Page 5 of Beast and Remedy (The Last of the Heirs #2)
A Complete and Utter Disaster
N ear the threshold of the ballroom, I blend in with the shadows as I sip on my wine, leaning against a wall and observing the ridiculous spectacle of the celebration.
While the staff come and go through the entrances, the musicians’ station near the tall stained glass windows and play lively tunes.
They sway, drifting into a place of harmony and celebration as couples dance in the center of the room, allowing others to greet Papa and his two advisors and friends, Jean and Pierre, by the dais.
Marian lingers near my family, socializing and laughing with perfect royal elegance.
I breathe into my cup, savoring this moment of solitude. I made it two hours through this charade before contemplating when I could escape without upsetting anyone.
During the first hour, my father introduced me to a few noblemen and coerced me into dancing with each of them. And while being here is part of my duties, doing anything with anyone other than him is what guts me.
I constantly have to shove down those feelings, and yet, I can’t help myself.
The clinking of glass beckons the music and dancing to a halt.
Peering through everyone, Papa’s tall, round frame demands attention.
His wavy, slicked-back hair, once as mahogany as mine and Marian’s, fades with each passing year.
It matches his thick beard that is overshadowed by his rosy cheeks from the heat and mass amount of freckles surrounding his large nose.
With a cup raised, he scans the crowd. Looking for me.
Marian bids goodbye to a group of people, and I gulp down the remainder of my wine before passing through the crowd to join my loved ones.
“My friends! It is an honor to have so many of you here tonight to celebrate my two beautiful daughters, Vivienne and Marian,” my father greets everyone with joy and vigor.
Pierre summons a staff member as I approach, and the worker extends their tray for me to rest my glass on.
Papa’s first advisor is tall, with a slender frame, hunching slightly so my own height matches his as I straighten my posture. His blue eyes pierce through mine, a silent reprimand paired with the constant grimace he wears.
His bitter view on life creates an intimidating version all are meant to see, but Marian, Papa, Jean, and I always try to see who can succeed at getting a hint of a smile from Pierre each new day.
Jean, Belmur’s second advisor, stands next to his partner. He is the nicer of the pair, his oval face long and his build slender. A strong jaw shapes the gray beard he scratches as he catches me from the corner of his eye and winks.
A ghost of a grin lifts my cheeks as I stand next to Marian, who gazes at my father as he addresses each guest in his booming, cheery voice.
“Let us share a toast for Belmur’s princesses. May your nine-and-twentieth year of life be a delight as you both continue to shine a light upon us all! To Vivienne and Marian!” He raises his glass higher to the beige stone ceiling.
The chant is repeated as everyone follows their king, taking a sip of their wine as the music resumes.
Marian squeezes my hand twice. She turns, and I squeeze hers in return as more staff enter the ballroom, carrying trays of precut cakes sprinkled with sugar and cream.
Papa spins to us, beaming and clasping our shoulders, pushing us together. He kisses our cheeks as his laugh vibrates in my ears. “My girls.”
He drags us against his tan velvet vest, smelling of wine, sweat, and light cologne.
We break apart as his two friends step forward.
Gone is the hint of amusement in Pierre’s blue irises, vanished faster than it appeared and replaced with the mask of an advisor as his husband, Jean, smiles sweetly.
“Happy name day, Princesses,” Jean chimes in a kind voice, offering us each a piece of cake.
“Thank you.” I take the plate and help myself to a small, appropriate bite, Marian echoing her gratitude as noblemen and women converse and dance.
“Remember to socialize, Vi,” Pierre murmurs.
Jean elbows him. “Don’t scold her too much today. It is her name day, after all.”
Pierre grunts as my father laughs through a mouthful of food. “Jean is right. We should count ourselves lucky she hasn’t asked to leave yet.”
I choke on my food.
So much for that idea.
I cough a few times as Marian pats my back. Nodding my thanks, I clear my throat. “I have danced with a few noblemen. That counts as socializing.”
Pierre hardens his gaze. He’s the reason Papa has been pressuring me and Marian into finding husbands these last three years. He vocalizes his old beliefs, saying the two of us at our age should be settling down and furthering the family line.
An eye roll of a statement.
He is not Yeva, the Deity of Life, so he cannot force my womb to grow of its own accord. And he cannot force me into an arranged marriage when he and Jean had the chance to fall in love. As did my father.
Papa tries to advocate for us, but I think, deep down, he knows his time is running out. Hence his pushing again this evening.
My own stare matches Pierre’s steeled expression, daring him to see what will happen if he keeps pushing me.
“King Vinzent! An honor!”
My father’s voice addressing new guests forces our masks into place.
It’s Marian’s turn to cough.
We dip into perfect curtsies as the King of Northtry and a younger man step forward.
King Vinzent is a stark contrast to Papa. With a shorter stature, his onyx crown rests on his matching black hair, giving him a few inches to appear more intimidating. His brows are furrowed, reducing the size of his brown eyes observing each of us, a mustache enhancing his smug expression.
“King Bernard, it is a pleasure. So rare are occasions that grant Northtry time to visit our allies,” King Vinzent the Bold says, voice low and raspy.
Rumor has it the nickname he coined was due to climbing through the military and social ladder of Northtry. Known across all Draymenk for being the best swordsman, a dual wielder, and his strategic background, one would believe he was granted gifts from the Makers.
But his wife, Queen Zarina, now deceased, was also rumored to have magic, so it’s uncertain if power passed to her heir or has been with her husband due to the one rule we’ve all been taught from birth.
Do not share your abilities with neighboring kingdoms.
The commandment was set by the Makers when they appointed six bloodlines to carry a fraction of their magic.
For Belmur, Mama was the descendant, and even though she has passed and transferred her gifts to me, her next heir, Papa, remains king until his death to help maintain the secrecy we’ve all been sworn to.
It ensured each ruler would be mindful and grateful for their territory, their ability, and keep the power equally divided amongst the six—five now—regions.
“Right you are, Vinzent!” my father chimes. “I’m sure you can relate when I say children’s name days are a perfect reason for a gathering.”
Vinzent peers over his shoulder at the crowd. “Indeed. However, I am surprised no other kingdoms are present to honor your daughters.”
“Yes, you know most have their own dealings to manage. But did you not hear the news?” Papa asks with enthusiasm. “Queen Tove is with child. We are planning to visit them for the Celebration of Spirits.”
Remembering my own interactions with the King and Queen of Palaena, my thoughts drift to the last time I saw him at a masquerade ball almost five years ago…
Sweet Makers.
“I was unaware of the news. I should offer my congrats in my next correspondence.” The King of Northtry’s voice drags my attention back. “Children are true blessings. My son and daughter are my pride and joy.”
“I feel the same.” My father tilts his head toward Marian and me.
My twin clears her throat. “Prince Stefan, a pleasure to see you this evening.” She smiles and gulps.
Is she nervous?
I glance to the man beside King Vinzent, realization dawning.
The Prince of Northtry, tall and broad, wears a onyx crown like his father’s over slicked-back brown hair.
The only warmth from him is his deep golden complexion, the rest of his appearance is cold, dark, and calculating.
From his russet irises to his solid black ensemble and sharp bone structure, the man is intimidating. He is devastating to behold.
It’s been ages since I’ve seen him last.
Or it’s been a while since you’ve paid anyone good looking notice, Vi.
Prince Stefan’s hooded eyes fixate on my sister and me as he smirks and bows. “The true pleasure is beholding your beauty, Princesses. May I have the honor of the next dance with you, Princess Vivienne?”
Marian stiffens, and I blurt, “Actually, I—”
Pierre cuts me off with a cough, a clear and subtle reminder of my duties .
I groan internally as I alter my statement. “It would be my honor, Your Highness.” I offer my twin my plate and her saddened features have me adding, “With the promise you will offer a dance to my sister.”
“I wouldn’t want it any other way.” The prince winks, and Marian inhales sharply.
“Th-Thank you, Your Highness,” Marian says through her reddening cheeks.
The song reaches its end, applause echoing through the ballroom as Prince Stefan offers me his upturned palm.
I twist to the King of Northtry. “Thank you for visiting Belmur, Your Majesty. We are grateful you and your son could attend and hope to continue our peaceful alliance with you.”
“Happy name day, Princess Vivienne,” the king replies as I accept his son’s hand, letting him guide me to the dance floor.
Prince Stefan wears the same smug expression as his father when we face each other and position for a waltz.
My height is close to his, and I appreciate how I won’t have to kink my neck for socializing with him. But the instant his touch meets my waist, unease and discomfort return as it did with my other dance partners tonight.
The wine and cake churn in my gut, and the pang of longing clamps around my heart.
My melancholy soul shudders. Withers.