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Chapter 20

Areanel

Gathering the villagers and convincing them to move to the ruins along Andrea’s outskirts had been the most difficult task in the days that followed.

Areanel walked alongside Nymlaris as they escorted the villagers. Much like their father, Nymlaris towered over her, but that wasn’t their only similarity. Nymlaris may have been the middle-child—the overlooked, the unseen, the wildest of the siblings—yet he was so alike their father, it was almost uncanny. From his silver hair to the way he analysed the forest with his piercing blue eyes, as if he were expecting something to go wrong, he was their father’s mirror in appearance alone.

‘You look tired.’ He sent her a teasing smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

She nudged at his shoulder. ‘Says you!’ Quickly righting himself, Areanel watched as her brother smoothed his hands over his leathers, easing out any wrinkles. ‘Why do you do that?’

‘Do what?’

‘You’re constantly worried about your appearance.’

His sluggish smirk didn’t quite reach his eyes. Areanel could see that he was clearly exhausted, but her brother was too stubborn to admit it. ‘Just because some of us actually care about the way we look—’ he assessed her from head to toe ‘—does not mean we’re any less intelligent or fierce, you know?’

The summer sun had reached its pinnacle, beating down relentlessly, and Areanel’s leathers were tight and chaffing as they clung to her skin. ‘I never said that.’ Pulling at her collar, she tried to ease her discomfort. ‘And what’s wrong with my clothes?’

Admittedly, Areanel did not look her best. Only a day or two had passed—far longer than she’d anticipated for this journey—yet strands of hair fell from her tight braid, flying in every direction and sticking to her forehead. Her boots kicked up dirt, crunching over the thick underbrush as they trailed the last two wagons of injured villagers they were escorting to the ruins, coating her hands and splattering her leathers.

At least she had helped gather the last salvageable items from the village, unlike someone who refused to get his hands dirty. Crossing her arms over her chest, Areanel sent her brother a glower. He wasn’t the only one. Even Percival had chosen to stand back and watch, finding it more entertaining to criticise how she lifted pieces of wood. Areanel was surprised at her own restraint. She had been so close to knocking him unconscious with the wood.

And the smell… Areanel didn’t know whether it was her, Nymlaris, or a combination of both, but she did know they were all in desperate need of a wash. She picked up her pace, eager to get home.

‘It’s not so much your clothes as it is…’ Nymlaris laughed, lifting the end of her braid and rubbing the raven strands between his fingers before carelessly flicking it behind her shoulder. ‘Everything else.’

The long braid swung between her shoulder blades in time with her steps. ‘Hey!’ Areanel’s hand flew out without thinking, smacking against his arm playfully. ‘I’ll have you know that people like my appearance.’ Most of the time.

She’d lost count of how many times her father had degraded her when he thought she resembled her mother.

A memory of Ivan braiding her hair on a summer’s day, the gentle sunrays dancing across the pristine marble floors as her older brothers lounged in the shared space of their rooms, crossed her mind. Then, the twist of a handle and the calm image split in two as the door was flung open, followed by the thud of Nymlaris’s body as it hit the floor hard. He had crumpled into a heap, his shirt ruined, and his back was torn open with long lashes. From the looks of the injuries, they had been controlled, purposeful.

To this day, Areanel did not know what Nymlaris had done to receive such a punishment, but whatever it was, he had never repeated his mistake.

Each child of Aerileas had their own demons—ones they did not speak of and ones they refused to acknowledge. They shared only one thing—each other. Though their relationships had strained over the years, the siblings had tried to support each other until Ivan had died. Still, Areanel refused to let her brother’s passing break the fragile thread that ran between them. She would rebuild what they had lost with his death, what their father had tried to achieve with it, because she would rather die than lose her brothers.

Nudging her elbow into Nymlaris’s ribs, Areanel sent a pointed glance over to the wagons they trailed behind, but his wide grin remained.

‘Your husband doesn’t count, Rea,’ he said around a quiet chuckle. ‘He’s only interested in…’ There was a pause, like he was trying to find the right words. When his features scrunched, he gagged before continuing. ‘Other things.’

Pressing her lips into a thin line, Areanel’s shoulders shook as she tried to quieten her own bubbling laughter. ‘You’re just jealous,’ she teased, ‘that you don’t have someone special yourself.’ She stressed the last words, poking a finger into his chest. And Areanel realised she had missed this—them teasing and being playful with each other—she spent less and less time with her brothers as the years went on. So much so, their relationship had become strained. Distant.

Nevertheless, she enjoyed these small moments. It reminded her of a happier time when Ivan was alive. He had been the glue that kept them together and gave them some semblance of a childhood. She just hoped their relationship would improve and they’d have more time together.

It hadn’t helped that when Ivan passed, their father publicly named her his heir. The title should have gone to Elmrynn. He had trained all his life to be Ivan’s second, but the minute their father had heard the news of his eldest son’s death, he’d made the declaration.

The burden of being heir was suddenly hers, and Areanel was afraid of the new, overwhelming weight that had been placed on her shoulders. Ivan had been the most powerful out of the siblings; she had suspected what it would mean if he ever passed, which is why she’d kept her power as hidden as she was able… until she could do so no longer.

One day, she’d made a stupid, horrible mistake—and her father had witnessed it with his own gleaming, cunning eyes. Areanel had begged him, pleaded with him. She had been trained to be an assassin, his left hand, an envoy—Areanel knew nothing of being heir. But he hadn’t relented. Instead, he had thrown her into The Pit and announced her overwhelming moniker.

Heir. The next King of Andrea.

The title’s weight was far too immense, too devastating for her to carry, and it was slowly ruining her and her relationships with her brothers.

Areanel glanced to her side when Nymlaris didn’t reply. Her head tilted, she found that his smile had faltered. His eyes bounced around, refusing to meet her gaze. Wiping the sweat from his temple, Nymlaris’s hands fidgeted like he didn’t know what to do with them. Finally, he began to rub them on his leathers, straightening them out again.

Curiosity tasted sweet and bitter, fizzing against the roof of her mouth until she opened it to ask, ‘You don’t have anyone, because that is something I would know. Right, Nym?’ She hadn’t meant it to bite out the question. It made it sound like a threat. Which it wasn’t! But if he did have someone, and her spies hadn’t found out who, then that meant he was keeping it a secret. And there were only two reasons he would do so…