Page 116 of Embers of Ruin

We are halfway back to my chambers when I realize my hand is still warm where Thorin touched my wrist. My cheek remembers his thumb. My body remembers how well we fit together. My magic remembers his shadows. And my mind, traitorous and exhausted and far too curious for its own survival, keeps circling the same unfinished sentence.

Because when I found you⁠—

I press my fingers to my temple.

A prophecy, a vanished village, complicated feelings about a king, and another locked door. At this rate, I may actually start missing the simplicity of being chased through the woods. At least then, everyone trying to ruin my life had the decency to do it with swords.

CHAPTER 24

Ispend the entire walk to the Sacred Gardens trying very hard not to think about the fact that the Shadow King occupies a very specific corner of my mind more often than not lately. I’ve kissed him several times, sure. But now I hate the fact that I ever did. Is he behind the burned villages? I have to draw my own conclusions because no one in this kingdom will tell me anything. It’s infuriating.

I plan to avoid Thorin forever, but this proves remarkably difficult when he is the king and, unfortunately, lives in the palace, walks the same halls, and somehow has the ability to find me wherever I go. He is the source of all of my problems, and I hate that for myself. Well—that’s not entirely true. The curse still holds first place. But he is climbing the ranks with admirable speed.

The worst part is that I’m finding myself wanting more of him. Not another kiss. I’ve already made that mistake several times. I want the moments in between. The brush of his thumb against my cheek. The way he held a strand of my hair as if it were something sacred instead of the very thing that made half of Elvora whisper behind my back. The way he looked at me—not through me, not around me, not like a king examining a tool, but at me.

That is the truly unacceptable part.

I could forgive myself for noticing he is handsome. I’m angry, not blind. Any woman with functioning eyes would notice Thorin is carved in a way that suggests the gods occasionally grow bored and decide to make a man dangerous for sport.

But noticing his exhaustion? His restraint? The way his voice changed when he said he knew what breaks people? That is much harder to forgive. Somewhere along the way, I started caring about a monster.

I pull my cloak tighter around my shoulders as Riven walks beside me through the eastern corridor, his presence calm and quiet in a way I’ve begun to appreciate. He doesn’t ask why I’m silent. He doesn’t attempt conversation for the sake of easing discomfort. He simply walks, one hand resting near the sword at his hip, his eyes sweeping the hall ahead.

It is nearly enough to make me genuinely like him. And I don’t like that at all. I can’t continue collecting people in this palace. I don’t want a favorite guard, a favorite scholar, or a favorite captain. I certainly do not want a favorite king, and if my mind even attempts to consider that possibility, I will personally throw myself from one of Andell’s many dramatic balconies.

Riven glances at me. “You’re making a face.”

“I have many faces, Riven.”

“This one looks… scary.”

“Then it’s honest. You should trust this face.” His mouth twitches, but he wisely says nothing else.

The palace is awake around us, humming with the restrained urgency I have begun noticing more and more. A pair of servants pass carrying baskets of folded linens, their heads dipping in acknowledgment as we go by. Farther down the hall, two commanders speak in low voices beside a window, their expressions tight over a spread of maps. One of them looks up when I pass, eyes catching on my hair before sliding away with practiced speed.

The closer we get to the gardens, the older the palace feels. The walls become rougher, and the air cools until every breath tastes faintly of rain and iron. The symbols etched into the stone glow in places, so faint I might have missed them before. Now, I cannot stop seeing them.

That has been happening often lately. The world revealing details I would rather ignore.

By the time we reach the garden gates, my thoughts have become tangled enough that I almost welcome the sight of Cadrin standing guard there, if only because irritation is easier than confusion. Almost. The golden-haired ass straightens when he sees me, his blue eyes flicking from my face to Riven and back again.

“Lady Tarethyn.”

The title sounds as if it has splinters in it. I offer him my sweetest smile. “Cadrin. How tragic. Still employed. Very unfortunate for all of us.”

Riven makes a sound beside me that could be a cough if one is feeling generous. I’m not.

Cadrin’s jaw tightens. “His Majesty is waiting.”

“His Majesty does that often. Has anyone suggested a hobby?”

The second guard at the gate, broad and dark-skinned with hair clipped close along the sides of his head, turns slightly away. I don’t know his name yet, but he has a kind face, and seems like he would annoy me significantly less than Cadrin does.

Something about him tugs at an old memory. His rich skin tone reminds me of my mother’s. Gods, she was beautiful. And I only have fragmented memories of her. I’m a double-sided coin, pulled from two cultures, stuffed into one category, given silver hair to create a category that doesn’t exist. I don’t let my mind wander in that direction. It won’t make my day easier.

I assess the guards. Cadrin looks like he would rather swallow a nail than laugh at anything I say, which naturally makes me want to become funnier out of spite. Riven gestures toward the gate before I can test that theory. The silver doors open and the Sacred Gardens exhale around me.

That is how it feels now every time I enter. As if the place has been holding its breath, waiting, and the moment I cross the threshold, something ancient inside it shifts toward me. Mist curls low over the black stone paths, softening the edges of ruin. The dead trees still rise like skeletal hands toward the gray sky, but they are no longer entirely dead. Not all of them. The tree I woke first stands near the fountain, its leaves trembling in the cold breeze. They are fuller now, a cluster of green in a world of black and gray. Life has begun to return. Slowly.