Page 11 of White Raven

He slumped over in a heavy gasp, the alcohol from his breath puffing in my face.

“Wow,” he muttered, shaking his head, a big goofy smile spreading over his face. “That was . . . incredible.” His eyes met mine like we shared the same blissful sensations.

We did not.

“My soon-to-be wife is so gifted.” He leaned down for my lips, but I turned my head, slipping off the desk. Wiping my hands off on my beautiful dress, the sticky substance sullying the soft white fabric. The buzz of alcohol was gone, and my temples started to pound with a headache.

My father’s files lay in a scattered mess on the floor. He was a stickler for tidiness, and no one came in here without him present. The reality of him finding us in here, his documents fanned over the floor, would be ugly.

“It’s getting late.” Desire to be back in my room, enjoying the final night in my own bed alone, shivered anxiously through me. “And like you said, my father might return at any moment.”

“What?” Brynden’s disposition altered, his head snapping to the door as if the king stood there. “You said he would not come back.”

I squatted down to retrieve the spilled folders from the floor. “With him it’s always a possibility. He—” Picking up a file, the first line stopped words on my tongue. The Border Report—Land secession brings more food scarcity, it read. My brows furrowed as I scanned the page. The report addressed the crops no longer growing at the western and northern borders, the soil grey with death and rot. “The northern village of Frosthelm is growing darker. The sun fading into the Shadow Rift. The soil is dead, the people are struggling to find sources of food.” My heart tapped against my ribs. Frosthelm? That was our most northern territory, by the coast. My father visited it last spring. He came back smelling of the salt and boasting about how beautiful it was. The Earl of Frosthelm was here to attend my wedding. If it was so bad, why would he leave his people? None of this made sense.

Though I had heard rumors from the kitchen thralls that the decline in food had been happening since the war. The cursed soil which bled out from the Dusk Realm had marred the area between the Night and Day Realms, cutting the divide between us even more. It was why we built hothouses to supply food to the far-reaching settlements. My father had countered the problem. We had plenty of food at the markets every day. Enough to feed everyone here and send supplies to villages in our realm.

Swallowing, I flipped through more pages and stopped. The Dusk Realm Advancement Campaign. My gaze drifted down the page. It was an estimate report about the money required, along with the weapons, food, and supplies needed for troops going to the West, venturing deep into the Shallow Fields territory.

Why would the king need soldiers to go to the Dusk Realm instead of the Night Realm? That land to the west was cursed. No one went there. Nothing could grow or live there anymore. Their soil was dead along with the Leatherwings tribe.

Distant laughter in the hallway plucked my attention, rushing me through the rest of the page quickly, only skimming names like Silverguard, as well as the old capital of the Dusk Realm, Shadowfyre.

My pulse thudded against my throat, the information on the page jumping out. The quantity of weapons my father was requiring was enormous, more than any blacksmith could make in a decade. Turning to the next page, the thunder drummed louder in my ears.

It was a contract for Blaxhall’s son Brynden to marry me, but it wasn’t a nuptial agreement.

It was a trade. For weapons.

And both Blaxhalls’ signatures were at the bottom, along with the king’s.

“Wha—what is this?”

Staggering over, Brynden squinted drunkenly at the page while he tucked himself back in his pants. “The contract?”

“This is not a marriage contract.” I swallowed roughly. “It’s a trade agreement.”

“Yeah,” he answered absently, his attention more on tying the laces of his breeches. “It was part of the deal. For all the weapons he needs us to supply him within the next few months. Father must bring on a great deal more blacksmiths and apprentices that can be taught the trade, working them nonstop, to even get a dent on that amount.”

“This marriage . . . it wasn’t about hiding me?”

“Hiding you?” His eyebrows furrowed. “I know he’s nervous about King Helvig coming for you with the foretelling saying this birthday will be when you come into power. And his majesty sending a lot of guards home with you, but honestly, where are you safer than here?” He looked up from securing his pants, alcohol speaking before his mind. “The king requested us to keep quiet and act like I married a normal village girl . . .” He snorted, swaying, his lids half-mast. “But let’s be honest—my family, especially my father, could never keep the fact I’m marrying the White Raven a secret.”

Every strike of my heart was an axe, chopping a hole in my chest.

Hurt, betrayal, embarrassment pressed in. I believed my father’s justification so easily. Keeping me safe from the Night Ravens wasn’t why he was marrying me off, not entirely anyway. It was for weapons. I was an asset to sweeten the pot. Hiding me and my handmaidens in another village, the furthest away from the northern territory, was how he rationalized it, stating it was for protection.

“Who cares about our fathers’ affairs. I only care about marrying you, my White Raven.” His lidded gaze moved over me. “My wife.” A label I had not minded earlier now grated on my nerves. It wasn’t me he cared to call wife; it was my title. A status symbol. A peacock displaying its feathers. “I want to scream that you are mine.”

Voices and heavy footfalls sounded from the hallway. The image of my father entering and finding us in here jumped me to my feet.

“Go!” I hissed, waving him toward the exit. “If he finds you here . . .” It would be bad enough if he discovered me in his private office. Future in-laws or not, Brynden and his family would never be allowed in the king’s private chambers without him. Father did not have the luxury to trust anyone outside his circle.

“Never trust those who are constantly seeking higher power, Wren,” he told me once, watching from the window as a nobleman from a neighboring village exited the castle. “Their greed will always surpass the king’s position. Noblemen with the opportunity to rise are the worst of traitors.”

“Why do you invite them here if you don’t trust them, Father?” I peered up at him in reverence.

“You always keep close those who want to betray you.” He glanced down at me, his arms behind his back. “That way you can find out what weapon they will use when trying to double-cross you.”