Page 16
The room was destroyed.
What should have been a secure sanctuary was a chaotic scene of deliberate destruction. Someone hadn’t just searched my room; they had violently gutted it.
The ancient texts I’d spent weeks reading were torn to shreds, their fragile vellum pages scattered across the stone floor like dead leaves.
My mortal clothes—the thrift-store leather jacket and worn flannel shirts I’d brought from California—were slashed into ribbons, the lining ripped apart.
The heavy down mattress was carved open, white duck feathers floating through the freezing draft like a silent, surreal snowstorm.
The silver sconces had been yanked straight from the granite walls, oil spilled across the floor in a dark, shimmering pool.
“Tauriel.” Mal’s voice was suddenly right behind me, his hand hovering just above my shoulder. His hazel eyes scanned the wreckage, a sharp, volatile calculation passing behind his pupils before he masked it behind an expression of grave concern.
Heavy, synchronized footsteps echoed down the corridor.
Caspian cleared the threshold, his broad frame nearly filling the ruined doorway. He took in the feathers, the shredded texts, the dark pool of oil. His blue eyes hit my face, scanning for blood, his chest rising and falling in ragged, silent increments.
This is not how I imagined I’d get the high captain into my chambers. But I don’t mind seeing the way he fits.
“Get out, Lieutenant,” Caspian commanded, his voice dropping into a low, murderous register that made the stone walls vibrate.
Mal inclined his head, his gaze lingering on my face for a heavy second before he stepped backward into the corridor, disappearing into the mist without a sound.
“This ends tonight,” Caspian growled, stepping into the ruined space, his jaw rigid. “You think a blade and stubborn pride make you safe, but you’re playing against lords who don’t leave bodies behind. They command the void, Tauriel. They don’t want to break you—they want you erased.”
“I don’t need your lectures, Caspian!” I snapped, kicking a pile of shredded parchment out of my path. “And I certainly don’t need your permission to walk through my own castle.”
“You don’t have a choice anymore,” he said, his voice cold and absolute. He stepped to the doorway and gestured to a shadow waiting in the hall. “Captain Soren is assigned to your hip. Permanently.”
“Who the fuck is Soren, and why do I need him assigned?”
“Because he’s the only bastard in this keep I trust to keep a stubborn princess from getting herself killed,” Caspian muttered, his jaw ticking before he stepped aside.
A male stepped through the ruined doorway, and the hostile atmosphere in the room instantly cracked.
He wasn’t grim like Manem, and he didn’t carry the brooding, territorial darkness that made Caspian look like a predator. He was tall, his dark vanguard leathers bearing the twin silver stripes of a full captain, but his posture was completely relaxed. He had a warm, symmetrical face, a small gold hoop dangling from his left ear, and dark brown eyes that carried a genuine, easy compassion.
How was Soren already waiting out there? What had Caspian and the captain been discussing before they cornered us—were they plotting my confinement all evening?
“And before you start weaponizing your paranoia into a conspiracy, Princess,” Caspian added, his icy blue eyes narrowing slightly as he paused at the threshold, “Soren joined us for drinks after you walked off with that silk-draped viper. We were turning in for the night when the ward stones flared.”
He looked at the floating feathers, then at my furious stance, and let out a low, melodic whistle.
“Well,” Soren said, his voice a smooth, easy baritone that instantly cut through the icy tension. “I usually prefer to introduce myself before the pillow fight, Princess.”
I glared at him, my fingers tightening around my hilt. “I don’t need a shadow, Captain. Tell your commander to take his leash back.”
Soren didn’t flinch. He stepped over a broken timber chair, his movements fluid and precise, and offered a polite, courtly bow that felt entirely respectful rather than mocking.
“With all due respect, Princess, I don’t take orders from the Captain when it comes to the safety of the line,” Soren said, a light, self-deprecating smile showing a dimple in his left cheek. “I take them from the Konungr. And right now, my dragon, Boreas, is currently nesting on the outer spires, very bored, and very protective. I suggest we get along.”
He carried an honorable, steady warmth that made it nearly impossible to maintain my anger without feeling ridiculous. He was an elite warrior bonded to a massive Zephyros wind dancer, yet he looked at me like a comrade whose tent had just been trashed.
“I resent this,” I said sharply, turning my glare back to Caspian.
“Resent it all you want,” Caspian replied coldly, turning on his heel toward the door. “Soren stays. Try not to break him.”
SEVEN
