Instead, I froze. My control felt thin, brittle. Trusting my voice or my body would lead to disaster.
“Really, the production of my milk goats hardly deserves such a dour expression.”
His taunt swept past me, faint as a breeze against stone. My eyes dropped to the worn floorboards, though my thoughts turned inward, unspooling the chaos I made of my life. There was no salvaging it. The only path left led forward into a pit of my own making.
Forgiveness from her was a dream. I could only hope for absolution from the gods—and that my people never uncovered the truth.
There would be nothing more between us. No stolen moments. No hushed confessions on shadowed balconies. I ended it, told her I couldn’t give her anything else.
What arrogance made me think she wouldn’t want more?
I did. The longing gnawed at me. If it consumed me like this, how much worse must it burn for her? I fed her fire with secret kisses and touches, stringing her along for nothing more than my selfish desires.
Now she would despise me. Between her disdain and Tallon’s wrath, the palace might as well become a battlefield.
Tallon. Gods, if he found out.
A sharp pang struck my chest. He opposed the alliance from the beginning, scorning Draconia and my plans for peace. Suspicion burned behind his narrowed gaze, his mind churning with doubt.
He’d accused me outright of bedding her, though he had no proof.
Clay and Gayle had their suspicions, but only Greaves saw the truth. The Sol dance—a tradition meant to symbolize unity—had been nothing more than an innocent cultural exchange. Or so I tried to tell myself.
The signs were obvious. Too obvious. Even Darius noticed something amiss. Tallon’s accusations lingered, waiting for the slightest spark to ignite into fury.
Greaves remained loyal, but all it would take was one word from Nienna, intentional or not.
Frustration surged, hot and unwieldy. A guttural groan escaped as I shoved my hands into my hair, yanking at the roots in an attempt to drown out my spiraling thoughts.
“Wigs!” Clay exclaimed, his voice bright with sudden inspiration. He snapped his fingers. “The Kuh’lir’s hair—it’s perfect! The way you’re pulling yours out, you could be the first customer! Start a new trend. Help a friend out.”
“Stop.” My tone dropped to a low warning.
“Is that what she said?”
My control shattered. “No more!” I lurched to my feet, fury uncoiling like a serpent. “You and your meddling have done enough damage. When I tell you to stop, I expect you to heed your king’s command and close your withering mouth!”
The words flew out before I could pull them back. My anger spilled over, reckless and misdirected. It wasn’t Clay who deserved my wrath. It was me.
He leaned in his chair, his expression unreadable. When he set his quill down with deliberate care, he folded his hands over his knee.
Silence stretched between us like a taut string before he spoke. “Apologies, Your Majesty. I meant no insult.”
Liar.
The stiffness in Clay’s apology stoked the fire already raging inside me. His lie mirrored my own. I lived as a fraud—pretending to be a noble king while slipping through shadows to meet Nienna. Feigning fatherly concern while my actions desecrated the honor of my son’s betrothed.
I pivoted, teeth bared in a snarl—and locked eyes with Greaves. His glare struck with the force of a slap.
A growl escaped as I stormed past him. “Yes, I know. Such a disappointment.”
“Kallias–”
Clay’s protest was cut short by a bellow of a horn. The deep, mournful note swept over the mountainside, reverberating through stone and marrow. We froze, the breath stolen from the room.
Dread crept in, cold as a knife pressed to the skin. The echoes lingered, each one promising death.
Elohios.
