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Daein’s only concern with the matter is that she’s not dokkalfenough. He wants her to be more like him. React when offended, when slighted, when triggered or—most importantly—when in battle. But never, ever stoop so low as to inflict torturejust because you’re bored. He said that to her once. Well, something along those lines. It was hard to hear the lecture he was berating her with through the door I was pressed up against, trying to eavesdrop.
I can’t even recall what she did that time to earn a shouting from Daein. She’s done so much, it’s hard to keep track.
Anyway, I know that there’s more than a dull moment happening for her right now in the Hall. She was as moody as she is now throughout dinner, stabbing at her food so hard that the gold fork scaped up Princess Skye’s good plates. Not very nice. I was embarrassed.
But it’s hard, nearly impossible, for me to stop her from doing anything, really. It was much easier when she was a child, before the resentment came and grew from a fog to a cloud and now, into an outright tornado, like the ones that rip through the Wastelands.
She’s more than bored. She’s upset.
Upset with me, always. Upset with Daein for striking her (as she should be, I think). Andveryyyyupset that Prince Rain didn’t bring his son, Affay, to dinner. No mention was made as to why he didn’t come. No one asked, either. But I suspect it has a lot to do with how much Ensley and Affay danced so publicly together at the ball—two Halflings, royals from opposing lands, and children of enemies.
Not exactly meant to be. And if it is, both Daein and Rain would likely go to great lengths to stop it from happening.
No, Ensley is not meant for Affay.
Daein has his own plans for her future. To become a warrior, a general one day, and then to marry one of her prince cousins, securing her place as a princess in the dark lands—and therefore, across the whole realm.
Neither Daein or me stop her as she, unannounced, suddenly abandons the now-very-dead plant that’s been left in pieces, and stalks out of the Hall. She retires before the Quiet has arrived, and no one else notices but us—and Rain, who watches her go with a fleeting, narrowed and cold glance.
My suspicions grow that he stopped Affay from coming along.
With an exhausted sigh, I lean into Daein and bring the rim of my wine glass to my green-tinted lips. I’m very much in love with this green grass-infused wine, but to keep up appearances of my human heritage, I only sip on it slowly. Fight the urge to down a bottle in one sitting.
Daein rests his chin on the crown of my head, the tension in his jaw tightening. His voice is a low murmur that won’t travel to the others in the grand space. “She will come out of her mood once we are home,” he tells me. “Once she resumes sparring with Cliff.”
It’s her energy release, her way to shove out all the anger and tension within her—sword fights. Especially against Cliff, one of the best sword fighters in the realm.
A hum is my answer as a slave moves over to us to replace my now-empty glass. Well, it wasn’t completely empty, but close to it, and the slave exchanges the glass for a fresh, full one. He gives a curt nod before he scurries off.
I watch them, the slaves. I watch as they clear the table and wipe it down with clean cloths, patrol the huge room to offer out trays of fruit and mint leaves, replenish drinks, and two who entertain us with a soft, low-humming tune.
Once, I was one of them—a slave. But not like this, not like it is here in the light lands.
Here, the slaves are not just kuris and humans. Halflings are among them, too. And it … baffles me.
Turning my crumpled face to Daein, I find that he’ already watching me, his combed hair unmoved by the tilt of the diadem. Piercing blue eyes shimmer down at me, curiosity swimming in them. He recognises my confusion, senses it even, and it burns inside of him to know what I’m thinking.
I don’t let him suffer any longer. “I don’t understand it,” I confess, my voice a whisper.
His head tilts to the side, lashes lowering on seas-for-eyes, casting shadows down his chiselled face.
“The Halflings here,” I explain, “some of them are gentry, or even royals—but others are in slavery.”
Understanding relaxes his clenched jaw some, but still, he casts a swift glance around the room, as if to make sure that no one can hear us or gets too close. I study his profile in the short moment, how smooth the tanned complexion of his skin is, how soft it feels beneath my fingertips when I dare let myself show him affection.
He turns back to me, his eyes unreadable. “It’s not a matter of their blood in these lands, but rather what roles they were born into.”
I take a moment to consider this, our gazes unwavering from each other. He watches me, as though he can see my thoughts processing behind my eyes.
My voice is so soft that, over the clangs and mutters, no one can hear me but him, “If I’d been healthier…”
For a beat, I falter, hesitation choking me.
Silently, he watches me, and I suspect he knows what I am going to ask, and he has his answer prepared already in his mind. He simply waits.
I steel myself and swallow back the lump in my throat. “What would have become of me if I’d been healthy?”
If I was not born a kinta, if I was a strong Halfling born into my royal family… The family around me who don’t know who I am, who will never know what I am to them.
