9. Chapter 9

nine

N evander jolted awake as dawn’s amber rays pierced the curtains, his ears ringing in the silence, broken only by distant cooing doves and the whisper of morning breezes against the windowpane. He pulled the lavender scented blankets over his head, cocooning himself in darkness, but restlessness itched beneath his skin, persistent and annoying. After punching the pillow a few times, he gave up on any ideas of sleeping in. His body needed to move. Flinging back the covers, he strode to the mirror, chill bumps racing across his bare skin.

He rotated his left shoulder, wincing at the soreness that followed him around like a nag, whispering of his failures. Once he’d led his men through relentless drills and skirmishes on a daily basis, and he’d accepted no excuses. Many a foggy morning was spent on the training grounds, his voice cutting through the mist: Swords up! Shields locked! Move like one, fight like one!

No room for weakness, then. No tolerance for imperfection. Now, the throbbing in his shoulder mocked those exacting standards.

His fingers traced the pink, puckered scar where the bullet had struck. A strange numbness tingled beneath his touch, and flickering images of darkness threatened to surface .

Akeela’s insistent meow startled him back to the present, her soft fur brushing his leg. “I know, I know,” he murmured, reaching down to scratch her ears. He let her out of the room to roam the estate on her own.

Shaking off the memories, Nevander pulled on his sparring leathers. It’d been too long since he’d had a good workout and he knew exactly where to go to fix that. He padded toward the sparring court, a wide open space nestled within the grounds with high stone walls encircling a broad area covered in fine, packed sand. It was nowhere near as expansive as the castle’s training area, but the family home required a smaller number of guards.

The whistle of a blade slicing through crisp morning air reached him before he saw its wielder. A large man with a shaved head and carrot-colored beard dominated the yard, his figure-eight pattern smooth yet lethal.

“I know you’re there,” the man barked without turning.

Nevander’s lips quirked. “Still have that second sense, I see.”

The man swung around, his grin wide, revealing a row of perfectly white teeth, a stark contrast to his ruddy complexion. “Nevander, you old sailor. How the heck are you?”

“Declan, you look uglier and uglier every time I see you.”

Declan’s laugh boomed off the stone walls, free of court pretension. “That’s what comes from being the biggest and baddest of them all.” His keen eyes scanned Nevander, lingering on his shoulder. “Your left’s sitting lower than your right.”

Nevander’s jaw tightened. Of course, word of his injury had spread. “Well, if the captain of the royal guard can’t beat me back into shape, no one can.” Declan had served the Ravenbluff family since he was old enough to hold a sword, relentlessly slashing his way to the top of the ranks.

“I’ll take that challenge.” Declan’s grin faded. “Ever since Prince Dane’s death and your sister going back home, I’ve been guarding a shadow. A resentful shadow.”

Castien.

“I’ll see what I can do.” He and Castien had spent more than one misty morning here, pummeling each other during their teenage years. Yet now, Castien didn’t look strong enough to hold a sword, much less swing it.

Declan raised an eyebrow. “Good luck. It’s been even worse since he’s risen from bed.” He sliced his sword downward, as if cutting away his annoyance. “Walks around like a frozen corpse, just waiting to join his brother.”

The gravity of Declan’s words settled like a weight on Nevander’s shoulders. He’d have to challenge Castien somehow, appeal to that pride still pulsing beneath the prince’s chilled exterior. But where to start? Castien was the most stubborn person Nevander knew.

“How is Ciana?” Declan asked, his bluster softening.

Nevander’s eyes narrowed, catching the shift in Declan’s tone. The brute’s eyes had gone all soft when he’d asked about his sister. This was interesting. Ciana had spent almost eight years here at the estate before returning to Lionskye. Had something happened between them? Not that he would know. He’d hardly spent any time with her in the past two years. A pang of guilt shot through him, but he shoved it away. “That harpy? She’s getting fat.”

Declan’s nostrils flared, eyes hardening. “Get in the ring, weakling. Let’s see if we can beat some of that smart mouth off you. ”

Nevander laughed, picking up a sword. Oh yes, one thing was clear — Declan was in love with his sister.

Kallessa’s eyelids fluttered open to the buttery rays of midmorning sun filtering into their room. How had she slept so late? But it was no wonder, considering everything that had happened the previous night. That horrible man at dinner, the curtain incident, and Sunu. What was her family’s horse doing here?

Beside her, Dovina slept peacefully, hands curled under her cheek, golden curls cascading across the pillow. Without her usual snooty expression, she looked soft and young, like a seventeen-year-old should. Kallessa’s chest tightened. Poor spoiled Dovina. Was there any hope for her?

Her stomach growled, shattering the serene silence. Quietly, she slipped out of bed and tied on her dressing gown. Two envelopes lay on the floor in front of the door.

She picked them up. The smooth paper felt luxurious, the handwriting a work of art with sweeping flourishes and intricate curls. She’d never seen her name written so beautifully. This letter was definitely going in her keepsake box at home.

After placing Dovina’s letter on the nightstand, Kallessa poured a glass of water, gulping it down before breaking the seal on her own envelope.

Lady Kallessa,

We cordially invite you to join today’s festivities. Please grace us with your presence at the south courtyard by one o’clock, before the last chime of the bell. The competitions will commence precisely at two o’clock. Further instructions will be provided upon your arrival. Kindly dress appropriately for the lawn games.

Lawn games? What were lawn games? When she was younger, before her exile from the Wynlar estate, her family went to plenty of social occasions. She’d played her share of card games, board games, and she was a pro at charades, but never lawn games. And how did one dress for that?

She glanced at the still slumbering Dovina. She could ask her, and Dovina would probably answer, all the while sneering at her stupid, unsocialized cousin. Nevermind, she would figure it out herself, like everything else.

A glimmer of hope sparked within her. Would Prince Castien be there? This might be her chance to tell him about her split skirts. Maybe she could even wear them. They were perfect for physical activities, right?

The aroma of bergamot tea wafted through the air, mingling with the scent of toast and bacon. Kallessa’s mouth watered, but the thought of navigating the vast estate filled her with dread. Who invited this many people to their home, anyway?

She escaped to the adjoining bathroom. This had become her favorite room in the suite. Beside a large window sat an enormous tub. Copper piping ran down the wall, ending in a spout that brought forth water with the simple turn of a knob. The rush of hot water cascading into the tub was like magic. Kallessa sank into its warmth, a groan of pleasure escaping her throat. After two weeks of this, she’d feel completely deprived having to haul and heat her own water at home .

Only her outrageously growling stomach finally convinced her to leave the tub. After twisting her unruly curls into a knot, she pulled out her split skirts. Her fingers caressed every familiar stitch. While not as fine as Dovina’s wardrobe, she’d used the best cotton and picot she could afford. The cheerful spring green was wrong for the season, but it would have to do.

Kallessa donned a simple white shirt and dark blue belt to complement the skirts. She strapped on her sturdiest boots, too. No need to stumble over herself in public any more than necessary.

Taking a deep breath, she steeled herself. It was time to face the day and, hopefully, the prince. Even with butterflies in her stomach, she couldn’t risk fainting from hunger in front of him. Plastering what she hoped was a pleasant expression on her face, she reached for the door handle.

Kallessa arrived early to the south courtyard, the folded estate map inside the spacious pockets she’d sewn into her skirts. There was nothing worse than carrying things around in one’s hands that could easily go into pockets. Why did men’s trousers get to have all the fun?

Breakfast had been a pleasant surprise, being served in one of the receiving rooms. She’d eaten her fill of a pomegranate mousse and baked apples with cranberry chutney. And a flaky scone that she dipped in milky dark tea, rich with spices she couldn’t discern .

People stood in small circles, eating and chatting, so she’d found a chair in a corner and ate in peace. Everyone was content to leave her alone, just the way she liked it.

Yet now, the courtyard teemed with anticipation, the air alive with the conversations and laughter of fellow guests. Banners painted with dragons and crescent moons swayed gently in the breeze, while lanterns hung from towering oak trees, their vibrant colors a stark contrast to the autumn foliage. Kallessa’s gaze drifted upward, catching sight of the waxing crescent moon high in the early afternoon sky. It was a picture perfect fall day.

If only it weren’t full of chaos and noise.

The clang of horseshoes, thud of arrows, and whack of croquet mallets rang through the yard as guests warmed up for the games. As she walked past a tittering pair of younger women, dressed in low-heeled boots and skirts that grazed their ankles, she heard them saying something about a prize too.

She really needed to get her hands on that schedule.

Prince Castien held court in a sunny part of the lawn, his outfit a stark contrast to the day’s warmth. He wore woolen black trousers and a dark blue overcoat. A fur-trimmed hat crowned his glossy dark hair. She was sweating just looking at him. It had to be seventy degrees out, the autumn sun warm, and only the slightest breeze tickled the golden leaves in the surrounding massive oaks.

What was his story? She should have listened closer to Dovina’s gossip, she supposed, but she hated gossip. Many times it was incorrect, and if not, at least mean spirited.

Across the yard, a cluster of people gathered around a man with an air of rigid precision. His black and white suit, crisp cravat, and gleaming buttons matched his stoic expression. He guarded a pristine white table bearing a polished mahogany box, its brass hinges glinting in the sunlight. That was a man that took his job seriously. Whatever it was.

“Name, please,” he demanded of each person in line, his wax pencil scratching against his pad with each response.

Kallessa’s palms grew clammy as she approached. “Is this for everyone?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Did you receive an invitation to the games?”

She nodded, her throat suddenly dry.

“Name, please,” he repeated, impatience coloring his tone.

“Kallessa Dahoko.”

He flipped through the pages, each flick of the wrist dislodging a muted rustle. A swift swipe of his pencil as he crossed off her name, and then he shuffled through a box before handing her a card. After that, he completely dismissed her, looking to the person standing behind her.

She wandered to an unoccupied bench under a great oak and sat. The bench was pleasantly cool, and out of the eyes of onlookers. She opened the envelope to reveal the number 18 in gleaming gold script—a number that anchored her to a part of this festivity, somehow.

The clock tower’s imposing gong for a quarter to one sent vibrations through her body, raising goosebumps on her arms. Don’t make a fool out of yourself today, Kallessa.

The lineup before the table had lengthened, a colorful caterpillar of guests wriggling with an almost tangible excitement. In its midst, she spotted Dovina and tried to wave to her, but she didn’t see her .

She walked up to her cousin, the springy grass now flattened under so many feet.

“Dovina, do you know what this is all about?”

“Didn’t you read the schedule?” Dovina’s tone dripped with condescension.

Kallessa would have, if Dovina hadn’t snatched it up, holding it like a drake and his treasure.

“I don’t know where it is.”

Dovina rolled her eyes. “We are to be assigned our teammates for the games. I heard that the queen herself was responsible for the matches.”

“We don’t get to pick our own teammates?”

“What’s the fun in that?” Dovina’s eyes sparkled. “By the way, I met the most interesting man last night at dinner. He was dreamy, but I still have to meet the prince.”

“Have you found a way to meet with him?” Kallessa asked.

Dovina inched forward in the line, Kallessa moving with her. “No, but I’m sure I’ll find a way. Perhaps today. Isn’t he handsome?”

Kallessa glanced towards Prince Castien. The crown must have blinded Dovina, because to Kallessa, he just looked... tired. Fatigue shadowed his pale face, and his back was ramrod straight, as if he was trying entirely too hard to convince those around him he was fine. Yes, he was handsome, but something marred his features, something too deep for her to figure.

As the clock tower’s bells tolled one o’clock, Dovina triumphantly got her card. “I’m number 40. My table is over there. What number are you?”

“Eighteen. ”

Dovina’s gaze darted across the clearing, her bottom lip jutting out. “Of course, you get to be next to the prince’s table.”

Kallessa’s heart leapt into her throat. Sure enough, the table nearest the prince bore a placard for numbers one through 30.

“Don’t blow your chance, cousin.” Dovina grasped her arm, her grip uncomfortably tight. “And put in a good word for me.”

“Oh, of course.” Kallessa murmured as her chest tightened. This was her moment. The one that might change her life. As long as she didn’t botch it up.

“You’re out of practice, old man.” Declan laughed, his voice echoing through the courtyard. He wasn’t even breathing hard.

Nevander felt like an old man. His shoulder throbbed, a deep ache radiating down to his fingertips. Nearly a year, and still the wound haunted him.

The rest of his body felt pleasantly beaten, muscles being worked more than they had in months.

“It feels good to be back in the ring.” Sweat dripped relentlessly from his forehead, tracing a path down his face and stinging his eyes. He bent over, his palms braced against his hips, trying to catch his breath.

“Now if we can just get Castien in here,” Declan muttered.

“I know.”

Nevander needed time to figure out Castien. Over two years had passed since he’d spent any significant time with him. And time had altered them, turning them into unfamiliar versions of themselves. Although the essence of his childhood friend was still there, Castien almost felt like a stranger.

The bell in the courtyard rang one o’clock, stretching out across the midday air, knocking Nevander out of his ruminating. If only he could go bathe his sore muscles in a hot tub, but no, he had to show up to the games.

“Your prince has a wicked sense of humor, you know that?” Nevander said as he stood and groaned.

Declan chuckled as they returned their weapons to the racks. “Glad I’m just a lowly guardsman. No need for me to play in ridiculous games.”

Nevander wiped down the cool iron of his sword with a towel before mopping his face.

“Care to bet on a proper fight?” Declan asked.

So Declan still fought in underground fights. Even though they were illegal in the country, it didn’t stop half the lords and ladies from showing up and betting on him.

Nevander wasn’t sure how he felt about that. “Sorry, my every moment is scheduled this week.”

And Nevander knew, with a bitter certainty, that if he faltered, if he failed to arrive on time, Castien would tell the entire court about the failed prince of Dracia, the one who let everyone die.