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Atticus lunges with a swing and Zander parries, their swords clashing, the clanging metal reverberating through the air. I feel it in my teeth.
The crowd watches with eager anticipation as the king and prince trade blow after blow, rarely slowing to take measure of each other, their boots skimming the sandy ground as they dodge close calls that have people gasping and my own heart stalling at times.
They should be wearing armor. That they are not is foolish and arrogant, even if they benefit from their nature and Wendeline’s healing power. But there is something in this exchange that feels overtly dangerous. Maybe it’s simply the act of swinging weapons meant to cleave into flesh, but I’ve watched plenty of duels from above, and none are fraught with the fury swirling around this one. Atticus keeps pressing forward, and Zander refuses to give ground. It’s as if each would be satisfied with harming the other today.
Annika sidles up beside me. “Anything exciting in the lower streets?”
I sense perked ears around us. Everyone is listening. “Not particularly,” I lie with feigned boredom.
Zander’s blade stroke catches Atticus’s shoulder, earning my sharp inhale. A bright bloom of crimson stains his white linen, and I hazard it’s a deep cut. With nothing more than a hiss, Atticus charges his brother in a burst of anger that has me holding my breath, fearing the idea that Zander might be slain in moments. But Zander deftly blocks the barrage of swings with the same grace and balance that Boaz uses during his morning routine.
I nod toward them. “What’s with them?”
Annika shrugs. “It’s how they work through brotherly disagreements.”
“Must be quite the disagreement.”
Zander and Atticus’s savage dance drags on, until their chests begin to heave from exertion and Atticus’s swings are a little wider but no less ferocious, his handsome face cracking with frustration.
It’s Zander’s impeccable footwork and angled parries that finally gain him an edge. The moment happens in a blink—easily missed if a person weren’t riveted to the battle—with a measured last-minute sidestep that throws off Atticus’s balance. Zander delivers a swift kick that Atticus cannot recover from. He lands on his stomach with Zander’s sword point against the base of his spine.
The crowd falls silent.
“Do not presume to tell me where to order my army,” Zander chides, his jaw taut as he holds his blade there for three long beats before relenting. He turns and walks away, marking the end of their duel, his victory clear.
Atticus rolls onto his back but remains where he is, chest heaving.
The moment Zander’s attention shifts to me, my heart races with nerves. I don’t know how to begin to wrap my mind around the idea of prophecy, but there was a time I didn’t believe in magic and monsters and gods. Are the seers right? Were Zander and I meant to find each other?
He approaches with a small smile that must be for our audience’s benefit because it does not touch his eyes. In those, I see the weight of whatever has him so bothered.
“How was your morning?” Zander asks through ragged breaths, his gaze roaming my face. His shirt is unfastened around the collar and drenched, but it smells of him, only more fragrant.
“It was interesting.” Curious looks touch us from every angle, even as spectators drift away and soldiers collect their weapons and move onto the court. I step forward even closer until we’re almost chest to chest and I’m forced to tilt my head to meet his eyes. I reach out to pinch his soiled shirt. A small and relatively innocuous gesture of intimate affection, and yet it feels bold. “Have you ever heard of Freywich?”
He falls into the part seamlessly, his hand sliding against my side, the heat of it burning through material to my skin. “Freywich.” He frowns. “Small town near Eldred Wood, I believe.” He pauses. “Why?”
“Just curious.” Maybe he’ll never hear about today’s mischief. I reach forward and toy with a loose string on his tunic. A distraction tactic to keep my thoughts shallow and my pulse guilt-free.
But the leveled gaze he settles on me tells me it’s not working.
“Can we talk? In private.”
Zander’s eyes drift to my mouth. Is he thinking about last night as well? “Is it important?”
“It might be.” Would he even care that Ianca is a seer and she’s in Cirilea? I know he would care that Wendeline has lied about knowing.
Boaz appears at our side, his boot heels slapping together as he halts. “Your Highness, Abarrane and the others are waiting for you in the Round Room.” His eyes flicker to me and narrow. He still doesn’t like me, and he definitely doesn’t trust me.
“I need to refresh and have a word with Romeria.”
“But Your Highness—”
“They can wait.” He hands his sword to Boaz, and then, settling a hand on the small of my back, leads me into the castle.
“This is the king’s chamber.” I’ve only seen it briefly, from the terrace that one night, and my focus was not on the furnishings. My eyes climb over the Baroque-esque sooty-black décor—everything from the walls to the carpet to the heavy drapery. Much like my room, the molding and trim are gilded.
I assumed Zander was walking me back to my suite, but we continued past my door to the next one. When he led me through the sitting room and directly into his bedroom, my mind started spinning various scenarios and thoughts that I should not be entertaining near him.
