A dark lock fell over Tallon’s brow as he leaned past Nienna to reply. Her sea-blue eyes flashed to mine, the politeness in her smile faltering for a heartbeat. Her gaze all but begged for reprieve, some signal from me that Isawher, understood her isolation. Surrounded by her betrothed and a noblewoman’s kinship, she sat adrift, lost in the press of voices around her.
I knew that feeling all too well.
“Princess Nienna.” Withering son of a jester—what wasI doing?
Her eyes brightened, a spark lighting in that endless blue, and her smile curved higher. “Yes, Your Majesty?”
Beside her, Tallon turned, an intrigued smirk tugging at his mouth.
“Your people sail the seas, do they not?”
“They do, though…” She hesitated, a glimmer of eagerness breaking through her composure. “May I offer a suggestion?”
My lips twitched at the corner as she leaned in, her interest unmistakable. Here she was, the woman trained and raised for this moment—full of ideas, with solutions burning on the tip of her tongue.
“Please do.” I inclined my head, inviting her forward.
She rose with grace, adjusting her gown of deep green—the shade, perhaps unknowingly, adding a sense of belonging to her presence here in Radaan.
With each step toward the map, life seemed to pour into her. A faint blush warmed her cheeks, and she ducked her head as if to hide it before pointing to a scattering of islands across the southern sea.
“The Kulletti,” she began, voice steady with a trace of pride, “are known for their seafaring. Surely you trade with them already—their ships are renowned far beyond these waters.”
Jarion hummed, tapping a finger on the table. “They are iron-bound, built for war. We need vessels for trade.”
“You’ve seen their merchant ships, Sir Jarion.” She softened the correction with a smile that disarmed him, drawing a reluctant nod in agreement.
“They have fishing vessels twice the size of the ship we sailed in on,” she said. “Big enough to catch a whale and haul it back to port.”
“And you’ve seen them?” Tallon strode up behind her. “They’ve never reached our shores?”
His habit of stepping up whenever she spoke wasn’t growth—it was the need to loom over her, to remind her of her place, or so he thought.
“I’ve flown on dragonback, Prince,” she replied, eyes fixed on him with a glint of ice beneath her court-practiced smile. “I’ve seen a great many things you haven’t.”
My lips pressed together as I watched their exchange unfold. Tallon’s expression remained smooth, untroubled, as he shrugged and flicked a strand of hair from his face.
“That island chain is too distant for a mere engineer.” He tossed the words with a sidelong glance at the map, barely sparing it a look. He knew its markings well enough—he wasn’t that negligent—but his dismissal stung with deliberate disrespect.
“Her suggestion has merit.”
At my comment, Tallon’s smirk fell from his face. Betrayal colored his features as his brows lowered and his jaw clenched. I was taking her side, puttinghim in his place in front of the council—which wasn’t new, but was never well received.
“The Kulletti are unlike any people you’ve known,” I continued. “Your engineer will need to study their customs. Prince Tallon shall ensure he has what he needs for this task—as is proper for his role as foreign diplomat.”
My words landed as I intended—another blow to his pride. His shoulders drew back, his black and red overcoat pulled taut, a show of defiance he hardly concealed.
Nienna’s lips parted, as if she had more to offer, but uncertainty flickered over her features. She glanced at me, words held at bay. I leaned in my seat, my gaze trained on Tallon, shuttered yet sharp. His nostrils flared, the bruised look of an unbroken stallion flashing across his face. With a forced smile, he turned on his heel, striding away from the table.
His newest shadow, Flinn’dor, rose and bowed before trailing after him. My eyes narrowed as I watched my son’s retreat, noting the company he had begun to keep. Fyrn, too, cast a glance over her shoulder, her gaze lingering, before shifting back to Nienna.
“The Kulletti it is,” Jarion declared.
Sweat already beaded on my brow as I shrugged out of my overcoat. A servant took it, then arranged my mantle on a stand, stepping aside to blend into the arena’s wall.
I rolled my shoulders, relishing the freedom. The overcoat was stifling, tempering my bulk into a form more suitable for court. But each movement in it was measured, constrained.
The battle hall was a sand-filled pit with an open roof, letting in the harsh midday sun. Once a place of noble entertainment, it stood silent, the two-hundred seats empty. I drew my sword, the rasp of steel cutting through the air.
