Page 37

Sterling’s leg presses against mine under the table, silently communicating his relief. The conversation flows more easily after that, though bumpy moments still punctuate the exchanges. We discuss the strange happenings in both our kingdoms, not just animals behaving oddly, but people too.

“There’s been a marked increase in territoriality.” Sterling picks out a puffy pastry and puts it on his plate. “People fighting over matters they would have laughed off months ago.”

“We’ve seen the same.” King Mihel sips from his crystal goblet. “Families who’ve lived peacefully for generations suddenly disputing property lines…merchants squabbling over minuscule price differences.”

“Fear.” Queen Maeve dabs her mouth with a napkin. “When people lose something they’ve relied on their entire lives, they grasp more tightly to what remains.”

“We’ve had reports of dangerous experiments.” I watch carefully, wondering how they’ll respond to my words. “People attempting to recreate magic through alchemy, blood rituals, even sacrifices.”

“Again, we’ve experienced similar problems.” King Mihel’s hands tremble as he sets down his goblet. “Last month we had to dispatch guards to a northern village where a self-proclaimed prophet insisted he could restore magic through human sacrifice.”

The table falls silent, the weight of these shared issues pressing down on us all.

Then the conversation shifts to more pragmatic matters, and I find myself truly engaging for the first time.

“The Eastern Provinces lost nearly half of their summer crops.” Creases form between Queen Maeve’s eyebrows. “Without earth magic to nurture the soil through drought, the farmers have been desperate.”

“And trade routes have become treacherous.” King Mihel’s features are grave. Though these royals claim they don’t blame us for their lost magic, I can’t help but wonder if there’s still a little underlying resentment. “Without air magic to calm sudden storms, we’ve lost three merchant vessels in the past month alone.”

Now we’re discussing something concrete, something I understand. The stiff political persona I’ve been forcing myself to maintain melts away as I lean forward, genuinely invested.

The conversation flows naturally, and I’m so engaged that I barely notice when Sterling’s hand moves from my knee to rest lightly on my thigh. His eyes sparkle with pride when I catch his glance.

The great doors to the dining hall burst open with a bang that causes everyone to jump. Queen Maeve actually shrieks, her goblet toppling and staining the white tablecloth.

Armed men march in, their stiff-backed posture and distinctive layered vestments immediately identifying them as Kamorian. Five guards flank a tall, broad-shouldered man with a shaved head that sports intricate designs on the sides. An elaborate metal collar marks him as a high-ranking official.

King Mihel rises, his expression morphing from shock to controlled tactful neutrality. “Prince Torach. We were not expecting Kamor’s delegation until tomorrow’s session.”

The Kamorian royal’s cold eyes fixate on me before sliding over to Sterling. His lips curl into something that resembles a smile only in the technical arrangement of facial muscles. “So this is where the magic-killers hide. Playing at diplomacy while our world crumbles.”

Chapter Twelve

The breakfast room freezes in an instant, as if the air has solidified. No one moves. My muscles tense, my body instinctively preparing for a fight while my mind races through political protocols I’ve barely mastered. The maid near me stops pouring, the pitcher suspended at an awkward angle. Wine trembles at its lip like a drop of blood hesitating before a fall.

Queen Maeve pushes up from her seat, strain evident on the lines of her face. Even from across the table, I don’t miss the pulse jumping at her throat.

King Mihel’s hand lands atop hers, heavy and restraining. His face transforms into something stormy and dangerous, deep lines carving themselves around his mouth.

Instinctively, I reach for my short sword.

Which isn’t here.

I’m dressed in diplomatic finery, not battle leathers. The absence of my weapons sends an uncomfortable prickling sensation down my spine. I sit rigid, vibrating with tension, feeling simultaneously naked and trapped in these formal clothes.

But Sterling…smiles.

One I recognize from a hundred encounters, from council meetings to battlefields. The one that means someone has just committed a grave error.

My own pulse quickens.

Shit is about to get real.

Like he’s got nothing but time, Sterling saunters to his feet, his gaze locked on the Kamorians who’ve just entered uninvited. He straightens to his full height, shoulders square, hands relaxed at his sides. The posture of a man who doesn’t need to reach for a weapon to be dangerous.

King Mihel rises far more quickly, nearly knocking his chair backward. His expression is a thunderous storm of barely contained royal rage. “Prince Torach, you forget yourself. Queen Lark and Prince Knox are honored guests. In my home.”

My spine stiffens, and I stand with the others. Beside me, Sterling subtly shifts his weight.