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I stared at her, my chest heaving as we glared at one another before I turned, stalking into my sparring room, the anger inside me boiling over. I began throwing punches at the bag, imagining each hit was directed toward Rhazien or Varzorn, or anyone else who stood in my way.
Kael followed me to the doorway, her arms crossed over her chest. I didn’t stop my attack, instead taking out the frustration of the past days on the leather bag in front of me. My fists flew faster and harder as my rage grew with each hit.
Kael watched me silently, her dark green eyes flickering in the dim light of the room as she took in my frenzied display. Her expression didn’t change as my hands bled or when the skin sloughed off. I continued until I felt like all the anger had been taken out of me and replaced with a deep exhaustion that finally forced me to stop.
As Kael left the doorway, I slumped onto the floor, collapsing under the weight of my self-loathing.
Chapter 16
Kael
IwatchedasTheronswung his hands at the punching bag, throwing his fists as though he were fighting a demon, his muscles rippling as sweat slicked his skin. The bag’s chain rattled. Each strike left a bloody print on the canvas, his movements jerky and painful, his eyes vacant. I hated him. I hated him for stealing my home from me. For my father’s death. For Orya. My loathing was as insatiable as the desert, and not even an ocean of understanding could quench it.
But I knew he was right. There was nothing either of us could have done without forfeiting our own lives. The way he sacrificed those innocents… was it any different than the way I’d been willing to sacrifice whatever it took to save my brother?
My breath caught in my throat as he stepped away from the bag, bloodied and weary. Despite myself, a twinge of sympathy ran through me. What sort of life had he been living that he had to resort to hurting himself like this? What kind of man was he? He was as trapped as I. Neither of us could escape our fate.
He caught my gaze, his eyes filled with something I didn’t want to name. My stomach twisted as I stared at the bloody flecks on his chin and neck. I couldn’t stay in this room any longer, not with the weight of my confusing feelings bearing down on me. I had to get out of here. Not just in his suite. This entire castle. The city even. And to do that, I had to kill Rhazien. Then I’d get rid of my collar and deal with Theron.
Hurrying to the bed, I yanked out the knife I’d hidden, stuffing it in my pocket while Theron was still in the sparring room. I stormed out, my determination to end this game fueling my steps as I made my way through the castle. I wouldn’t let him destroy me. Nothing had so far, and I wouldn’t allow some broken prince to be the one to take me down. My shoes clicked on the polished stone as I hurried, unwilling to stay a moment longer.
“Kael?”
I froze, turning to find Mirijana staring at me. “Where are you going?” she asked, her eyes filled with concern as she glanced around.
I couldn’t tell her the truth, not when my plan involved murder and revenge. “Just out for some air,” I said, forcing a smile to my face that felt more like a grimace. “I’ll be back soon.”
“Oh, I’ll come with you.”
I tried to wave her off. “No need. I’m sure you’re busy.”
“Not at all. The Lord Marshal told me you’re to be my priority.”
“How...” Inconvenient. “Nice.”
As I walked, she fell into step beside me and I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was fooling no one, least of all myself.
Mirijana followed me, her footsteps as soft as a whisper.
“It can be overwhelming.” Her usable eye was distant, lost in memories. “So much change, at once.”
I nodded. I’d always struggled with change. It was never for the better. I gripped the knife through the fabric of my dress, still wrestling with the need to do something, anything, to get my mind off the bloody mess Theron had turned himself into. I eyed Mirijana, her water-fat body and lack of vision on one side. I could kill her and be on my way to killing Rhazien right now… I would kill her if it meant saving my brother or Haemir. What did that say about me? How different was I from Theron, really?
“You know what helps? Tea. Come on, I’ll brew you some.”
I reluctantly followed her as she led me to the kitchens, resigning myself to the fact that I wouldn’t be leaving today. But happy to discover I that I valued innocent life enough to stay. It was the only reason I endured Theron; I told myself. What other reason could there be that I’d be willing to stay with a monster?
We entered the kitchen, its vastness filled with fragrant smells and bustling activity. The cooking area was big enough to accommodate a hundred chefs, with enough personnel to make food for all of them. Everywhere I looked cooks were scurrying about, creating delicious dishes from whatever ingredients they could get their hands on. A variety of unique aromas wafted in the air, and it didn’t take long for my mouth to water.
On one side of the kitchen, there was a large oven, with several people tending the fire and stirring pots over it. On the other side, there was an area devoted to baking bread and pastries, as well as an array of fine cheeses and cured meats. In one corner, someone was hand-cranking an ice cream maker while others cut fruits and vegetables near a sink at the back wall. Everything seemed so organized; each cook had their own little space where they prepared specific dishes or took care of certain tasks... All this while half the city starved. I’d once thought that perhaps it wasn’t just malice that made the Elves starve us. That it was logistics as well. The desert was never meant to support a population the size of Adraedor’s and almost all our goods had to be shipped in. But this, this excess, this was proof that it was intentional. There was no way that the court would eat all of this. And I knew better than to expect handouts to go to the slave quarter.
Mirijana rummaged around on a shelf until she found what she was looking for—two teacups. She set them down on the island before moving to a timeworn cabinet tucked away in the corner. I watched her as she opened it, removing several tins of tea leaves before settling on one particular container; likely some kind of medicinal herb blend. She smiled when she saw me watching her and walked over to the stove, filling up an old kettle before setting it against the heat source.
The sound of bubbling water filled my ears as I waited for Mirijana to finish, my tiredness retreating as I took in the space.
Orya had worked here.
Memories of my best friend flooded my mind. Her face the first time she admitted she had a crush on Gavril, the way she used to snort when she laughed. The stark difference between Orya’s gentle spirit and Mirijana’s hardened exterior couldn’t be more apparent. Orya had been a Sirin Remnant, too sweet for this harsh desert city. Mirijana was scarred and had seen too much, but still bubbled with joy.
