Fyrn dipped into a quick curtsy, then tugged me aside. “Come along,” she whispered.
She guided me with a firm hand, but I couldn’t escape the press of Kallias’ gaze until I turned away, forcing myself to focus on each step.
“I’m so sorry,” she murmured as we reached the front row. “I didn’t realize you’d head straight here!”
Embarrassment shifted to frustration. As a princess, I expected her by my side, guiding me when the time came. Instead, I entered an empty arena and glimpsed a man’s bare chest—an image now seared into my mind.
I blinked, but Kallias’ physique refused to fade. Each flex and ripple just as clear as before. I forced my attention onto Tallon, determined to banish the memory. Fyrn wasn’t to blame, and I had no right to dump my guilt on her.
The prince strolled across the sand toward Greaves, his steps slow and deliberate. The guard tracked him with a steady gaze, but remained still, a silent sentinel whose loyalty lay with the king alone—not a mere servant to be summoned.
Clad in his customary black from collar to boot, my betrothed moved toward the arena’s shaded half, sparing himself the worst of the sun’s heat. Yet, if Kallias maneuvered him into the sunlight, he’d soon regret his choice of attire. As he shrugged off his overcoat, I found myself comparing the two men. They were as different as night and day: Tallon, all dark hair and sharp angles, lean and wiry, with narrowed green eyes that missed nothing; Kallias, silver-threaded and powerful, his frame broad and steady, every inch of him a testament to hard-won strength.
Act like an heir, or I’ll treat you as the bastard you are.
Fyrn chattered on about an upcoming social she was organizing, her voice a cheerful hum. My gaze drifted past her, drawn to the men, and the unspoken tension between them. I wondered how much legitimacy ran through their private words.
The king never showed his hand, always controlled and precise. Even in moments of anger, he kept his temper leashed, like a tiger restrained by a length of chain. He served a god of truth, his loyalty bound to honesty. Did he know of Tallon’s questionable lineage? Had he guessed? Surely, if he knew for certain, he would have ensured another heir by now. Perhaps he harbored doubts—or maybe, as Scythe suggested, it was merely a slip of phrasing.
But Kallias didn’t slip.
“I would be delighted for you to attend.”
Fyrn’s words jolted me back, just as Tallon stalked toward the weapon rack. He selected a sword, the cold gleam of metal catching the light.
“Yes, I’d love to,” I replied, hoping to sound collected despite my wandering mind. “When was it again?”
“You didn’t hear a word I said, did you?” she teased, arching a brow.
Fyrn cast me a sly grin and tilted her head toward the arena. “Quite the distraction, isn’t he?”
Oh, sea beneath—she caught me staring. The ground felt unsteady beneath me. “I assure you, I wasn’t–”
“Oh, Princess,” she interrupted, her smile widening. “He’s your betrothed. If anyone’s allowed to appraise the goods, it’s you.”
Relief flooded over me, and I forced a nervous grin, pretending that, yes, Tallon was indeed the object of my interest. “My apologies. When is your gathering?”
“Tomorrow, after the council meeting,” she replied. “The Gad family will be there—they’re quite influential along the border and share your taste for art.” Her tone held a gentle nudge, urging me to seize the opportunity for connection.
Still, if Kallias—no, Tallon—was to spar after the gathering, my attention would rather lie here, in the heart of the arena.
Sacrifices would have to be made.
“Send for me, and I’ll be there.”
The prince now strode up to his father, shoulders squared. Tension coiled between them, sharp words barely audible, and Kallias shook his head, his jaw set like stone.
“Where are the others?” I whispered, scanning the barren room once more. Dust clung to the empty seats, the silence thick and oppressive.
“The king disbanded the fighting games after he returned from the war,” she said. “Queen Eldeiade loved them. She scheduled one every time he visited, but he never attended.”
“Did she not welcome him home?” I asked, my shock evident.
Surely, the absence of affection didn’t mean she would ignore him so thoroughly. The notion that she would dismiss his visits in favor of something he despised troubled me. If I were married to a king like Kallias, I would be by his side every moment he returned from the battlefield.
“I only visited with my parents then,” Fyrn continued, her voice dropping lower as she leaned closer, her curls brushing my shoulder. “But she accused him of treating her like a womb, nothing more. So, she staged the games to keep him at bay.”
My lips dipped in a frown, thoughts tumbling over themselves as my gaze returned to the arena. The men stood ready, locked in tense fighting stances. I’d witnessed the Dragon Riders spar enough to recognize Kallias as the superior swordsman.
