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But her brother, still gaunt and sickly in pallor, could not bring himself to face her. Was it because of what she had done?
Finally, to Areanel’s relief, her twin’s eyes darted to hers. He focused solely on her, and his gaze was probing, perceptive. Did he know she had something to do with the General’s supposed treason? Did he hate her or respect her? A thousand questions passed through her mind as she tried to discern his watchful stare.
‘Very well.’ Aerileas’s booming voice drew her attention. ‘Areanel, you are to take that traitor’s place and continue your obligations to command my elite force. I will not have my Envoy without its commander.’ King Aerileas’s eyes narrowed as he dubiously inspected his daughter. The look expressed a thousand methods of torture without uttering a single word. ‘Do not disappoint me, girl.’ He dismissed her with another resounding slam of his staff. ‘Feed the traitor’s remains to your wolves, Selyë.’
The instruction was one Areanel was happy to oblige, but as soon as the throne room emptied and she moved to leave, Areanel could not help but turn back to her father and ask, ‘Would you have shown him mercy?’
The king’s smirk was answer enough. One side of Aerileas’s mouth quirked up in a malevolent, knowing smile. ‘Mercy has no place here, General. You should know that.’
The title sounded cruel when it spilt from his lips, and suddenly, the feeling of a phantom collar around her neck became corporeal.
With every step she took away from the throne room, that feeling grew. What had she done?
Her beating heart stuttered, and her breath trembled.
Mercy has no place here. Her steps turned laden as though she was chained and bound. You should know that.
And she did. Areanel had known, ever since she was a child. She had known, but she had also hoped…
Chapter 14
Areanel
Present day, council meeting…
Mercy has no place here.
The words clanged like an anvil inside her mind. They were the same words her father had said to her when she became General—a position which had been imposed on her—and the familiar weight threatened to drag her down.
Heat, palpable and rolling, seared as Rymedur’s rage at Lord Eborthorn became tangible. His shadows threatened to lash out, and Areanel shot him a disapproving look. She could handle this herself.
Over the years, Lord Eborthorn had proven himself a thorn in her side, but Areanel knew how to handle him. Let him call her a monster—he could throw around accusations of murder all he wanted. Every single councilman gathered knew he had no evidence. There was no way he could prove, no matter how hard he tried, that she was the reason for her predecessor’s execution.
Titus had become nothing but a forgotten name.
Merciful versus merciless… Her choice became obvious as her father’s words repeated like an echo in her head.
Mercy has no place here.
‘We both know why you killed Titus.’ Eborthorn’s dull, aged eyes flickered across the table, and she followed his accusing gaze to a terror-stricken Percival. Areanel burned with bloodlust. How dare he?
Eborthorn had dragged Percival into his slight, forcing her brother to remember. It was one thing to insult her, but she could not, would not, allow this pompous elf to torment her brother.
‘You already had your sights on his position. It was only a matter of time before you took what you wanted. You only used that—’ he gestured a hand in Percival’s direction, but refused to look at him ‘—as an excuse!’
A quiet calm overtook Areanel’s mind. She’d had no intentions of taking on the role of General. A blanket of ease, much like the one before a storm, enveloped the room, dropping the temperature and silencing the lords who awaited her response. But it didn’t matter if any of them believed her. Let the male think what he wanted.
They thought her volatile. Eruptive. Quick to anger, like her father.
Leaning back in her high-backed chair, Areanel rested her arms on either side as if it were a throne. Her ebony dress, embossed with dark blue thread, only added to the illusion—she was a royal ready for battle.
Areanel let the image settle upon the lords. Let the thought stew in their minds. Who would dare to side against her? She was, after all, the current heir to the throne and future King of Andrea (named by Aerileas himself). Areanel possessed the most power of her siblings now that Ivan was gone; it was natural that her father publicly named her heir.
Lazily, she allowed her gaze to cross all the faces of the lords gathered. Her index finger, adorned with an extravagant silver and blue ring—pointed like a talon—tapped a slow rhythm that echoed in the pin-drop silence. A long, pointed, polished nail clicked against the metal engraving on the armrest.
Her cold and indifferent mask remained in place as she met Eborthorn’s gaze, and when their eyes clashed, Areanel allowed a sliver of her power to rise. The blue flame ignited, heat slowly unfurling within her chest, and from the strained gulp as Eborthorn’s throat worked on a swallow, Areanel knew her cobalt eyes shone just a little brighter than usual.
The slow tapping paused abruptly, and a sharp, scratching sound replaced it as she scraped her nail once against the edge of the chair, leaving a small, indented line along the wood.
