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‘Wraith slayer,’ someone murmured.
‘The next Warsword of Thezmarr,’ another whispered.
‘The Shadow of Death…’
Thea nearly scoffed at that, but as she tried to scan the faces around her, someone blocked her path.
King Artos himself.
She bowed low. ‘Your Majesty, thank you for your generosity this evening,’ she said. ‘The room, the gown, everything —’
He waved a hand, silencing her. ‘Nonsense. You are a defender of the midrealms now, Althea. Not to mention, I owe you a life debt. The least I can do is treat you like an honoured guest in my home.’
‘Sire, I —’
‘No objections, Althea. I came to ask you to dance.’ He held out a hand and smiled kindly.
Thea froze, staring at his outstretched palm. She couldn’t say no to a king, but… she also couldn’t dance – not fit for royalty.
King Artos waited.
‘Your Majesty,’ she said quietly, keenly aware of all the eyes suddenly on her and the King of Harenth. ‘I… I don’t know how, not properly.’ She didn’t elaborate that her sole experience with dancing involved her and her friends throwing knives at each other’s feet.
He took her hand. ‘It’s easy. I helped teach Jasira. I can show you as well.’
Thea swallowed. There was no going back now. Her hand was grasped firmly in his and he was already leading her out into the centre of the ballroom floor, her face aflame.
A new song began. King Artos lifted her hand with his and placed his other hand on her waist. ‘This one is a simple waltz. A matter of counting your steps, like so… One, two, three and one, two, three…’ He moved her with him as he stepped confidently across the floor.
One, two, three, one, two, three, Thea counted in her head. It wasn’t too dissimilar from a footwork pattern Wilder had shown her on the road to Delmira.
The music increased in pace, and King Artos led her around the room, the nobles clearing a path for them and watching on with curiosity. Thea didn’t have the capacity to worry about what dancing with the king might imply on a broader scale. She was busy trying to keep up and not step on his feet.
‘You’re a natural,’ he told her kindly, his rich tone matching the warmth that had started to blossom in her chest. Thea flushed with joy.
Once she was sure she wasn’t making a fool of herself, or worse, of the king, she felt herself relax into the melody and the pattern of their movements. King Artos spun her around effortlessly, and for a brief moment, Thea wondered if her own parents would have taught her and Wren how to waltz, or if they would have had royal tutors for that.
The thoughts left her head as soon as they appeared, the breathtaking melody sweeping across all her senses, her body becoming lost in the rhythm, her feet following the steps easily.
She wished Wren, Sam and Ida were here to see it, to swirl across the ballroom floor themselves. It had been Ida who had forced them to include an element of dance in Dancing Alchemists, to prepare them in the event that they should ever attend a ball or wedding. Thea had always doubted she’d ever see such a thing, and yet here she was.
The music built and built, and the king spun her around and around. A laugh spilt from her lips —
‘May I cut in, Your Majesty?’ came a deep, rumbling voice.
And the spinning stopped. The strange warmth blooming in her chest faded.
Wilder Hawthorne had just interrupted the king, and something evaporated around them, like a bubble had burst.
But King Artos didn’t miss a beat. ‘Of course.’ And he passed Thea to the Warsword. Wilder’s grip on her was firm and oddly grounding.
Thea knew the smile Wilder offered King Artos was fake. ‘Thank you,’ he said, leading her away.
‘Did you just cut in onthe king?’ she asked in disbelief.
‘I did,’ Wilder replied casually.
Thea felt suddenly sick.
