Lucien’s anger burns so hot, he would think it was his magic if not for the null-charm in his earlobe. He barely feels the chains tugging his collar, the flagstone beneath his knees. The subtle, nauseating pull of scalestone on his senses. Everything else dulls compared to what Lucien feels at the sight of Imrik Dire.
Lucien didn’t expect this. That’s the strangest part, now that he’s here. He didn’t expect the hatred to blur the edges of his vision, until all he sees are Imrik’s dark Draskoran eyes and the memory of a storm.
“Welcome to Ostomar, Commander,” Imrik says from the dais. “Alas, I wasn’t given notice prior to your unlawful violation of our borders. I would have set a place for you.”
Laughter chases the king’s words. Lucien kneels in silence. He isn’t gagged, but he has nothing to say.
Nothing that won’t get him into even deeper trouble, anyway.
Though silence may be dangerous too. Lucien’s good at reading nobles’ moods, and Imrik seems annoyed by the lack of response.
“Marek, join us.” Imrik turns away as if Lucien is beneath his notice. “We’ll finish dinner before dealing with our Silaisan guest.”
More laughter follows as Marek mounts the dais.
So, the plan is to humiliate Lucien. Keep him kneeling before the Dire king as everyone else dines and laughs and gawks. Better than immediate torture and execution, at least.
Chains clink. The collar tugs against Lucien’s throat as a drasgard adjusts her grip. Lucien strives to clear his thoughts. Tamp down his anger to an ember. He can indulge it when he’s free. Right now, all he can do is think.
He has a plan. A great plan: break out, kill Imrik Dire, and fuck off back to Silaise. Sure, the details need work. As Audric would say, ‘That’s more of a goal than a plan, Vaire.’ But Audric would also have Lucien’s back the entire way.
Lucien will have to figure out the details on his own this time.
Breaking out and returning to Silaise are the most important parts. If Lucien has to leave Imrik alive, he will. It just seems a shame to pass up the opportunity when he’s so fucking close to the bastard.
Not now, of course. The drasgard pierced his left earlobe as he slept, sticking him with a nullification earring to restrain his magic. A flat, double-sided stud Lucien hasn’t had the chance to inspect, since his hands are still tied.
Even if Lucien wasn’t chained up, he’s in no shape to fight. Lucien has spent most of the past two days—maybe three—under forced unconsciousness. He’s barely touched food and water, and there’s a strange, magic-tinged nausea lingering under everything. Either a side effect of the sleep enchantment, or someone tried to remove the anti-truth-spell charm while he slept. Or both. Or something else equally pleasant.
Dining resumes around Lucien, following the king’s lead. Lucien doesn’t recognize most of the people at the high table. There’s an empty chair to the right of Imrik, from Lucien’s perspective. Marek and Sei sit on the other side. Marek scans the room in between quiet words with his father. Sei looks at his plate and Marek. Nothing else.
Half a dozen nobles with elaborate hair take up the rest of the seats. They steal furtive glances at Lucien, unable to match Imrik’s nonchalant disregard. All except the figure at the end of the table.
The young man’s pale gaze never leaves Lucien.
Once noticed, he can’t be ignored. His attention itches like the metal rubbing Lucien’s throat. Presses like the flagstone bruising Lucien’s knees. The young man slouches with his foot on his chair, as if he’s lounging at a bar, or a barn, perfectly at home at Imrik Dire’s table. A loose, lavender braid drapes over his shoulder, and he toys with the end.
Lucien’s never met Kazia Dire, but the prince’s erratic, unpleasant reputation extends across borders.
A herald in pale purple livery ducks into the great hall. She hands something to Kazia, who straightens. Lucien can’t see the delivery, though, because that’s when Imrik sets down his fork and rises from his seat. The hall falls quiet, and Lucien tenses.
“Lord Vaire,” Imrik begins, then smiles. “My apologies. I don’t recall your title.”
“Commander is fine,” Lucien retorts before catching himself.
But Imrik doesn’t falter—Lucien must be cooperating with his pageant well enough. “Commander, indeed. Youhavedone well for yourself. Though perhaps Margot is reconsidering allowing peasants to rise so far above their stations, given the mess you’ve made.”
The goading is well done. It might have successfully pissed Lucien off if he didn’t so thoroughly hate Imrik. He’s already restraining the full force of his decade-long rage. The little peasant jibe barely even registers.
“Perhaps she is,” Lucien answers.
Imrik leans forward, hands on the table. “Unfortunately, Commander, this conversation is rather pointless. I had thought to decide your fate today, but I believe you lack the authority for such negotiations.”
That takes Lucien aback. He’s been mentally preparing for torture and public execution. Not negotiations.
“I’ve sent word to Silaise,” Imrik continues. “I’m curious to see what Margot thinks you’re worth. In the meantime…”
A fork rings against a wine glass. Kazia hops to his feet, smiling brightly at the king. “Excuse me, Father, but I have a small request.”
