Page 17 of A Frozen Pyre (Villains #2)

Zita gestured to the man at her side. “This is my advisor, Hassain. And serving as my second is my companion, Suley.”

“Pleased to meet you.” Hassain dipped his head.

Suley tilted her head, hundreds of long braids spilling to the side.

The woman’s mouth twitched as if it was a struggle to refrain from speaking.

She eyed Ophir skeptically, brows arched as she studied the princess.

Suley dragged her gaze slowly around Ophir, as if not looking at her but through her. She did not bow.

Zita had the timeless, unquestionable elegance of a monarch who’d reigned for one thousand years.

While her black dress hadn’t deviated too dramatically from the fashion of Tarkhany, she’d wrapped herself in a floor-length fur shawl in matching black to stave off Raascot’s chill.

She needed no adornments, no jewels, no bangles or crowns for the room to know of her sovereignty.

She wore a gold band atop her head with royal beams radiating outward, resembling the dawn and its light.

There were no gems, no embellishments, simply the gold bars that created a halo around her ethereal face.

Suley, on the other hand, wore the divisive fashion of someone who had either everything to prove or nothing to lose.

The long braids hung to the middle of her back with two tight buns above each ear, both decorated with gold, revealing to the room that she was, in fact, fae.

She wore sharp, elaborate kohl darkening the corners of her eyes.

An interesting black tattoo emanated from Suley’s temple, cresting just above her eyebrow and just shy of her cheekbone.

Ophir spied three celestial bangles, one in each ear, and a third brilliant sunburst hooped through the center of her nose.

Ophir nearly gasped at the wave of scent that poured from Suley.

Atop the fragrant spice was a sharp, almost painful scent that reminded her of kitchen herbs, but not quite.

She couldn’t quite place the scent, though it reminded her of healer’s halls and hospital beds.

She’d never been so overpowered by a single fae’s personal perfume.

“Speak with me soon, will you?” Zita asked. “We have much to discuss.”

Ophir didn’t dare look at Dwyn.

She didn’t know how much of the room’s reaction was on Dwyn’s shoulders.

Did Zita wish to discuss how the siren had gotten behind her walls?

Did King Eero refuse to greet her because Dwyn’s arrival had preceded Ophir’s departure?

Running from Aubade and leaving a trail of carrion in her wake was hardly an action that would make a father proud.

She stole a glance at Harland.

Her former bodyguard hadn’t stopped staring at her since she’d entered. He sat at her father’s side, though King Eero still played the rather cold role of a dignitary and chose to remain neutral where his daughter was concerned.

A man spoke in her ear, too soft for Dwyn to overhear, almost as if it was little more than her innermost thoughts in a deeper voice.

“You know better than to respond aloud,” Tyr said, “but tap your finger once if you know the woman to Eero’s right.”

Ophir let her finger hover, then flattened her palm.

She did not know who’d accompanied her father.

She’d never seen the woman. Ophir frowned slightly as she looked between Harland and the strange ambassador, wondering why an unknown to the royal family would have been elevated to such important status on a mission.

“If you’d like me to find out—”

She tapped twice. No, she did not want Tyr to leave. Even with Dwyn at her side and Tyr so subtle that his voice was scarcely the volume of two autumnal leaves rubbing together as they brushed against the ground, she was terrified of being abandoned.

Ophir kept her gaze as casual as possible, touching the eyes of each ambassador as she scanned the room. She made a pointed effort not to land on any one set of eyes or let herself linger anywhere too long. Her gaze caught another woman’s as they looked up at the same time.

Suley. The one who’d been introduced as Zita’s escort.

She’d lingered for far too long when shaking Ophir’s hand, and now her eyes remained trained on her with too much intensity.

The time had come and gone for her to politely avert her gaze, but the woman stared over the piles of fruit and bottles of vintage wine. She had not looked away from them.

Them .

Ophir’s pulse quickened.

Suley couldn’t see Tyr. Surely, Ophir was being paranoid.

But the tattooed fae who smelled of spice and healing herbs wasn’t looking just at Ophir.

As it had upon their introduction, Suley’s lingering gaze slid throughout the space around her.

Ophir’s breath caught as Suley leaned to the left, pressing herself as close to Zita as possible.

She whispered several inaudible sentences to Tarkhany’s queen.

Zita scanned the room as Suley spoke, sticking intently on Ophir.

Zita’s lips tugged up slightly at the corner.

No. They knew nothing.

Ophir convinced herself that she was just anxious. There was no way they were talking about her. There was no way they, or anyone, knew anything. The Tarkhany party couldn’t see Tyr. No one could. It was impossible. And yet…

He’d seen it, too. Tyr’s motionless silence spoke volumes.

Cool air filtered in to brush her cheek as Tyr slowly pulled his face away.

The unseen hand left her back. Ophir watched as Suley’s gaze moved with painstaking slowness from Ophir like rain from a window, wandering to the left with curious intensity.

Ophir looked over her shoulder to see if there was anything worth regarding, but no.

She was looking at the empty corner in the room.

Ophir was willing to bet it was where Tyr had gone.

Ophir didn’t know how it was possible, but Suley knew he was here.

Her fear was cut short by a welcome distraction.

Ceneth got to his feet and all idle chatter quieted.

“Since we’re all present,” he began, “I’d like to welcome everyone to a long-overdue meeting of our three kingdoms.” All eyes were trained on the stately king of Raascot.

Ophir swallowed as she looked at him. Her husband-to-be.

Blue-brown smudges beneath his eyes betrayed his stress and sleepless nights.

He’d always been clean-shaven and bright-eyed when he’d visited Aubade.

His face had melted into kind, easy smiles when he’d swept Caris up in his arms. He’d glowed while clasping hands with her father and had treated Ophir with a friendly, if not mildly annoyed, indifference.

Now, if she wasn’t mistaken, he’d lost some weight.

His well-tailored suits no longer hugged his muscles.

The evidence of stubble never fully left his face.

He was still handsome, even for a fae, but he was not the man she’d once known.

“I’m happy to host this meeting,” he went on, “but it is Queen Zita of Tarkhany who’s requested the presence of our three sovereign kingdoms today. Your Highness, the floor is yours.” He gestured to her and took his seat.

Zita tapped her fingers on the table with a look that might have almost been boredom.

Ophir’s lips twitched against a smile. She’d gotten to know the woman in Tarkhany well enough to understand that her coy laughter, disinterested glances, and impatient sighs were all beautiful masks.

They invited just enough curiosity to pique the interest of the listener and offered just enough calm to cause those around her to drop their guard.

It had been a charming tactic that had worked flawlessly on Ophir, and it was one she suspected would work again now.

Zita did not stand. Instead, she said, “Today, I’d like us to share the states of our kingdoms and our hopes for future relations. Then, I request a three-day recess, after which we can reconvene and make plans for our respective futures.”

Ophir scanned the room. Ceneth nodded appreciatively at one end of the table, and on the opposite end… She’d never seen this expression on her father’s face. His eyes were tight with an unknown stress. She met Harland’s eyes briefly, but she was the first to look away. Her eyes returned to Zita.

Ceneth straightened his shoulders. “Raascot shares in the loss of Princess Caris,” he said quietly, “but the kingdom is doing well. Our numbers grow as the migration continues from Farehold, but we’ve been able to accommodate everyone.

The following season will focus on our growing need for infrastructure, but that will take a back seat to acclimating Raascot to its new queen,” he said.

Ophir’s lips flattened into a line, but she said nothing.

Eero sighed. “With the loss of our firstborn and marriage of our second, Farehold will be without an heir to sit upon the throne in Aubade in the event of our passing. Darya and I have been discussing if we will attempt to fulfill the need for another heir, or if we’ll begin to look into nobility who might fill the title when the time comes.

Our people have enough to eat, and the economy is stable. ”

Zita looked to Ophir’s side. “You, girl. You were at my palace, and yet we did not meet. I’m told your name is Dwyn?”

Dwyn looked delighted to be included in the conversation. “Indeed it is,” she said.

“And you’re from Sulgrave?”

“How did you guess?” Dwyn asked irreverently. In the interest of formality, perhaps only for Ophir’s sake, she amended, “Yes, Your Highness, I am.”

Though she didn’t appear satisfied with Dwyn’s decorum, Zita asked, “And Sulgrave is no longer ruled by an Imperator or Imperatress, correct? What is its status?”

Dwyn did not seem like a commoner at the table with kings and queens. She appeared born for the role as she said, “We did away with monarchs some time ago. We’re composed of seven independently governed districts, each with an elected Comte. Sulgrave thrives.”