I forced my features into a calm, unbothered mask. “It is delicious, thank you.” My voice was steady, but my focus lingered on her face, reading every flicker of expression like a map.
Her lips curved into a polite smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Will you be following in her footsteps, then?”
“When the time comes,” I replied, “I will bear the mantle of Radaan.”
Kallias shifted, the movement subtle yet loaded. His silence pressed against me like a weight. It was improper to discuss a future reign while the current king still lived. The thought churned in my stomach. One day, I would ascend—but only when he was gone. The image of shouldering the mantle alongside Tallon turned the taste in my mouth to ash.
“Ah, so you’ll break tradition,” Bac’phares interjected, his smirk a dagger aimed at the king. “Queen Eldeiade moved away from it, after all.”
My gaze darted toward Kallias despite myself. Custom dictated that the mantle was borne by both ruler and mate—a shared symbol of power and responsibility. My studies made that clear. If Bac meant to rattle me, he would fail.
I wouldn’t shy away from my duty.
I sipped my wine, letting the moment stretch. Careful consideration, not ignorance, would carry me through this exchange. Yet unease coiled deep in my stomach. Kallias remained silent, and I couldn’t help but wonder why.
“I may not choose the same as the late queen,” I said.
Takal leaned back, a scoff escaping her lips like the hiss of a serpent. “So you’ll cast aside precedent? My, my, what changes you have in store for Radaan!” Her condescension was sharp enough to cut.
My jaw tightened. The wrong words had slipped past my guard.
“Tradition states both king and queen wear the mantle,” Kallias broke in. He tipped his wine glass back and drained it in one long pull. Irritation flickered across his face, vanishing as quickly as it appeared, replaced by the icy glare he aimed at Takal. “Radaan would be honored if Princess Nienna chooses to uphold that practice.”
Bac’phares chuckled, his tone dripping with mockery as he swirled his wine. “Curious, though. Why didn’t you press Eldeiade to wear it? Or perhaps you did, and she refused?”
My grip on the fork tightened, the cool metal digging into my palm. Kallias’ neck flushed, a subtle betrayal of the storm brewing beneath his composed exterior. His face remained unreadable, but his eyes burned with barely contained fury. The jab was a calculated blow, one aimed to wound.
If he admitted he hadn’t pushed Eldeiade, they’d question his devotion to tradition. If he confessed she defied him, it would tarnish his authority. The man had him cornered.
“Be careful dredging up the past, Bac’phares,” Kallias said, his tone a blade honed to perfection. “Some things are better left in shadow.” He rose from hisseat, adjusting his tunic with deliberate ease. “Now, come. We have matters of tax to discuss.”
The smirk melted from the man’s face. With a grunt, he shoved back his chair and trudged after Kallias and Greaves as they exited the dining room.
The door clicked shut, and the air shifted. Takal’s gaze turned toward me, fierce and ruthless, her focus a hunter’s fix on cornered prey.
Were I a dragon, my hackles would have risen in warning. Instead, I straightened my back, meeting her challenge with a cool smile. My lips curved in defiance, and I lifted a brow. Let her try.
