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Areanel no longer bothered to kneel or even bow her head in pretence as her father prayed to a god who would never answer. Yes, it was said that the gods had blessed her with immense power. That power had created her companions, her bonded wolves, and she would be forever grateful for Winter, Ash and Aurelias—but that didn’t mean she had to have faith.

Throughout her years of pain and suffering, the gods had never answered. When she sat on the shore of that lake, cradling her baby boy’s shredded body, begging them to bring him back, they had not answered.

The gods hadn’t answered her when it mattered the most.

So, when she heard the shift of fabric and watched as her devoted father finally rose, she let her eyes travel down to the carving of the loyal beast that sat at the statue’s feet. A mix of a wolf and an arachnid, the creature’s pointed, venomous tail curled around the Edre’s legs while the wolf’s slitted eyes glared, hackles raised as though ready to tear into its enemies. She knew a similar creature rested peacefully, hackles raised, at Andas’s feet—but why had the artist chosen to render the beasts in such a way? Why did this one, with its narrowed eyes, seem more devious than the one lying by the God of Death?

The rustling of clothes brought Areanel’s attention back to her father as he finally ascended the stairs leading to his throne.

Areanel focused on the sophisticated designs on her father’s teal tunic, tracing the intricate embroidered patterns with her eyes while refusing to meet his questioning gaze as he turned to sit. The material of his cape swished across the floor, flowing over his seat like molten silver. She was thankful he hadn’t asked her why she did not pray alongside him.

‘Your brother Elmrynn will head to Cal Cathlar to deal with negotiations there.’ The odd, sudden command had Areanel tearing her gaze from the leaf-like clasp that shimmered, holding his cape in place on his shoulder.

Her eyes snapped to his, finding a mirror of blue reflected. ‘Father, Elmrynn’s diplomatic manners are lacking. It would be better to send one of my other brothers. Nym, perhaps?’ she countered.

The long silver hair, usually tied back in delicate braids, fell in front of the king’s face as he shook his head. ‘No,’ he disagreed. His sharp jaw clenched, but he seemed less agitated than when they had entered the throne room. ‘The boy is a liability.’

‘I find, given the right incentives, Nymlaris can be quite charming.’

A heavy sigh passed the king’s lips as he sat back, lounging in a relaxed fashion upon his throne. ‘I don’t need him to charm the governing officials of Cal Cathlar; I need him to remind them of our strength and of the consequences, should the other kingdoms decide they no longer want a treaty.’

Areanel’s brow creased. What? Ryyen hadn’t mentioned anything about the kingdoms declining to renew the treaty. ‘Have you heard anything to suggest that?’

Aerileas did not answer. Instead, he rested a hand on the staff, made from the strongest elvish iron known to any land, which he was rarely seen without. Drumming his fingers along the metal, Areanel watched her father contemplate whether to divulge information to her.

Areanel did not wait for his answer. ‘How about sending both?’ she suggested. ‘Elmrynn can remind them of our kingdom’s strength, and Nym can ease any rising tensions.’

‘You assume,’ Aerileas spoke without looking at her, ‘Elmrynn will disappoint me?’

Areanel felt her shoulders stiffen. She knew where this conversation was going, and she did not like it one bit. The muscles in her back tightened. Still, Aerileas did not look at her. His fingers continued their rhythmic tapping, weaving like branches toward the tip of his staff—Feneril, named after their ancestor, the first king. At the pinnacle of the staff was a powerful gem, as dark as the abyss of The Pit, so dark it almost seemed purple—iridescent.

‘Your older brother is unlike you, Selyë.’

Ouch. The words struck like a physical blow to her gut. Hearing the condemnation come from the very lips of the male meant to be her loving father felt like being shot in the chest with an arrow. He thought of her as a disappointment.

It hurt, but Areanel wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of letting the fact show. ‘Elmrynn has a tendency to frighten others,’ she said, trying to ignore his harsh words even as tears pricked the back of her eyes. She had done everything right. So, why did she constantly disappoint him? ‘He doesn’t mean to, but sending Nym will soften the blow, and his presence may be better received by others.’

‘You may be right,’ Aerileas hummed, thoughtfully. ‘Very well, let them both go.’

‘Then that leaves Selcirith. Who do you wish to send?’

‘Keanduil will do fine,’ he answered without hesitation. ‘Your brother is more familiar with them and knows how to deal with Killian if need be.’ He spat the name with such disgust that Areanel believed he wanted the male dead. This was not a person her father respected, so why did he ensure Rymedur’s uncle, Killian, became Selcirith’s king?

‘Ada,’ Areanel had to approach this carefully—his mood was again changing for the worse. ‘Kean isn’t here.’ Had he forgotten? ‘You sent him away, remember? He’s delegating in the north. My spymaster says Kean should soon arrive at the Wharf of Canae.’

Areanel watched as his expression turned into something mirroring her own—confusion. It was a subtle shift, almost imperceptible, but Areanel saw how his head turned slightly to the side, like someone was whispering in his ear. Then, his deep frown eased. When he turned back to her, his eyes seemed a little clearer.

‘Then do you expect me to send you? Percival? My envoys?’ He listed, incredulity evident. Areanel leaned forward, awaiting his answer. She had hoped he would send her. It would make catching the chieftain easier if she weren’t confined to Andrea under her father’s watchful eyes. She needed to learn what the chieftain knew about the rebels and why he had assisted them in Vennedove, but Selcirith was not where she needed to go.

A sudden, malicious guffaw had Areanel subconsciously retreating. The sound was eerily familiar to one she’d heard two decades ago, before he had her hauled out of this very throne room. ‘Did you think I would send your precious Rymedur? I’m sure the former commander would be delighted to go home.’ His malevolent laugh sent spiders skittering along her spine.

Areanel could not help the way her eyes darted to the door and the Soldazt standing guard. Could they reach her on time if she ran? Aerileas laughed, again drawing her attention.

Damn it! He had wanted that reaction from her, and she fell for his trap.

Planting her feet a little wider, Areanel squared her shoulders and raised her chin. The silent movement was a message. She was resolute.

The curl of Aerileas’s lip as he bared his pearly teeth at her was answer enough.