Page 88 of Embers of Ruin

I stare at my reflection for a long moment, silently appreciating Mazelle’s work.

Her eyes meet mine in the mirror. “You look beautiful, Lady Tarethyn.”

“High praise coming from you, Lieutenant.”

“It is.”

I turn, smoothing my hands down the gown because I do not know what else to do with them. “If anyone insults me, am I allowed to insult them back?”

“No.”

“Even if they deserve it?”

“No, Lyra.” She sighs, and there it is. The look of impatience I’m so familiar with.

“That feels unfairly restrictive.”

Mazelle steps toward the door. “You may think whatever you like.”

“How generous.”

“Your face, however, should do less speaking.”

I gasp. “My face is innocent.”

“Your face is treasonous.”

For once, I can’t argue.

* * *

The walk to the Great Hall is longer than it needs to be, because apparently royal architecture requires every important room to be placed far enough away that a person has time to regret agreeing to attend. Riven and Cadrin fall in behind us, both in formal armor polished to an almost ridiculous shine. Riven gives me one approving nod when he sees me, respectful and brief. Cadrin’s gaze lingers a moment too long, then flicks away when Mazelle turns her head.

Wise. Very wise. I don’t want Cadrin admiring anything about me.

The palace feels different tonight. Busier. Brighter. The blue flames in the wall sconces burn higher, casting silver light across black stone. Servants move quickly through the corridors carrying trays, decanters, folded linens, and arrangements of flowers I can’t name. The scent of roasted meat and spiced wine drifts through the halls, mingling with candle smoke and perfume. Voices echo ahead, low and polished, while laughter drifts through the hall.

My stomach twists. I tell myself it’s hunger, but I know it’s not. The doors to the Great Hall stand open and noise spills through them in a warm rush. For a moment, I stop walking, unable to help myself.

The hall is enormous, larger even than the throne room. Black stone columns rise toward a vaulted ceiling painted with constellations I have never seen beneath the real sky. Silver chandeliers hang between them, each holding dozens of blue-white flames that cast the entire room in a shimmering glow. Long tables stretch across the floor, filled with nobles in dark silks, military commanders in silver-trimmed uniforms, scholars in gray robes, and people whose clothing I do not recognize but whose posture suggests they are important enough to know it.

At the far end of the hall, a raised dais holds the king’s table. And there, standing beside a high-backed chair carved from black wood and silver, is Thorin.

I hate to admit that I was searching for him, but I felt his presence before I saw him.

He’s speaking with two older men in military dress, listening more than talking, his expression calm and unreadable. The silver crown rests on his dark hair tonight, sharp and elegant, its points catching the light overhead. He wears black again, but not the severe clothes of training. This coat is formal, embroidered with silver thread at the cuffs and collar, fitted to the broad line of his shoulders.

The room bends around him—that’s the only way I can think to describe it.

People continue speaking, laughing, drinking, but everything has an awareness of him. Heads turn when he shifts. No one approaches without hesitation, yet no one looks truly afraid. Not in the way people in Elvora feared the idea of him. This is something else. Respect. Trust. Maybe even devotion.

The realization unsettles me far more than fear would have, because fear would make sense. People who feared their king—that was the Andell I had always been told about.

Fear would match the stories, but this doesn’t.

Thorin looks up, his eyes finding mine immediately. He doesn’t even have to search through the sea of people. Across the hall, through the blur of faces, his gaze finds me as though it's been waiting all along.

My breath catches as I notice something shift in his expression. Not much. Not enough for anyone else to notice, perhaps. But I see it. The faint stillness. The way his eyes travel over the gown, my hair, my face, before returning to mine with an intensity that makes the noise of the hall fade at the edges. He mouths a single word.