Page 91 of Embers of Ruin

Thorin reaches for his wine. “It often is.”

I nearly smile again.

“I think I behave better when you are around, Lady Tarethyn.”

There it is—that flush of warmth, the bubbling sensation in my stomach that catches me off guard whenever he compliments me, looks at me, or does just about anything around me. I can’t stop it, and that is infuriating.

Dinner begins with entirely too much ceremony. Servants move through the hall in perfectly choreographed lines, setting platters before us with the kind of precision that makes me wonder if they rehearse this. Roasted meat, warm bread, vegetables, cheeses, fruit drowned in honey—more food than most villages would see in a week. It smells incredible. Which is unfortunate, because half the room seems more interested in watching me eat than eating themselves.

I am starving, obviously. The problem is that eating gracefully while half a court watches you is impossible. I reach for a piece of bread and decide dignity is overrated. Thorin notices, because he’s always noticing things I do.

“You look as if you are preparing to attack the meal.”

“I haven’t decided whether the meal is my enemy. I’m… assessing.”

“The bread is safe, Lyra.”

“How would you know? Perhaps the bread is loyal to you.”

“Most things in this kingdom are.” He smiles at me—teeth and all—and gods. That smile on that perfectly crafted face. Damnit.

I purse my lips, trying very hard not to acknowledge how unfairly handsome he is, then cut him a look. “That was arrogant.”

“Was it not accurate?” His eyebrows shoot up, feigning confusion.

“You know, I’m a little tired. Maybe I should retire to my chambers.”

He shakes his head, dismissing the idea outright.

He takes a sip of wine, and I hate that my attention follows the movement without my permission. My eyes linger on his strong fingers wrapped around the goblet, on the effortless grace of the gesture.

Gods. Why is it so difficult to look anywhere else?

He isn't even doing anything—he’s drinking wine. Yet somehow I’m drawn to him anyway, as though some invisible thread keeps pulling my gaze back no matter how often I try to tear it away. It’s infuriating.

Across the hall, music drifts through the room. A trio of musicians stands near one of the columns, coaxing a low, haunting melody from a pair of stringed instruments and a flute carved from black wood. The notes slip between the quiet conversations, weaving through the hall. It’s beautiful in a melancholy sort of way—the kind of music that makes me ache for somewhere I’ve never been.

Thorin’s guests are polished, and some carry themselves with all the arrogance money and titles can buy, but they don’t look like people living under a tyrant who might kill them for breathing too loudly. They debate trade routes and complain about winter stores. A woman with skin the color of rich, roasted chestnuts and hair woven into intricate braids argues with a scholar over irrigation channels in the lower terraces, and when she points out a flaw in the current system, he listens.

At another table, two soldiers laugh quietly at something a servant says while refilling their wine. No one flinches or rushes to silence the servant. They don’t look afraid here, and it doesn’t make any sense. None of them are acting the way they’re supposed to. The way I was told they would.

They’re not behaving the way I need them to if I’m going to keep hating this place.

My observations are cut short when a nobleman two seats down clears his throat. His wide belly strains against his embroidered tunic, and the few strands of hair left on his head have been painstakingly combed over the balding patch beneath. A pointed beard juts from his chin, and rings glitter on nearly every finger. Everything about him is gaudy and obnoxious.

“Your Majesty, will Lady Tarethyn be remaining at court long? We haven’t had the pleasure of meeting her yet, she has been hidden quite well from the court.”

The question is too polite, which means it isn’t polite at all. He’s probing, and Thorin is not the sort of man anyone should probe. I’m sure the nobleman is about to learn that firsthand.

Thorin doesn’t answer immediately. He lets the silence stretch just long enough for the man to realize he may have misstepped. Then, for dramatic effect, his shadows rise, coiling lazily around me. I don't flinch from them, because they’re familiar to me now.

I smirk, letting my magic drift over the surface of them, barely a whisper, so subtle no one else notices. His gaze finds mine and darkens and I watch as silver ignites through his irises. He knows exactly what I'm doing.

I bite the corner of my lip to keep from smiling before looking back at the nobleman. Thorin lets the silence linger a little longer before responding.

“Yes, Sir Highland, Lady Tarethyn will remain at court for a little while. I rather enjoy her company.”

The possessiveness beneath his measured tone doesn’t escape me, but Sir Highland doesn’t seem to notice.