Page 52

Another attempt not to roll his eyes. It was always your uncle and never King Killian, likely to remind Rymedur of why he was here and who traded him. The meaning was clear—you are only alive because I allow it.

‘With the recent rise in rebel attacks and the upcoming renewal of the treaty,’ Aerileas drawled, ‘I need to ensure our allies are still loyal, lest they need reminding.’

For a moment, Rymedur thought he had seen excitement flash across Aerileas’s face, like the idea of putting Killian in his place was thrilling. But they were allies, weren’t they?

‘King Killian will not need a reminder of any sort. I am sure he will send a messenger back as soon as possible.’

‘You should hope so, boy. Or it will be your head I send as a message.’ Rymedur’s shoulder blades pulled taut at the clear threat. No—not a threat. A promise.

It was no wonder Rymedur wasn’t close with his uncle; his father had made sure of that when he moved their small family to a village far away from the castle—something about not wanting Rymedur to grow up around pompous pricks. All the good that did!

‘Perhaps I will make my daughter do it,’ the king continued. ‘Cut off your head and deliver it to King Killian personally.’ His sardonic laugh rattled Rymedur’s bones, making the hairs at the back of his neck stand on end.

He was no longer threatening Rymedur with his uncle, but Areanel, and the thought had him bristling.

Clenching his teeth, Rymedur glared at Aerileas and challenged the promise in his eyes. Let him see he was not afraid. Wringing his hands, which were now tightly fisted behind his back, Rymedur measured his breaths and slowly counted. It would do no one any good if he ripped the king’s head from his miserable shoulders—no matter how badly he wanted to.

He hadn’t minded the threats to himself—he was used to them, expected them, over the two decades he’d been in Andrea. But making Areanel suffer? Something deep and primal shot up his spine. Straightening it and subtly shifting his weight, Rymedur widened his stance, planting his feet firmly beneath him. He wanted to bare his teeth and tear the male to pieces with his bare hands.

Peeling from his skin, his shadows prepared to launch, but Rymedur held them back with every bit of will he could muster (which wasn’t a lot) as his nails dug into skin, creating small crescent-moon indents. The sharp sting and trickle between his fingers told him he must have broken skin.

The king continued to speak, moving around his obscenely large chair to take a seat at his desk, where he continued to lounge like it was his throne—comfortable and regal. But Rymedur did not hear a word.

It was as though whatever Aerileas was saying had been muffled. Rymedur’s mind felt fuzzy and distant as he stood there rigid, stock-still, concentrating on the pain to force the raging beast prowling along the edges of his mind to heel. Yet the door to his power—the one he often kept locked away in his mind—started to creak with his rising anger.

He often got like this whenever his family was threatened, more so with Areanel, and it had only gotten worse over the years. As his love for Areanel grew, so did his hatred for others—especially those who hurt her. And Aerileas was one of those. How many times had he sent her on a mission he knew would destroy her? How many times had he punished her for her brothers’ misdeeds? How many times had he pushed her to the brink? And, for what? So he could see if she was worthy to be his heir? For his own amusement and pleasure? He was her father! Aerileas should have loved her unconditionally, but here he was, content and comfortable, whilst she was out there completing yet another mission of his when she was supposed to be with her family.

Especially with that day fast approaching.

Bang!

Rymedur was jolted from his rising anger at the slap of a hand against wood. The jostle of the small, miscellaneous items scattered the desk, drawing his attention.

Aerileas flattened a hand on a piece of paper, accidentally shifting it to reveal what lay beneath. Rymedur could have sworn those were the beginnings of architectural drawings of a monument sketched behind his splayed palm. What could the king possibly be commissioning? From where he stood, Rymedur thought it looked a lot like a temple, maybe an altar of some sort, but what really caught his eye was the design. The letters along the edge of the paper each ended with a curve and a flick, as though someone had quickly scrawled their adaptations and ideas.

Rymedur’s brows pulled together. The most peculiar was that the design included various materials—a rotating component, coils of wire, bearings—all of which Rymedur recognised as human machinery, and that was the last thing Rymedur would have expected. Aerileas abhorred anything to do with the humans.

‘Are you even listening to me?’ Aerileas growled impatiently.

Shooting his gaze up to meet Aerileas’s, Rymedur remained silent but sketched a questioning brow.

‘I told you to leave,’ Aerileas said, gathering the papers and shoving them into the top drawer. Had he noticed Rymedur looking at them?

With a quick flick of the king’s hand, the top of the drawer’s lock slid into place.

‘Unless there is something more you wish to discuss?’ Aerileas added when Rymedur did not move.

His earlier thoughts, paired with rising anger, were not a good combination for Rymedur’s impulsive nature. It clouded his judgement. Which is probably why he felt the sudden urge to question the male who had threatened him so callously mere moments ago.

‘You shouldn’t have sent her away.’ The growl that came from the pit of his belly was so deep it reverberated through his entire body.

Shit.

He should not have done that. Never had, because Areanel had explicitly warned him not to speak back to her father, and yet here he was doing exactly that.

Aerileas’s brows shot up, anger practically rolling off him in waves.

‘Areanel should be here, with us, especially considering that Res—’ Rymedur had to stop himself from speaking the name as something in his throat clogged. He would not show weakness before this unsympathetic male. ‘His death day approaches. Areanel should be here for it.’