Page 102 of Embers of Ruin

Unfortunately, my mind has decided sleep is beneath us.

So I lie awake beneath silk sheets softer than anything I ever owned in Elvora and stare at the carved canopy above my bed while Onyx’s warning turns over and over in my head.

He believes he can bear any cost if the kingdom survives.

I hate the sentence. Not because I don’t understand it, but because I am beginning to. That’s far worse.

It would be so much easier if Thorin were simply cruel. If he sat on his dark throne and laughed while his people suffered. If the servants flinched when he passed. If the court whispered his name like a curse instead of lifting goblets to his strength and endurance. It would be easier if the Shadow King presented himself as the monster Elvora taught me to hate.

But he doesn’t.

He is arrogant, impossible, secretive beyond reason, and insufferably handsome in a way I resent more each passing day. He looks at me as if I am both a problem and a solution, which is its own special form of madness. He gives me fragments of truth and calls them protection. He trains me until my arms shake and my magic burns beneath my skin, then looks exhausted when he thinks no one is watching. That is probably the worst part. I have eyes too, and I’ve started noticing when he thinks no one is watching.

Sometimes he has shadows underneath his eyes as if he hasn’t slept in days. I notice the stack of reports Mazelle carries into his study when I am passing. I also notice the guards waiting outside council rooms long after supper. The quiet way people step aside for him, not because he demands space but because they know he is carrying more than any one person should. It changes everything, because it makes me concerned. And concern is irritating. Especially when directed at a man who kidnapped me.

I turn onto my side and punch the pillow into a shape that does absolutely nothing to improve my mood. The room remains beautiful and warm around me, all dark wood, soft furs, and blue firelight flickering in the hearth. A gilded cage, yes, but a comfortable one.

I throw back the blankets. If my mind insists on refusing sleep, then it can at least be useful. The palace is quieter at night, but not silent. It never truly sleeps. Somewhere beyond my door, a guard shifts his weight. Farther down the corridor, soft footsteps pass and fade. The blue flames in the sconces burn low, casting long shadows across the walls. Every sound feels amplified, and I move carefully as I dress, pulling on dark trousers, a soft tunic, and boots light enough that I can at least pretend I am being stealthy.

I am not being stealthy.

I know this because the moment I open my door, Riven is standing outside with his arms folded.

We stare at each other… and he doesn’t look surprised.

I sigh. “How disappointing.”

His mouth twitches. “Going somewhere, Lady Tarethyn?”

“No. I dressed for dramatic hallway standing.”

“Of course you did.”

“Do you intend to stop me, Riven?”

“That depends on where you’re going.”

I consider lying, but where would that get me? Nowhere.

Unfortunately, Riven is annoyingly observant and far too difficult. Cadrin would have been easier. I could have insulted him, stepped around him, and enjoyed the entire interaction.

“The archives,” I say.

Riven studies me for a moment, his dark eyes calm beneath the blue glow of the sconces. “At this hour? Are you feeling well?”

“Yes.”

“Is there a particular reason this cannot wait until morning?”

I shift my weight, hoping he doesn’t notice how uneasy I suddenly feel.

“Several. Most involve me being less likely to throw something if people stop withholding information.”

“That seems optimistic.”

“I’m capable of optimism when properly provoked.” I flash him a charming smile.

He sighs in the way of a man deciding whether the trouble of stopping me is worth the trouble of escorting me. Apparently, I win, because he pushes off the wall and gestures down the corridor.