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All I could do was stand there in that ridiculous dress, while the Shadow King held up my hand, like I’d won some victory, the crowd chanting,one kingdom, one king, over and over.
I hated being right, but the king was planning to use me as leverage—to convince an entire people to go to war.
I should have hidden in the balcony seats.
“Go sit by your saviors, Anaria.” He patted my hand, and I noticed his nails were a bit too long. “I am going to reward them for returning my daughter home.”
The king was going to milk this for everything he could. And what was I supposed to do? Play the dutiful daughter, when we both knew it was a lie?
Yet that’s exactly what I did as I headed to the bench, trying to decide who hated me the least. Tristan slid over, smirked at my sorry excuse for a dress, then patted the seat beside him. I didn’t fail to note his gaze narrowing on the Shadow King, making sure he noticed the kindness.
Tristan wasn’t beside me long, but that had been his plan.
“Tristan DeVayne.” Tristan threw back his broad shoulders as he strode to the dais, well aware of how sickeningly handsome he was as he knelt before the king, head bowed.
Like a knight out of those stories I used to read.
Even fantasized about once or twice.
He’d cleaned up, his fire-kissed auburn hair gleaming, dressed in a dark green jacket and fitted pants that were so snug they showed every muscle flexing in his dense thighs. In fact, they’d all dressed for the occasion, even Raziel looking less brutish in a high-necked black coat. I wondered why I had to wear something that barely covered me, while they were outfitted like royalty.
Then I snorted.
Because I was female, of course.
Princess or slave, that fact would never change.
“For service in the face of great peril, I grant you the title of Lord of DeVayne Castle, and all its lands, which are hereby returned to your family. And one million gilder, as promised.”
Tristan’s hazel eyes widened as if he couldn’t believe his luck, then he swiped his sleeve across his brow and shot gracefully to his feet. He took up position opposite the forbidding male and female, never taking his eyes off them.
“Zorander Vayle.” Zor’s leather armor caught the light, flashing blue and purple with every step he took. He’d either cleaned up the least, or there was something about him that would never be civilized enough for this sort of event.
I suspected it was the latter, studying the confident way he carried himself, as if he’d been on that stage a thousand times. His armor was bulkier, with spikes coming off his shoulders, the edges of his gauntlets.
He didn’t bow when he reached the king, if anything, his stance widened, his head held higher.
“You are hereby elevated to the position of High General of the Solarys armies.” The Shadow King nodded solemnly to Zorander, as if he was bestowing a great honor. “You will be in charge of this coming war, general. I have no doubt you will be victorious.”
A general?
Solok had called him that, but…Zor wasthe generalof the Shadow King’s armies?
I couldn’t see Zor’s face, but I read his body language. At the word—war—his body went rigid with tension, then he murmured to the king, taking his place beside Tristan.
“Tavion Montgomery.”
The air in the entire chamber chilled. I’d never seen real contempt until I saw how the king sized up Tavion, swaggering up to the throne like he belonged there himself.
“Is not here for riches, or lands or titles. Montgomery eluded death, by succeeding on his mission.”
The Shadow King’s voice rang over the subdued crowd, the male and female in the shadows shifting position. Tavion just smirked, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword.
His brother’s sword, I noted, the tension in the chamber turning the air sour.
“I did.” Tavion responded, just as clearly. Still not bowing, and the king was not happy about the slight.
The king’s gaze narrowed, until his eyes were barely slits. “Tavion Montgomery, I hereby revoke your death sentence, settle your gambling debts, and bestow half a million gilder to you for your…service to the throne.”
