Page 13 of A Frozen Pyre (Villains #2)

Seven

Gwydir, Raascot

Ophir ran a hand along the bodice of her gown.

The dresses in Gwydir hadn’t been nearly as constricting or formal as those in Aubade, but this was a special occasion.

She knew this dress had been tailored with Caris in mind.

It was an off-white shade of blush with the tiniest flecks of starlight interwoven throughout the soft chiffon of the wide, flowing skirt.

The dress hugged her torso and breasts, offering structure and support while keeping her upper chest and shoulders completely bare.

The sleeves began in the same flowing chiffon material halfway down the shoulders and draped all the way to her wrists.

It was the single most beautiful dress she’d ever seen in her life.

If this was merely something intended for their banquet with Raascot’s inner circle, she wondered idly what stunning piece of moving art they expected her to wear to the wedding.

One attendant had wrenched Dwyn from her side, forcing the siren to go on ahead to the party while the other servant fussed with Ophir’s hair for twenty more minutes.

In the end, her left side was swept back with a tight line of tiny, hand-painted cherry blossom pins, fastening her slicked hair just behind her arched ear.

The rest of her gold-brown hair tumbled down her back and over her right shoulder in loose, shiny curls.

Her lips had been lightly painted, her eyelids smudged with a shimmer, ending with a thin swipe of charcoal to line the outer corners.

When the servant finished, she escorted the princess to the hall.

“Good luck in there,” the servant said.

The princess offered a skeptical look in return.

Ophir stepped into the banquet hall and gave the room an anxious scan. She was looking for Dwyn, but before her eyes found the siren, a bent elbow extended to her.

“You look beautiful,” Ceneth said, if a bit woodenly.

Ophir’s jaw clenched as she looked at him. It was true. She looked lovely. Dwyn had told her so. She’d even seen herself in the mirror and thought as much. Yet hearing it from Ceneth sounded worse than not hearing it at all.

She’d seen him scores of times on his visits to Aubade, and even once on an ambassador mission to Raascot.

He was conventionally handsome, not only in the ways that fae were beautiful, but with a distinctly rugged edge to his jaw and remarkable flecks of amber in his eyes.

Tonight, he wore a rich shade of navy blue, dressed to match the blue eyes of his would-be betrothed.

Looking at him made her uncomfortable, if only because she had no good reason to dislike him.

He wasn’t unkind. He wasn’t rude. He wasn’t anything.

“You don’t have to say things like that” came her quiet response.

She didn’t think he could make it worse, but he did.

“You look a lot like Caris tonight,” he said.

Ophir didn’t know what to say. Perhaps she had more in common with Ceneth than she gave him credit for.

They shared a single shattered heart over the princess who should have lived.

It would have been a different event entirely if Caris had been the one slipping her fingers over his arm.

She would have overseen decorating the banquet hall in colors that celebrated both of their kingdoms. She would have played the cheery role of hostess, greeting and hugging and laughing as she intermingled with her new subjects.

Ceneth’s face would have creased with smiles as he watched his wife-to-be.

The music would have been bright and lively. The food would have overflowed.

Instead, a solemn harpist plucked her chords in the corner while civil chatter filled the room.

The decorations were pretty but modest. Eyes fixed on the couple as they walked to the head of the table, arm in arm.

Ceneth pulled out her chair and Ophir slid into the seat as he took his place beside her.

The moment she sat down, her eyes caught Dwyn’s anxious stare.

As a guest of the castle and personal friend of Ophir’s, she’d been extended grace and sanctuary.

She was clearly deeply uncomfortable as the men ogled her.

She wrinkled her nose in distaste at the attention of strangers and busied herself with her drink.

She was a vision in an icy shade of blue—a color just as fitting for a summer day as the sparkling winter snow.

Ophir’s mouth twitched into a smile as the siren locked eyes with her and mouthed a single plea: help .

Dwyn would have to fend for herself tonight.

“I’ll make a toast,” Ceneth said, “and then you should say a few words. This is our last dinner with just the citizens of Raascot before our foreign guests arrive. It doesn’t have to be much. Keep it short, but the people would appreciate it.”

Ophir swallowed. “I’m not sure if I’m comfortable…”

His brow creased, but he didn’t argue with her. Instead, he looked over the rows of tables throughout the banquet hall and distracted himself with glances at civilians and nobility alike. “I’m going to make the rounds. Please consider it, will you?”

She wasn’t sure if Ceneth truly needed to speak to other people or if her answer had been so wholly disappointing that he couldn’t sit beside her a moment longer. Ophir twisted the cloth napkin in her lap until she felt lips brush against her ear. Keeping his voice low, Tyr whispered at her side.

“Just tell them you’re grateful to be here and that you look forward to a long and peaceful relationship between your kingdoms.”

“But—”

“Shh, don’t talk. They’ll see your mouth moving as you speak to the air.”

Ophir made a small, frustrated sound but kept her mouth shut.

Tyr kept his voice so low, it was practically imperceptible.

Ophir leaned forward over the table, and he rested a hand against her back as he spoke.

“I’ve done laps around the castle, and I’ve learned a little that might be worth knowing.

Do you see the fae the king is with now?

That’s his primary advisor, Evander. From what I can tell, his skin is impenetrable.

That means if you needed to kill him, you couldn’t do it with flame or a hellhound. ”

“Vageth.”

“I said: don’t speak.”

Ophir’s fingers flexed as she fought the urge to make fists. Her eyes flitted around the room to see if anyone was eyeing her suspiciously, but no one seemed to be looking at the unwanted princess. She slipped her fingers around her knife to squeeze it for effect.

“The woman to Evander’s left? Her name is Onain.

They’ve brought her in for advice on at least two of their meetings.

She seems to be a military liaison to the castle, though it’s unclear if she’s a native to Raascot.

I haven’t uncovered her abilities yet. The advisors have never said anything with much clarity, but they do take her word for things when she weighs in.

She does not appear to be a threat to you and has offered no negativity about your upcoming marriage. ”

“Did he ask—”

“How many times am I going to have to tell you to stay silent, Princess?”

She wiggled her back in an attempt to shake his hand off, but he left the weight of his palm against her spine.

“I’m going to go listen in on their conversation.

Ceneth’s right. Please, just say a few words.

When the ambassadors show up tomorrow, you’ll need Raascot on your side, at the very least. Keep it simple.

You’ll do more harm if you stay silent, and you don’t need the critical eyes on you. And Ophir?”

She tilted her head expectantly.

His lips brushed against her temple. “You look breathtaking.”

The moment the warmth of his hand left her back, she felt a crippling wave of abandonment.

Ophir’s chest squeezed with a terrible anxiety as she forgot how to breathe.

She wasn’t sure what brought it on, but between the unfamiliar faces, the new foods, the judgmental gazes, and the inability to have the comfort of her friends, she felt suffocatingly alone.

A viselike grip twisted her lungs with cruel, unforgiving hands.

Her breaths came out in shallower and shallower gasps until the people on either side began to cast worried glances.

The moment Dwyn saw her, she was on her feet.

Decorum be damned, Dwyn crossed the banquet hall and walked directly for the princess.

Half of the heads in the banquet hall turned to watch her as she breezed past them, but they may as well have been invisible to her.

She rounded the long table to stand in the empty spot that Tyr had vacated only moments prior.

“Are you okay?” Dwyn asked.

“No,” Ophir answered, still unable to breathe.

Dwyn slipped her hand over Ophir’s only to realize she was still tightly clenching the knife.

Ophir released the utensil, and it clattered to the table with a dull thud.

“Let me grab a chair,” Dwyn said, excusing herself.

She made idle chatter with a nearby attendant until a chair was fetched and squeezed into the place beside Ophir.

It banged rather noisily against the floor and table as it slid into a spot that it most certainly did not fit.

It wasn’t proper. It wasn’t elegant. But Ophir needed her. Court politics wouldn’t get in the way of her readiness for emotional support.

Ophir caught Ceneth’s creased forehead as he glanced up at the commotion.

His look wasn’t one of disapproval but of some resigned, sorrowful acceptance that his life was destined to be filled with deeply unfortunate absurdities.

She broke eye contact first, hoping Raascot’s king would resume whatever conversation he was having with the advisor Tyr had called Evander.

She peeked through her curtain of hair to see Ceneth clasp the man on his shoulder as he continued to walk around the banquet hall and address others.

“Firi, talk to me,” Dwyn said quietly. “You looked like you were having a panic attack.”

“I am.” Ophir struggled through the two simple words, tears threatening to spill over. “I can’t breathe. I can’t—”

Dwyn reached under the table and pinched her thigh with excruciating force. Stars exploded in Ophir’s vision from what would surely be a magenta bruise in the morning.

“Fuck!” Ophir realized too late she was cursing aloud. Several heads turned as she made a half-assed attempt to twist it into a smile, forcing a laugh as if she’d just been told an obscene joke. As soon as the curious partygoers looked away, she narrowed her eyes, hissing, “What is wrong with you?”

“Are you angry?”

She bared her teeth. “Yes! Of course I’m angry!”

“But can you breathe?”

“I…” Ophir’s tirade stopped short. She checked in with her body.

The red tingle of anger had replaced the shallow, squishing anxiety that had consumed her only moments before.

Its ruby glimmer ebbed as she examined her thoughts, her feelings, wiggling her fingers, testing her toes.

She took a careful breath in, then released it.

Ophir looked at Dwyn to protest, but her lips only moved noiselessly.

“You’re welcome,” Dwyn said, squeezing her hand.

Ophir was vaguely aware that people would have noticed their pairing even if they’d operated with perfect, stately behavior.

Instead, Ophir had choked on air, yelped, and then promptly held hands with the strange Sulgrave friend.

Ophir dared to glance at Ceneth, expecting a disappointed glare for sure this time.

Instead, she had the odd sensation that he was both aware of her actions and pointedly ignoring them. It was worse, somehow.

“Thank you,” she said at last.

Ceneth nodded to the guests before beginning his return to the table.

She didn’t release Dwyn until the moment she felt comforting, unseen fingertips slide down her back.

The tension leached from her body as she leaned into the touch.

Ceneth pulled out the seat beside her, then offered a hand. She took it, standing at his side.

The gentle tinkling of cutlery on stemware silenced the chattering in the dining room as conversations ebbed and faces turned in polite attention.

Tyr left his palm flatly against Ophir’s back while Ceneth addressed the audience.

“Thank you for joining us,” Ceneth began. His tone was bright and his words were warm, but the emptiness behind his eyes fooled no one who’d known pain. “Princess Ophir and I are so pleased to announce the joining of Farehold and Raascot. Your support of this union means the world to us.”

Ceneth tilted his chin slightly, and Ophir understood the gesture.

He was asking her if she wanted to speak, rather than giving a command.

It was subtle enough that, should she decline, she could merely sit.

It was one of the many things that made their marriage sadder, somehow.

She would have preferred that he be cruel.

She could have hated him if he were boorish, or offensive, or cowardly.

He was none of those things. They just didn’t love each other.

She squeezed his hand gently, surprising them both as she spoke.

“Thank you for welcoming me to Gwydir,” Ophir said.

Her voice was a bit too soft for someone of noble upbringing, but then again, she’d never been one for royal proclamations.

She’d preferred to get drunk on watchtowers with Harland while avoiding the obligations of a monarch. But those days had come and gone.

“I’d like to acknowledge something,” she said.

Ceneth tensed beside her. The entire room sucked in a quiet, anxious breath.

“There’s no integrity in pretending this is the future we’d planned.

There’d be no honor in expecting you to see me as the queen on Raascot’s throne.

” She looked at Ceneth, and he looked back at her with gentle concern.

She returned her gaze to the people. “I loved my sister very much, and that’s something Ceneth and I have in common.

A love for Caris, a love for our countries, and a hope for unity between Farehold and Raascot.

This is my toast. Not for warm wishes, or for marriage, but to a better, unified tomorrow. ”

Tyr flexed his fingers supportively against her back.

Ophir clutched her glass, and Ceneth was quick to follow.

“To tomorrow,” she said.

“To unity,” he concurred.