Page 24 of Kingdom of the Two Moons

Melody

The evening unfolds like the previous one. A lot of wine, syrupy delicacies and glasses garnished with pink cricket salt. The crowd is too beautiful to be real. Too beautiful for me to ever become used to.

I glide among more lithe, painted bodies and elaborate dresses stitched with fantastic motifs, not daring to look toward the lounge where Caryan and the other high lords were sitting last night.

It’s only when we serve the dinner course—rabbits stuffed with dates and hazelnuts and some other things I can’t name but which Chef sneaked me—that I glance over, only to find Caryan is not here.

My heart skips a beat.

Will he come? Does it matter?

Instinctively, I find myself reaching out to search for his power, trying to sense it. A strange part of me is relieved when I feel him close. As if knowing he’s close calms me. What the hell is wrong with me?

I shake my head as if to clear it, grabbing another tray that comes straight out of the kitchen before I head in for another round. I’m tired from the long days and lack of sleep, too tired to spot the man in front of me—Kyrith’s blond, shoulder-length hair, and angular face. Too busy looking at the ground again for feet and petals or other things that have found their way on the floor .

I bump right into him, like yesterday. The tray in my hand comes loose and hits the floor. Glasses shatter and everything is awash with shards and spilled liquid.

His hand slaps me so hard I feel my lip burst. I taste blood in my mouth. I fall to my knees. Bracing myself with my hands, splinters plunge into my skin. I swear, grinding my teeth against the pain, my head dizzy, still catching up.

“You spilled wine on me, you useless whore,” Kyrith growls at me. He grabs for my hair.

Before I know what I’m doing, before I realize my own, newly won speed, I’ve drawn the dagger that dangled from the hilt on his belt and sliced down his forearm in a neat cut.

Blood spills as he pulls his arm back. I slide backwards, away from him over the floor. The crowd parts, gaping, making room for me… and him. My heart lodges in my throat as I take in his hateful gaze, transfixed on me.

I’ve to fight my way out of here. Or die trying.

My hand curls around the dagger as he comes for me. I throw it and it lodges in his shoulder. He flinches but doesn’t stop, rage flaring in his eyes.

I’m dead. I know it when he growls, “You!”

A moment later, something barrels into him, driving Kyrith into the wall at the very far end of the ballroom. The stone cracks and fractures as his body collides with the stone.

For a second, I glimpse Riven, holding Kyrith by the throat, both surrounded by a wall of dark fire.

I blink, and Kyrith…

Is right before me. Riven’s hand holds nothing but air.

“Get me the fucking whip!” Kyrith growls, and I know I’m not going to survive the whipping. Not me, a half-fae something. Not when Kyrith does it.

“No whip.”

The whole party pauses as a wave of power shakes the room so violently I mistake it for an earthquake. Or thunder. More glasses tingle, tumbling to the ground, plates following .

Not an earthquake, I realize slowly, as the crowd parts, heads lowered, some bowing, others falling on a knee and making obeisance. It’s Caryan who has spoken. He’s appeared out of nowhere behind Kyrith, stepping out of a ripple of purest night. Although he looks calm on the outside, I can see his aura is a black storm.

“Take her to my quarters, Ronin,” Caryan says without taking his eyes off Kyrith, who stands right before me, frozen mid-motion like once in Lyrian’s house.

Everyone’s gathered to look at him, at Kyrith, then at me on the floor, when the red-haired high lord steps in. I feel him lift me up by my shoulders before he takes me by the elbow and gently steers me toward the hallway.

I let him, my head still dazed from the slap. Blood is dripping everywhere on the stone floor, leaving a lurid trail. I’m not sure whether I cut myself on the shards or whether it’s Kyrith’s. I don’t really care.

In the hallway, Ronin’s voice finally startles me. He says, “I don’t need to tell you that, if you fight, the result will be much worse than what Kyrith just did.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve learned that already.”

“Not well enough, it seems,” he replies, gesturing for me to lead the way, as if he doesn’t want to walk behind me. As if I could somehow be the dangerous one. Funny.

I obey, my face throbbing in pain with every step, with every violent beat my heart performs in my chest. Ronin guides me down a corridor I’ve never been to before and finally pauses in front of a huge, double-winged stone door. The head of a creature that is partly dragon, partly lion, with horns and long teeth, is embedded in the wall next to it; an exact replica of the one Nidaw spoke to on my first night here.

Its eyes flicker to life with bluish flames when Ronin stops in front of it.

“I’m bringing the Dark Lord’s slave.”

“You mean the Dark Lord’s lady ,” the head corrects him .

“The last I heard, she was still his slave,” Ronin snaps at the head.

But the head just replies coolly, “I’m rather rarely mistaken, Lord Ronin,” before the blue fire in its eyes expires and one side of the door swings open as if by an invisible hand.

I enter a huge room, larger than all the others, apart from those where the celebrations are held, the walls so high I almost can’t see the ceiling in the dim light. They are made of the same foreign, dark and gold-veined stone as in the hall, but the floor is different. It’s a dark, matte, ashy wood that looks like velvet and is just as soft under my bare feet. The front of the room is opened, and the warm, dry, still-heated desert wind blows in.

Two other massive, winged stone doors on either side suggest more rooms, but they are closed.

Caryan’s quarters.

I pause in the middle of the room, feeling lost, my arms wrapped tightly around myself, braced against whatever awaits me.

Ronin’s face is hard and his amber eyes cold when I look back at him. He has two swords strapped down his back and is not in an outfit for celebration but for battle—boots and clothing reinforced with leather on knees and elbows. He looks like a warrior, despite the fine features of his face that seem almost feminine. Another glance at his eyes, and I know nothing good is in store for me.

I attacked a high lord. They will whip me. At least. Will Ronin do it? The iciness in his eyes makes me hope not.

He leans against a wall next to a modern, wooden bar, stocked with beautifully cut decanters and liquids that dance in the scarce light, his arms crossed, his gaze trained on me like a weapon.

I keep my head low, but I can still see his aura. Feel it rather. It’s pure pain. A loss so deep it has cut right through him like a ravine, splitting him in half. And anger. The furious red wafts wrap around the core of sadness as if they can hide it from the world, from himself too. Hold him together.

He frowns, as if he is hearing an invisible voice. “You stay here and touch nothing. ”

He’s already crossed the room toward the door. It swings open and then shuts me in.

I allow myself to let out a shuddering breath. My face still hurts badly. I don’t want to see how I look. Tears well in my eyes, and I blink them away. It all feels too much like life with Lyrian. The pain, the violence. My helplessness. That I can’t fight it because everyone here is stronger and faster than me.

I hate it. Hate to be locked away day in, day out.

More useless tears stream down my cheeks unasked, until I wipe them away. Crying has never helped me, has only ever made things worse, so I try to guide my attention toward my surroundings to take my mind off the inevitable.

At least this isn’t a cell, it isn’t the dungeon. Not yet, my inner voice snaps, but I shut it down.

Touch nothing. This means that there must be something around worth touching.

I slowly walk up to the bar, looking closer at the shimmering liquids held by the bottles. If I drink something, will it numb me? Numb me enough to make it easier to handle the pain?

But I don’t dare to reach out for one of the decanters. Instead, I stride toward the double-winged door to the left. It swings open.

“I assume my master’s lady likes to read, so enter,” another ornamental head, twin of the one embedded in the wall outside says, the same bluish flame dancing in his eyes.

It takes me a moment to respond, to snap out of the surprise. “Thank you. How did you know?” I ask, and the door chuckles. It actually chuckles .

“As I said to Lord Ronin before—I’m rarely mistaken.”

I nod, whispering another thank you as I enter a room similar in dimension to the first, with the same wide front, only with bookshelves stretching from bottom to top. The three walls are filled with the colorful spines of books, indirectly illuminated by a warm light that seems to gleam somewhere behind them.

I step closer, carefully touching the back of a book so old I’m afraid it will fall apart in my hand. But the strange words on its back seem to burn from within in a dampened, eerie green, in a type of writing I’ve never seen before, turning brighter at my touch. As if the book’s calling me, impatient to be opened.

“The section in your language is down the room. There’s even some literature from the human world.” A voice behind me, so close, though I heard no one coming.

I swivel around, only to find Caryan standing in the doorway, his eyes red and scary. He, like Ronin, isn’t dressed in celebratory attire but all in black. Battle gear, I think, though I spot no weapons on him—this is all I glean before I lower my head.

Maybe you don’t need a weapon when you are one yourself.

He steps into the room, and I feel the already familiar pulsing of his power as if it’s reaching out to me, running up my body. In response, my blood rushes in my ears. I sling my arms around myself again.

Caryan pauses next to me, and it’s all I can do not to run, not to retreat even a step when he reaches out and takes the book I was drawn to off the shelf.

It seems to nestle into his hand, as if it likes his touch, before it falls open and reveals pages with more of those signs and symbols that gleam blue in the light.

“Some of them can be dangerous for the wrong person to touch,” he says.

I try to find my words while his power brushes against my skin once again, even stronger than before because of his proximity. It’s dark, coming off him in a wavy black mist. But what had been a storm full of black lightning before has ebbed to something gentle and velvety that wraps around me now. Soft like the night, longing for the silvery light of the moon and the stars.

I study the symbols, trying to focus on them instead of on his scent which engulfs me—the invisible twin to his magic. Something in me flares up then. A strange kind of… recognition, as if—as if I could decipher this text if I spent a little more time with the book.

“Those are runes. Old runes. One of the elder languages,” I say, surprising myself with the knowledge. Woah. Where did that come from ?

But the book starts to wave its pages at my words, like a bird flapping its wings. Caryan stretches out his hand for me to hold it.

I glance up at his black eyes, his irises still red but waiting, and I gently take the book from him, placing it on my open palm. The book ruffles its pages one more time as if satisfied before nestling against my skin like it did with him. I can’t help but reach out with my other hand to gently stroke its back like I wanted to before.

“What—what does that mean? That they’re dangerous for the wrong person?” I whisper, still watching the book.

“Some of them like you, some don’t. They tend to get barbaric when someone they despise touches them,” Caryan answers in a tone I can’t decipher. “But this one seems to have taken a liking to you, so keep it.”

“A present, for me?”

“It’s about silver elves. You may read it one day,” he retorts in the same ambiguous way I can’t interpret.

“Thank you,” I whisper. I don’t know what else to say. I’ve never gotten a present in my life before.

I don’t dare to look up at him again, not when he’s this close. Not when all my blood seems to hum with his very presence, his scent wrapped everywhere around us, his power brushing up against something under my skin. Instead, I look at his collarbones showing through his V-cut shirt. Stupid.

Involuntarily, my whole skin flushes with heat at the knowledge that his skin is only inches away from mine. That only yesterday, my lips had touched that very spot.

What the hell is wrong with me?

I look down to the floor quickly, my eyes tracking the patterns of wood.

“You are shaking,” he says.

I bite my swollen lip so hard it hurts, but fight for the strength to ask, “You’re going to punish me, right?”

Better to have it out. He knows anyway, can sense everything about me. My treacherous, feverish heartbeat, the rush of adrenaline, the heat coming off me. All the confusion, my thoughts running so wild and in despair. And all those other things that make no sense to me.

Better to focus on the brutal part.

I need to get it over with. I will survive. I keep telling myself that, over and over, like a mantra.

When he doesn’t answer, I glance up again, only to find him scrutinizing my face, the red in his eyes streaked with hues of midnight blue now. He’s so utterly beautiful, no matter how cruel he is, I will always find him beautiful, I know.

But to my surprise, he asks almost gently, “I am?”

“You are angry with me.” My voice is no more than a hush.

“I am?”

I cringe. This is a game. A cruel joke, like Lyrian played so many times on me. Telling me he was not angry and then making Hunter and Kayne pay me back for weeks.

I feel Caryan’s anger too keenly, see it in his aura. Something pulsing under the midnight veil of fog, ready to break free. Something red and violet and violent, burning in dark flames.

When I dare to look up at him again, I find his eyes resting on my split, swollen lip before they flick up to mine. I whisper, “Sorry,” and look down again, chastising myself, wondering when I will ever get used to this—to being a slave. Or to his eyes, to the golden veins that have started to leak back in, mingling with the red and blue.

He retorts, “I am not.”

“You are. I can see it all over you, in your aura,” I say too quickly. I bite the inside of my cheek. Stupid. Maybe I’m just utterly damn stupid.

“I didn’t know you had that gift,” he admits. “Well, then let me be precise: I am angry. But not at you.”

I want to ask who else are you angry with . Instead, I say, “I tried to stab a high lord.”

“With his own dagger. After he slapped you. I don’t know the last time anyone managed to cut Kyrith’s skin open. In front of my whole court, that is.” His voice is genuinely admiring, almost surprised. “I’m sure he won’t forget that anytime soon. ”

“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.”

“You don’t have to be. He won’t touch you again, I made sure of that.”

My heart stops at the sudden darkness in his tone. In his aura. I remember how Caryan said that Kyrith would find himself without a head the next time he so much as touched me.

Next time you decide to speak like that to your king, or touch something that’s mine for that matter, you’ll find yourself without a head . Isn’t that what he said last night? That he would kill him. Kill Kyrith, because he touched me . Something that is mine . That’s what I am, his property and nothing more, I remind myself.

But it doesn’t match the gentleness, still in his voice when he asks, “How do you feel?”

Lost. Hurt. Helpless. Angry. Confused.

I recoil at the sudden movement of Caryan’s arm. And just as in the dungeon, I hate myself for it.

I hold my breath as tender fingers probe over my raw skin a moment later.

“Look at me,” he demands, and I do, feeling the strange rush of sensation when looking into his eyes, of being, for once, allowed to see what I long to see. More blue, more gold, but subtle, just a little gleam of red in the background like a sunset in a dream.

I can’t help but think that there’s something vaguely familiar in his features. As if I’ve seen him before. Somewhere. It was in a dream . He was in a dream. But before I can grasp that thought, that revelation fully, it slips away again.

I swallow at the way his eyes drink in my face. Resist the strange urge to lean into his touch.

My gaze falls to my hands again. “Why am I here?”

“Because of an arrangement with Lyrian,” he answers too neutrally, evasively.

“Why am I really here?”

He hesitates for a second, irritation flickering over his features. “Because you’re unique to this world. ”

My mouth goes dry. I swallow, then ask, “You’ve never seen a half-blood before?”

“No, not a human half-blood.” His hand brushes back my hair to reveal my round ear, the curve of my cheek, the shape of my neck; gently, before he pulls it back. But his eyes keep roving over my skin with some kind of rapt curiosity. “I must admit that even I have not. I think only a few ever have.”

I don’t have it in me to ask whether this makes me a special trophy. Something… extraordinary to keep and show around. Is that why he wanted me? Why he traded me?

The question burns in my mind, along with so many others. What about my mother… my father?

But I’m not ready to ask. Not now. Not here.

Not when I’m all alone with him.

Eventually, he says, “Go. Sleep. It’s already late.”

I turn to get away as quickly as possible when the sound of his voice makes me pause midway. “And Melody—”

I glance over my shoulder. “Trying to run would be foolish.”

My heartbeat stutters. Does he know? Did Riven tell him? “Because you’re going to flay me. Got it.”

“Because monsters roam this realm,” he counters, ignoring my remark. “Monsters that come straight out of the nine hells.”