Stefanos’s face was all sharp angles and hard planes, more intriguing than handsome. His smile, like everything else in Ellesian culture, had been weaponized. “I thank you, Queen Valkyrja, both for the welcome and the indulgence of my unannounced arrival.” Those clever eyes moved to the black-clad figures, his blink heavy, loaded. “Interesting. I do not recognize the symbols on these uniforms, nor the tattoos. Is this a new guard, Your Majesty, fashioned after one of your ancient-of-the-ancients tribes?”
“No.” She half-turned to Daemon, who’d taken up the position where Einar would have been behind Fodur—fitting. The Aflame had unanimously agreed he was the most powerful among them, so he’d taken the foremost seat on her new High Council. “This is Daemon, primal of the Aflame and highest ranking of my new High Council. And two of my other Aflame High Council members, Elianne and her son, Nikanor. It seems you already know our ambassador from Daryatla, Princess Perla.”
He didn’t so much as look at the princess again. Just moved a few steps forward, gloved hands clasped behind his back, and kept his attention on the trio. “Son, you say—but he looks the elder. Which indicates the agelessness that comes with magical blood, Awakened later in Nikanor than in Elianne, and recentenough that his skin has not yet reclaimed the perfection of youth. Interesting.” A click of his heels, and his whole attention moved to Dae. “Primal could indicate that you are simply the leader, given that you are clearly the most powerful, to have that ranking on the Council. But given that not so much as a whisper of this so-called ‘Aflame’ has made its way to Ellas, I am inclined to think it more than that. That you are like darling Perla’s mother. First of your kind. I assume the name of your clan designates your magic? I would love a demonstration.”
Daemon might as well have been made of obsidian, as much reaction as he gave.
Stefanos turned back to Kyrja, brows lifted. “Does he not speak the common tongue?”
“He does,” Daemon answered, still staring straight ahead. “But he’s been under the mountain a long time and isn’t fluent enough in presumptuous royal demands to know if punching a visiting king in the nose would be a declaration of war. Or, in your case, a vow of friendship.”
Kyrja went stiff. She wasn’t sure either, honestly.
But Stefanos laughed. “I think our diplomatic ties will grow only stronger, if you’ve brought people like this into your inner circle…Kyrja?” A lift of a brow, another challenge. “That’s what you’re called, isn’t it?”
Never without invitation, and he no doubt knew that. But it wasn’t a battle worth picking. She had to wrestle control of this meeting from him, or the night would spiral into disaster. “It will suffice. And while I imagine a small demonstration of the primal’s power can be arranged before your departure, there will be none tonight.” Her smile felt frigid on her lips, but perhaps that would work in her favor. “Unless, of course, you fancy having your clothes set on fire. Nothing much else in here will burn.” She motioned to the obsidian walls, table, chairs. The more comfortable furniture to the left had beenquickly reupholstered in the same flame-resistant leather her new friends wore.
They’d learned their lesson after their first meeting here two weeks ago, when Nik had burst into flames and Perla and Kyrja had both had to douse the whole seating area in water and snow to put it out.
Stefanos looked to Daemon again, as if waiting for his argument or agreement.
She realized only then that she’d asserted dominance over the Aflame. Which, yes, was what Stefanos ought to expect of the queen—but clearly he didn’t.
A slight. A slap to her, with one look.
Given that she still wasn’t convinced Daemon’s bending of the knee had been anything but a show for Nik’s sake—and perhaps even an expedient introduction of his family to the world—she had no idea how he would react.
He didn’t. Just stood there, staring straight ahead, like before.
Like, she realized, the hoplites were doing. Feet shoulder-width apart, arms akimbo and clasped behind his back.
He’d styled himself not as a near-equal, which he could have done given his new rank on her High Council, but more as her guard. A quick glance told her Nik and Elianne were in the same position.
Bless them.
Kyrja planted her own hands on her hips. “I realize you are unaccustomed to magic in Ellas, Stefanos, but they are people, not new war machines for you to reverse engineer. Do stop studying them as if you mean to make a diagram for your libraries.”
“All right.” He turned that penetrating gaze fully onto her. “You’re why I’ve come anyway. I’d already been planning to, of course, after I signed the Accord with your father, but I wasquite surprised to receive your missive. Even more so when my informants verified that you somehow subdued both Isidor and all twelve of his most powerful Blessed.”
Frost bloomed on her skin. She didn’t bother stifling it but soothed herself by shaping it into a design that would echo the beading on her gown. In the wake of the attack, she’d forgotten all about the Accord Fodur had mentioned to Einar. But hadn’t Einar said something about her learning more after her Blessing Day celebration? Everything had shifted that day, though. Fodur certainly hadn’t told her anything—she hadn’t given him the chance, even if he’d wanted to.
Suddenly she wondered if that had been a misstep. “Forgive me, I’m still acquainting myself with all my father’s files and dealings. Of what Accord do you speak?”
That deadly smile again. And he fired his weapon of knowledge. “The one to make you my wife.”
17
Nik had grown comfortable in his leathers over the past two weeks, despite them being so very different from the wool he was used to wearing. What would take far more adjusting to was his own skin. His blood. The heat that would surge without warning, burning through him in a way he’d not yet learned to control.
He wanted to think it happened without reason. But he wasn’t so good at lying to himself. Sometimes it seemed random, yes. But more often, it was a direct response to his emotions.
His uncertainty. His embarrassment. And of course, his anger.
Always his anger.
He’d always considered himself even-tempered. Rarely angry or even frustrated. Not like Pab, whose fuse had gotten shorter and shorter with each passing year.
Maybe he had it backward. Maybe the flames didn’t respond to his anger—maybe they stoked it. Or maybe it was some combination he’d yet to understand.
