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The heat in his gaze flares into a wildfire, and by the looks of it, he thinks I’ll be begging him for so much more before the end. How that makes me feel, I am not even remotely ready to consider, so I tell myself that he’s putting on a good show to protect me the same as I’m playing the happy bride so I won’t be slaughtered at the next convenience by one of his court.
As I pick up my fork and spear a slice of well-done meat, the other Crows give hisses of relief at the sign that the meal has officially started. Their beaks tear into the raw meat before them. Even Royad has opted for the bloodier version of dinner this evening. I try not to look as he dissects a piece with his claws—because who needs cutlery when you have razor-sharp claws attached to your arms?
All the while, Myron hasn’t turned back to his own plate, curious black eyes following my every movement as if he’s fascinated beyond words by his new bride. Ignoring the attention as best I can, I saw off one slice of meat after the other until I finish my meal. But I can feel his eyes like a grazing touch on my skin, can sense his need to be convincing with his act of playing the insatiable husband.
Myron presides over this dinner like an emperor who’s forgotten he has a people to rule, his gaze lazy and intrigued as he studies my profile while I try to ignore the monsters nibbling away at bloody meat, watching me lift my glass and take a deep drink.
“Sire,” one of the Crows raises his voice in a grumbling hiss that is barely recognizable as words. I set my fork down, and Myron gestures for him to speak with a careless motion of his hand. “I heard rumors from the borders about attacks on a fairy settlement near the Seeing Forest.”
The other Crows barely pause their hissed conversations to listen as they face the relatively short Crow with brownish feathers and an orange speck on his beak that I’ve never seen before. My focus, however, is on Myron, on the way he and Royad exchange a glance that has me concerned about the meaning of said attack.
“That’s why I named you spymaster, Ephegos, so you’ll bring this news directly to me.” The reflections from the silver cutlery on his plate paint patterns on his face as he leans forward and braces his wings on the dining table. “What exactly do those rumors say?”
Royad is scanning the room as if he’s expecting an attack right now, and his human features transform into his Crow ones within a heartbeat. I suppress a shudder. No matter how many times I see it, it’s still creepy and fascinating both at once.
Ephegos pauses, eyes darting to me as if he’d rather I topple from the chair dead right now. “Can I speak openly in the presence of your bride?”
Great. I don’t even have a name in these halls. At least, not in the eyes of anyone but Myron and Royad. I slide a bit deeper into my chair, painfully reminded of my childhood years when my father wanted me to disappear from his offices and warehouses whenever certain clients visited for business. With everything I know about him today, I understand that he might have wanted to protect me from his crimes. But eventually, my knowledge killed him.I’mresponsible for his death. I’m responsible for the death of everyone I love. Perhaps ending up in a place with creatures incapable of love is a just punishment and the best protection I could ask for so I’ll never be the reason someone else dies again.
Myron’s responding growl slips under my skin without my permission, making me shudder yet again. “She’s the current bride and yourqueen.” Black talons grow from his fingertips, digging through the white cloth into the sturdy wood beneath. The table groans in his grasp. “You will do well to remember how much I resent any attacks—in word or action—againstmybride. So, do yourself a favor and behave, Ephegos, or I’ll nail your feathered ass to the wall.”
The room falls so silent I can hear my own heart beating, and had it not been for Royad’s reassuring glance, I might have considered bolting to my room, or to Myron’s, it wouldn’t matter. Anywhere out of those all-black, observing eyes that see me as nothing more than a fleeting occurrence in their immortal existences, a meal very much like the one they’d just devoured, leaving gold-rimmed plates bloody.
To his credit, Ephegos doesn’t quake with fear at Myron’s admonishing, his gaze steady as he holds his king’s before he slides it to me. I’m waiting to see disgust there, or the hunger of the other Crows, the bloodlust, but all I find is cool calculation. “We wouldn’t want that, would we?”
Whether he’s asking me or the room in general, no one responds, so he continues. “My source says that someone set a shed full of fairies on fire. How they managed to lock them inside, they don’t know.”
“Why?” I can’t stop myself before the word slips out, and now, all eyes are on me for real, death shimmering in black depths, and hisses announcing I’ll pay for speaking at all when my mere existence is already an offense to most of them. I continue anyway, “Why would someone try to burn fairies?”
All air seems to leave the room as I wait for an answer.
It is Myron who eventually gives it. “The Crows have made a lot of mistakes in the past. Not everyone in Eherea has forgotten.”
It’s not enough to explain anything but a clear sign that Myron insists I’m not being left out. I take it and seal my lips. Maybe they’ll reveal more if I let them speak rather than demanding answers they might not be willing—or able—to give.
Ephegos is about to say something else when caws and hisses erupt at the other end of the table. Royad is on his feet, as is Ephegos and a bunch of other Crows who shift and dash for the glassless windows high up in the room before Royad can caw a command.
“What is it?” I ask Myron, who has gone preternaturally still in his chair, nostrils flaring as he’s scenting the room.
I see it before I smell it. Wafts of smoke sneak through the door at the end of the room, and from the threshold, Royad’s curse echoes through the stone-walled space as he faces the enemy the rest of the Crows have fled from.
Twenty
Fire.I slip from my chair, reaching for the water jar a few seats down, and run to Royad’s aid. I lived on a ship long enough to see fire for more than a threat. It’s the literal death of a sailor if not put out immediately. If fire spreads on a ship, the crew is lost. There is no window to climb out of, no shelter to find. It’s either death by burning or death by drowning.
My heart hammers in my chest as I pick up a second jar on my way to the door. My bad hand barks in protest, but I put up with the weight and continue my path. The dress makes big steps difficult, but I don’t stop. I can’t. It’s ingrained in me to fight a fire before it can spread, and if smoke like this is already leaking through the hallways, it must be a massive onslaught of flames raging out there.
“Ayna!” Myron’s call is an echo in the background as I reach the threshold, almost bumping into Royad’s broad shoulder as I try to catch myself. “Stop!”
The sight in the hallway isn’t what I expected, and I don’t know why that still surprises me. There are no flames, no people throwing buckets of water at their burning home; no one is running for safety. Instead, the hallway is filled with smoke and nothing but smoke, the origin hard to spot through the density of it, but I can make out the overall direction.
“It’s all right, Ayna.” Myron is at my side in an instant as I turn back and forth in an attempt at understanding what’s happening. “There is no fire.” His hand falls between my shoulder blades, and I still at the unexpected touch, the warmth of his palm. This isn’t a demonstration for his people to convince them that this is a real marriage, but—I don’t have it in me to ponder what else it could be. The air rushes from my lungs as the smoke hits us, and I launch into a coughing fit the likes of which even the strongest of storms never managed to give me when they shoved themselves down my throat on the Wild Ray.
“Breathe, Ayna.” Myron’s magic is invisible, but the way it pushes the smoke back isn’t, and it is all I need to be able to draw a deep breath. My breathing calms, but Myron’s hand doesn’t slip from my back as he works against the tendrils of haze, which retreat down the hallway until, at the corner, they collect around one single torch.
“Fuck Shaelak,” Royad exclaims, his claws balling into a facsimile of fists, his features tightening with both fear and fury.
It is by far not the most important question to ask at that moment, but I’m not ready to ask about the smoke and the torch, so—“What is a Shaelak?”
