Page 6 of A Frozen Pyre (Villains #2)

Three

It felt like years since Ophir had been awoken by the incessant, cordial rapping of knuckles at her door.

Her eyes flew open. Grumbling at her side, Dwyn threw the sheets over her head.

She couldn’t quite make out the siren’s irritable string of curses beneath the comforter, but she felt the same.

Neither of them was a creature of the morning.

She’d neglected to pull the curtains shut, and the first bright, golden beams of day pierced through the room.

Metallic flecks of dust caught in the light.

It would have been peaceful, if not for the banging.

Ophir struggled to slide out from between the sheets.

“Princess Ophir?”

“I’m coming,” she said through a yawn.

Dwyn flopped dramatically in bed behind her.

“Should I kill them?” Dwyn asked.

Ophir paused with one leg dangling over the bed.

Images of dried husks, of murdered bodies, of papery, drained carnage flashed before her eyes.

Dwyn’s handiwork was brutal, and it could not follow them to Gwydir.

She faced the sleep-drunk siren. “No. You can’t kill whoever’s at the door—you can’t kill anyone in the castle. Do you hear me?”

“Goddess’s sake, Firi, I was joking.” She grabbed a pillow and shoved it over her face as if smothering herself would spare her from the agitating early-morning wake-up call.

“Well, I’m not. I mean it, Dwyn. No murder.

” Ophir shrugged into a robe. She twisted the doorknob, expecting to see a meek, apologetic servant.

Instead, her chin tilted upward as she took in the tall, lithe form of a woman more fit for war ballads than for attendance as a maidservant.

Her black, angelic wings were tucked politely behind her as she stared down at the princess.

“Yes?” Ophir asked.

“His Royal Highness has requested your presence for breakfast,” she said.

Ophir did little to conceal her skepticism. “Ceneth expects me at breakfast when?”

The woman replied, “Thirty minutes from now in the dining hall. Shall I send attendants in to help you bathe and dress?”

She blinked. “Are you not an attendant?”

The woman smirked. “No, Princess Ophir, I am not. I just happened to be heading in your direction. You’ll find things in Raascot operate a bit differently from Farehold, I expect.

I won’t be returning your word to the dining hall for the negative or affirmative, so do me a favor and don’t make me look bad.

The servants will lead you to the dining hall to help you find the way. ”

The woman hadn’t offered her name, nor did she say goodbye.

Before Ophir had the ability to process the strange messenger, two attendants curtsied politely before pushing past her and entering her room.

She remained gaping in the doorway, clutching her robe while the servants opened the curtain, shuffled through the armoire, and began drawing a bath.

Dwyn grumbled her string of obscenities with abject obstinance from beneath the feathered pillow.

The servants didn’t bat an eye, laying out clothes for both the princess and for Dwyn.

“How are you dressing me to meet your king?” Dwyn asked from beneath her pillow.

“Princess Ophir,” said one, ignoring the lump in the bed, “you’re the only guest expected at breakfast.”

This snapped Dwyn to attention. She finally removed the pillow from her face as she sat up in bed, allowing the sheet to fall away from where it had been covering any semblance of modesty. Dwyn glared at the attendant. To the servant’s credit, she returned the look, unfazed.

“In the future,” said the other servant, “you’ll be able to ring this bell if you need us.” She gestured to a small rune-engraved bell near the door. “I’m sure you have something similar in Farehold. It’ll ring in our rooms, and we’ll come right to you.”

She did not have something similar in Farehold.

“We’ll wait in the hall to show you the way,” said the first. They shut the door behind them as they exited. Ophir hadn’t moved from her place near the wall.

“Make a replacement,” Dwyn said. “You’re a manifester, after all. A goddess shouldn’t have to do something that displeases her.”

Ophir looked at her five fingers, heart sagging. She dropped her hand. “If I tried to make a fae who looked like me, I’m certain the beast would come out with four heads and twenty eyes and tentacles for arms.”

“Then we put a toffee-blond wig on it and make it wear a crown,” Dwyn said with a smile.

Ophir wasn’t ready to joke. “I’ve never made anything good.”

“Nonsense,” Dwyn said. “Everything you’ve made has been spectacular. You’re a being of sheer power, and your creations reflect that. Maybe the world doesn’t understand them yet, but they will. You’re making history, Firi. Now, should we manifest a doppelg?nger?”

Her silence was answer enough.

To her credit, Dwyn dropped the issue. “Come on, then; let’s get you ready for your husband, His Royal Highness ,” she said, no hint of reverence to her words.

A chilly sort of heaviness weighed down Ophir’s shoulders at this.

Dwyn motioned as if she were a dog shaking rainwater from her fur coat.

She discarded the sleep, the unpleasantness, the angst from her skin as she looked Ophir with new, alert eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “That wasn’t fair.

You’re going to be the queen of Raascot.

Of course, I don’t want you to be forced into a marriage.

But if you’re here and this is the path you want, I’m here to support you. Let’s get you in the bath.”

Dwyn hopped up from the bed and headed toward the bathing room as Ophir asked, “Are you being supportive, or do you just want to get me in the water?”

“Are the two mutually exclusive?”

She would have been clean, dressed, and ready to meet the king within thirty minutes, had it not been for the twenty-minute distraction that occurred in the bath’s warm waters.

That being said, it put a smile on both of their faces, relieved immeasurable tension, and sent her off to breakfast as if she were tipsy from a strong glass of whiskey.

“He’s not going to be happy you’re late,” said one servant quietly as Ophir slipped out the door. She shot a parting glance at Dwyn’s smug, still-naked form as the siren leaned against a bedpost. Dwyn flicked two fingers in a salute as the princess disappeared around the corner.

“I’m sure His Majesty is magnanimous enough to understand that life can’t always happen on a schedule,” Dwyn said.

That, and that many of us are more amenable after we’ve climaxed , she thought.

A distant pocket of her brain understood that she was skating on very thin ice.

One did not disrespect a king. Then again, a princess did not run off from her kingdom and shirk her royal responsibilities.

Furthermore, no decent fae conjured demons, murdered people, and took multiple lovers in the same night without either knowing of the other’s pleasure.

Perhaps she would not make history for being the most virtuous monarch, but at the very least, she would be the most satisfied.

Her room had been tucked deeply into the Castle of Gwydir.

Within a few moments, a door opened as a servant ushered her into the dining hall.

Ophir had hoped that others would join them but was dismayed to find Ceneth at the table, alone.

Every chair had been carved to accommodate large black, angelic wings.

Ceneth’s were folded behind him in the kingliest way as he tilted his head in greeting.

He wore a tailored navy-blue dress coat that seemed to have captured the very stones of the kingdom around him.

Given that she had generally only seen him at the gates of Farehold before immediately disappearing to the wall to drink her weight in wine, she’d expected him to wear a crown of some sort, as he always had upon his arrival in Aubade.

Perhaps such showmanship was only for when he made diplomatic appearances or sat on his throne.

She idly wondered how often he’d worn it around Caris and then swiftly decided she didn’t want to know.

Ophir swallowed as she approached the table, unsure of where to sit.

He offered her a grim smile and patted the seat nearest to him.

“Please,” he said, “let’s talk.”

She didn’t want to, but that wasn’t his fault.

She didn’t want to do anything. She’d never wanted to do anything.

The sliver of soul that recognized her selfishness forced empathy to the forefront as she sat gingerly in the seat beside the king.

Ophir frowned at the unfamiliar food, but her grumbling stomach urged her to take her chances.

She scooped a number of aromatic fruits, meats, and pastries onto her plate.

Ceneth ate quietly beside her until she’d had time to digest her food.

Once she slowed to sip her tea, he was ready to break their silence.

“Ophir, I think we should respect one another enough to be honest.”

Ophir’s fingers went motionless against her teacup.

She shifted under the intensity of his stare but resisted meeting it until it became clear that he would not continue without her acknowledgment.

She fought the grimace as her eyes slowly rose to his.

Their gazes touched, then softened as they truly saw one another.

She’d known he wasn’t her enemy—not truly.

She hadn’t hated him. She hadn’t even been angry with him.

To her knowledge, Ceneth had never done anything wrong.

His crimes were that he’d loved her sister and desired a better future for the continent.

Her reluctance to be in his presence stemmed from somewhere much deeper.

“May I go first?” she asked, surprising even herself.

His eyebrows lifted. Clearly, he’d expected to do most of the talking.