Page 45 of Daughter of the Dark Sea
The Citadel was a golden fortress towering all around them.
Kora craned her neck as her eyes drank up the vast size of the place. It was four times the size of Stormkeep Fortress, and in the heart of it was a domed castle made of stone, with gold crusting every edge of every line of square. Moss caked the structure like an external protective layer.
Large windows ascended two floors, with curling panes made of solid gold, and something about the overflowing opulence tickled the farthest regions of her mind.
Outside of the golden spiral and domed castle were the outer turrets and streets of the Citadel—all made of the same gold-flecked stone and moss. Beyond, was the city, consisting of bricked homes, green slatted roofs, and gleaming glass and cobblestoned roads lined with luscious bushes and trees.
The cabal stood inside Mossfell Castle, the very centre. The beating, thrumming core of the Talmon Empire, and opulence shone everywhere Kora looked. Gold and silver candelabras, golden embossed furniture, furnishings made of silk and velvet, white marbled floors with rivulets of gold. Heavy velvet drapes tied with golden sashes matched the shade of the looming forest hugging the rear of the Citadel.
She lingered by the grand windows, memorising the view of ocean waves between them and South Wharf Station. Her scar pounded viciously, and no amount of arnica salve was soothing it. Gods damn this headache.
“Welcome!”
a male voice resonated across the large room, commanding the attention of Kora and her crew. Bree had departed once they’d arrived at the Citadel, barely glancing at her or Blake as she scurried away to her family’s estate nearby.
It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s fine.
Theron strode forward. He shook the hand of the male, his sheet of midnight hair glistened like oil. Several courtiers flanked his large form, and they dispersed, lounging on the chaises dotted around the room, luxuriating in front of the roaring marble stoned fires.
Erick followed Theron, and the male beamed, his thin lips revealing a sharp smile as he clapped Erick on the back with a rough laugh. He towered over Erick, and was broad shouldered; muscled to the point Kora knew he’d spent a fair amount of time fighting.
Eying him curiously, she slowly approached, with Aryn and Samuel flanking her.
“You’ve seen better days,”
the male chuckled at Erick who laughed back. The sound was foreign.
Blake silently thrusted his arm out for a handshake, and the male turned from Erick and greeted him coolly. As Kora neared, details came into focus. The male’s skin was weathered, his face scarred, features all angular and sharp.
“Mr Marwood,”
the male’s voice turned stern.
“Keep up the good work.”
Kora frowned. Who in the gods was this person?
His dark eyes caught hers, and she stopped dead in her tracks. Thunderstorms lurked behind his cold stare. Something about them made her freeze, her blood turning to ice as she regarded the male.
“You must be Erick’s protegee,”
he murmured, advancing past Blake to Kora.
She reached out her hand on impulse under Erick’s observant stare, and the male took her hand in his, the touch making her want to recoil. His skin was so cold, and every inch of his deeply tanned palm was calloused and rough.
“She’s turned into a fine specimen, Erick.”
His voice was like raven’s claws scraping over her skin, and she resisted the urge to snatch her hand from his.
“You’ve done well.”
She wasn’t a puppet to be gawked at, and she glowered. Since last night, she’d refused to meet Erick’s continuous stare, or Blake’s. They were all strangers to her now—just like this male before her.
“Do you know who I am?”
he asked, his lips tilting. She shook her head, too aware of his hand on hers, her fingertips numbing as his palm clenched.
“Admiral Bastion Barron, at your service.”
Barron feigned a bow, his smile sharp like a shark’s as he winked at her.
Kora’s eyes widened and she spluttered. Her idol. Her dream job.
“It’s an honour to meet you.”
Her cheeks heated, embarrassment steaming from her ears.
This was Admiral Barron?
She reined in her shock as Barron introduced himself to the remainder of the crew, the withdrawal of his grip a welcomed relief. This was the male she inspired to be—to someday replace as admiral. His portrait had never been painted, and she now understood why. The male made her skin crawl. Not like Callan did, but there was something off about him.
Meeting her idol was . . . anticlimactic.
“Welcome all, to Mossfell Castle,”
he commanded the room with ease.
“I’m grateful to have you here, albeit under such strenuous circumstances. Tonight, we will have a feast! One last ball to celebrate the Talmon Empire—our empire—before we begin preparations to quash the threat of Galen.”
His stormy gaze fell upon her and she swallowed under its weight.
His lithe, muscled frame donned a dark green waistcoat with golden buttons, overlaying a billowing white shirt tucked into black trousers. No weapons adorned him—none—and she surveyed the vast reception room. All the courtiers were relaxed, no weapons nearby to grab, no scabbards lining their belts. It was a jarring sight to her.
“Thank you for your generosity,”
Erick replied quickly.
Blake nodded in turn, his emerald gaze trained on the marble floor, his face so pale she worried briefly—just briefly—about him.
“We have a lot to discuss,”
Theron urged, Ivar grunting in agreement. Bet you do.
“All of that will come,”
Barron waved a thick hand.
“For now—rest, recover. I’ll see you all tonight. Mr Marwood,”
Blake’s head whipped up, his eyes wide.
“Follow me.”
Kora faltered as Blake followed Barron out of the door he’d entered, disappearing down a long windowless hallway. Where were they going? What were they talking about? Why would he want to talk to Blake?
“Are you alright?”
Aryn appeared at her side, his brow creasing.
Kora nodded curtly.
“He gives me the creeps, too.”
She glanced at her archer. His hazel eyes darted about, drinking in the same details she’d noticed.
“We don’t have time for a feast,”
she muttered. She couldn’t think of anything worse right now.
“Agreed,”
Aryn murmured, as Theron and Ivar bid farewell, their gazes lingering on her before heading to their assigned chambers.
“I’m going to do a perimeter check.”
Kora raised a brow.
“What? Just because we’re in the Citadel doesn’t mean we’re safe.”
Except it did . . . didn’t it? The Citadel was impenetrable, with the station nearby to vet any travellers seeking entry. Surely, they were finally safe, and could let their guard down just a little bit?
Aryn tugged on Samuel’s arm, who chatted up one of the female courtiers, her face burning crimson at his abrasive language and thick, tattooed arms. Samuel’s demeanour was a rarity here.
“No, what . . . wait!”
Samuel moaned as Aryn shoved him out of the grand room.
Leaving her alone with Erick.
His warm eyes tracked her every movement, never wavering, as if he were waiting for her to explode. “Kora?”
She stared back silently. She had no words for him right now. She needed to unpack what she’d heard last night—the legends, the lies? and she couldn’t confront him, not without revealing secrets of her own.
So, Kora turned around and stalked out of the room without another word.