Page 33 of A Taste For Lies (The Apex Kingdom #1)
Chapter 33
ALORA
I can’t force myself out of bed the next day. I tell Mei I drank too much at the party, and she fetches me toast and other bits of food that pile up beside my bed where they sit, ignored.
I wish I could sleep. Instead, I lie awake, staring off into nothing. The ache is still there, dulled now, smothered by the numbness of the fog.
Maeve storms in at one point, shouting at me, but I refuse to meet her furious gaze. Eventually, she gives up. Neither Taran nor Carter would risk coming in, not with Mei sat in the corner of the room on a stool, quietly embroidering.
And then, not so quietly. A hauntingly beautiful lullaby rises, and her sweet, clear voice washes over me. I remain frozen beneath my covers. But it soothes one tiny piece of my jagged soul.
It’s enough that I can focus on Maeve’s words when she returns hours later.
“Get the tailor,” she commands. Mei jumps up and hurries out the door.
I miss her singing.
Maeve drags the stool over to the side of the bed I’m facing and perches on it, a scowl marring her heart-shaped face. “Tare searched two of the rooms you picked out on the blueprint. Both of them, nothing. But the third—he thinks he caught a whiff of the amulet.”
I stare back at her, unblinking. My heart, so dulled, detached, doesn’t so much as stir.
She huffs at my non-reaction. “It’s the old throne room. The one used by the former queen and the king. Taran won’t go in there because—well, I can’t get him to go in there, but he agreed to walk closer than he ever has before, and he thinks he may have scented it.” A note of cautious optimism creeps into her voice. “I believe we might have finally found it, Alora.”
I close my eyes at the sound of that name on her lips. At the memory of how she learned it.
“I’m sorry this happened to you. That this is the truth of your past. Clearly, I cannot begin to imagine what you are going through right now. But we need your help.” The warmth of her fingers closing over my ice-cold hand forces my eyes to blink open. “We need you to do what you came here to do and get. That. Amulet. Please .”
I pull my hand free, rolling over to face the other wall. A deep sigh, then the sound of the stool scraping tells me she’s standing. Presumably to leave. Instead, there’s a knock on the door to the suite.
“My Lady, you are required to attend to the front courtyard at once, by order of His Majesty King Elias Nyxley,” a young voice calls, high-pitched. I don’t recognize it.
“Very well,” Maeve replies, but the other voice stops her.
“Lady Thorne must attend as well.”
“Lady Thorne has taken ill and is asleep. Too much sparkling wine at last night’s ball,” she stage-whispers.
“You’ll have to wake her, My Lady, and with haste. His Majesty was very clear. Every person in the castle is to attend immediately. Your Apex will be there already.”
“What is the event?” Maeve sounds unsettled in a way I’ve never heard her before .
“I can’t say,” the voice replies firmly. “Now, I must go, My Lady. I need to inform the rest of the castle.”
The door closes with a soft thud. Maeve turns on me, ripping off my covers. I roll over to meet her wild eyes.
“Get up,” she snaps, before rushing out the door. She returns nearly immediately with a green dress the same shade as the royal crest, presumably from the dressing room. She tosses it at me, growling when she sees I haven’t moved an inch. She strides towards the bed and hauls me to a seated position by my arm, her pale fingers digging into my flesh deep enough to bruise. “You need to be dressed and in that courtyard within five minutes. If you aren’t, everyone will wonder what’s wrong with you. And if they start looking into Lady Thorne from Nostura, her dignitary grandfather, and her tiny Apex who can allegedly taste lies—”
“Noted.” My voice cracks from disuse. I slide off the bed, and she helps me fasten the dress, her fingers flying over the buttons. I locate a pair of black slippers and slide them on as she roughly drags a comb through my bedhead hair. She spares one final second to look me over, her eyes catching on the gold necklace with its two small charms.
“Tuck that into your bodice,” she hisses. Her eyes, wide with anxiety, compel me to obey. Something has her spooked.
“Maeve. What is this?”
“Nothing good,” she mutters. “Alright, this will have to do. Let’s go.” Just as she did last night, she hooks an elbow through mine, practically dragging me out of the suite. We meet a throng of courtiers, servants, and guardians, all streaming towards the front of the palace. My heart rate kicks up as the crowd’s tense apprehension begins to break through the numb cloud that’s enveloped me since Carter said my true name last night.
A wooden platform stands at the center of the courtyard, with a dais for the royal family extending out to one side. Whether by happenstance or design, the crowd has arranged itself in distinct groups. To one side are the guardians, eyes glowing and clearly on edge. On the other side, clustered between the platform and the royal dais, are the human palace staff—ladies’ maids, gardeners, housekeepers and cooks. And positioned in the center, with a direct view of the stage, is a growing throng of Elite lords and ladies trading excited whispers.
Maeve heads straight there, and I can’t help but tense, dragging my slippered feet to slow our approach. I spy Victoria near the front with her small posse, but not her father. My heart rate slows just a bit at his absence.
The royal family files in—or rather, just its human members. The crowd cheers for the king, and he waves good-naturedly before settling into his seat, his wife and young son following his lead.
“Where’s—?” I begin to ask Maeve, but another roar of the crowd snaps my gaze to a well-dressed figure taking center stage.
The adulation for Lord Winters lasts longer than for the king, and he stands there, arms wide, soaking it in. I glance around in confusion. The Elite around me are eager—they know what to expect next and are ravenous for it. I open my mouth to question Maeve again, but the words die in my throat.
A figure in restraints is being shoved onto the platform. Snarling and snapping at the crowd. Every drop of courage I’ve managed to gather drains out of me. My knees nearly buckle, and it is only Maeve’s arm in mine that keeps me upright.
It’s Ethan.
The sweet boy, always with a smile peeking out from beneath overgrown copper locks, is nearly unrecognizable. His uniform is torn, and wounds cover his body, but he doesn’t seem to notice them at all.
Instead, he’s acting like a cornered creature, his face twisted into a menacing snarl, his eyes glowing with an animal-like sheen. A raised red mark peeks out from beneath his torn tunic.
And standing behind the wild broken boy that used to be Ethan, his tormented eyes fixed on mine, his gigantic silver sword at the ready, is the beast prince.
I don’t know how he found me so unerringly, tucked within this crowd of bodies. The sword sags in his hands as I experience that same feeling again. The one from when we first met. Where everything else falls away but the male looking at me from behind silver-gray stoneclaw eyes.
Lord Winters’ voice breaks our connection. “People of Veridia.”
Another roar greets this simple address, and it takes him a few moments to calm them again, an indulgent smile playing upon his lips.
“I come before you today with chilling news.” He pauses for effect. “Another Apex has gone feral.” The human crowd gasps and shouts. One woman near me actually faints. They are already primed for hysteria, like tinder ready to be lit.
“This was a promising Apex, promoted to the palace guard.” Lord Winters’ tone is dramatically regretful. The crowd boos, but the lord admonishes them. “No, no, it’s true. Even Apex can serve their purpose. As long as we know who holds their leash!”
The cheers are deafening. Winters grabs his prince by the arm and shuffles him to the front. The symbolism is clear. Taran is the protector, the one able to scent and capture these dangerous creatures. But more importantly, he is one of the “good ones.” An Apex tethered by his own Elite leash.
Taran’s face is a block of stony rage. He speaks not a word. But it only serves to better complement Lord Winters’ narrative of a savage species that needs taming. My gaze darts to the other side of the platform to see how this story is playing out amongst the guardians. All of their eyes are shining bright, and their expressions range from murderous to panicked to carefully masked.
“I give you your protector, the Apex hunter himself, Prince Taran Nyxley!”
The crowd goes wild. More Elite women faint. Excited murmurs of “The beast prince!” assault my ears.
It’s entertainment, I realize dully. A twisted play, meticulously staged. And this lord is a master at directing it.
Winters gestures to the two guardians at Ethan’s side, who carefully escort the hostile guard to the forefront. Carter wrestles with one of the boy’s shackled arms, his eyes empty. I spot Leylah, eyes red-rimmed, dirt smudged across her face on Ethan’s other side .
The lord sweeps out of the way, giving the crowd a full view of the spectacle. A cacophony of jeers explodes. Pages scatter through the Elite crowd, handing out rotten fruit and refuse for them to throw. Props for the performance. The projectiles rain down, pelting Taran, Carter and Leylah just the same, though none of them so much as flinches.
It’s not until they’re forcing Ethan to his knees that the truth hits me like a slap in the face. I’m about to watch this innocent boy be executed right in front of me. My breaths are coming too fast, my heart is pounding in my ears, and I’m desperate— desperate —to do something, anything to stop this from happening. But I can’t. I can’t .
I surge forward anyway, a futile instinct to intervene. Maeve anticipates me, holding me back with surprising strength and hissing commands in my ear. I finally sag, defeated, in her arms.
“Don’t look,” she murmurs. But that’s impossible.
Bearing witness feels like the last thing I can give to this innocent child of circumstance, who will never shoot an arrow or blush cherry-red again. Despite that Ethan is well and truly lost to his creature—his snarling face holds no hint of a human soul—I keep my own eyes trained on his glowing pale green ones.
Until Taran raises his sword.
And cuts off Ethan’s head in one brutal stroke.