Page 20 of Of Rime and Ruin (Sirens of Adria #2)

Chapter eighteen

Aethan

Go through the motions, Lucas said. Establish my kingly routine. Whatever the fuck that means.

How hard can it be?

I pull on my thickest fur cloak and exit the castle grounds. The darkwood halls give way to bright white sky, prompting me to squint and shield my eyes.

The posted guard startles and straightens at my appearance. I hesitate, letting the door hang half open as my mouth goes dry. My hand tightens on the doorknob, not yet ready to let go.

The city’s main courtyard is a short walk from my back door, but it’s been years since I’ve entered its gates. Am I afraid of my own subjects? Maybe. Or maybe they have too many warm, fuzzy feelings, and I can’t bear to see it. Happiness is fragile; I’m not to be trusted with it.

Glaciers stretch around the gated courtyard, shielding it from the wind. They taper toward the far end of the yard, opening into a wide white plain littered with small round homes of ice and leathers.

Snow falls gently, dusting the ground with cottony tufts. Footprints track across the snow, revealing dark stone beneath. Guppies play in the central garden, hiding and seeking among the large, jagged rocks and sapwood conifers. Their shrieks fill the air, blending with the chatter of market day.

Vendors camp around the yard in wooden huts, displaying their wares beneath leather canopies. Their tables are sprawled with trinkets and treats. Merfolk amble among the booths, visiting shops and clutching mugs of hot drinks.

They look happy. Well fed and warm. That’s a good sign, right? A good king has happy subjects. My stomach twists, and I look away. Their happiness is a cruel coincidence; that’s all. Lucas is right, and they deserve better.

“Sire, do you require an escort?” the guard addresses me, his voice piercing my reverie. He’s young. Merman. His ears fan out like fins, his dark hair tied in a neat bun. His nose quivers under my assessment, and his gray eyes flash in fear.

Afraid of me?

Frustration. Anger. He should not be afraid.

The rage flares cold in my stomach. My grip tightens on the knob, and I inhale sharply. Either I keep my shit together or go inside and forget the whole fucking charade before someone gets hurt.

I shrug the nagging thought away. I have no reputation for being nice . Or for leaving my home, for that matter. Why shouldn’t he fear me?

It’s only natural.

“No need. I’m just going for a walk.” I release the doorknob to pull my cloak tighter.

He chews his lip, as if biting back judgment.

“Spit it out, soldier,” I snap.

“Apologies, Your Majesty. Please, proceed.” He gestures to the square, taking a shuffled step away from me.

“Something wrong with a king taking a walk through his own city?” I toss over my shoulder, approaching the gate. The metal latch is cold in my hands.

“N-no, Sire. Apologies. I don’t mean to overstep.” The fear intensifies in his eyes.

Pathetic. I make a mental note to test the mental resilience of the new recruits, then I grunt, pushing through the gate and into the courtyard. “Trail me, if you wish.”

He follows, keeping a safe distance.

“What’s your name, soldier?” There. I can be nice, when I try.

“O-Orson,” he says.

A nice name. “Have you been posted here long?”

“Since this season, Your Majesty.”

I grunt, having nothing more to say. The snow is slippery beneath my snowleathers.

I pass the squealing guppies, watching as one of them—a small female—tackles her comrade to the ground.

The male thrashes beneath her, but she pins his hands and whispers in his ear.

His eyes widen, and he kicks her off. She rolls through the snow, laughing hysterically.

The female looks up, and her face drops when she sees me. She elbows the male, and they both stiffen, eyes wide, tracing my beastly frame from toe to face.

I clear my throat. Before I can say something, they scatter, bolting for cover behind the nearest tree like a couple of scarefish.

A smile tugs at my mouth.

Fuck. Was I not smiling until now? I massage my cheek. No wonder they fled at the sight of me.

With renewed resolve, I turn away with a whip of my cloak, heading for the shops. Smile. Look approachable. You’re their king, remember?

A king shopping on market day. There’s nothing wrong with that, right? Nothing is out of the ordinary.

I pick through the wares, fingering the bone handle of a curved hunting knife. It sits on a wide fur mat among others of its kind. I weigh it in my palm, wrapping my fingers to test the grip.

“Forty silver.” The merchant sits in a chair, whittling a stick with a small blade. His thick, dark beard crusts around his mouth, frosted where his breath has frozen.

“It’s a nice blade,” I comment. “And a reasonable price for your handiwork.”

He startles, lifts from his chair, and bows. “Your Majesty. I didn’t recognize you at first. Apologies.”

“It’s okay,” I say, placing the knife onto the furs. “I don’t get out much.”

The merchant stares flatly, then forces a smile. An out-of-tune laugh follows. “Right,” he says, hovering over his wares. “Anything I can help you with, Sire?”

“Just looking for now.” I trail my fingers over the handles, admiring the precision of the carving. He watches me too closely.

Pressure builds in my throat, and my heart flutters. I cough, swallowing the anxiety before it can spoil my mood.

Calm. Smooth. In control.

I inhale, letting the smell of smoke, leather, and crisp air fill my nose.

Dropping two coins on the mat for the merchant’s time, I duck my head to miss the canopy bar.

“Thank you! Audrina bless you, Your Majesty!” he calls after me.

I hunch into the snow, pleased with myself. There. No harm done. No explosions of temper. Only good, friendly interactions.

I can do this.

The next shop is a tailor. Clothing hangs from a wooden rung, the assortment of furs sewn into hoods, capes, and muffs.

A basket sits on the table, overflowing with knitted mittens and hats.

I approach the booth and nod in greeting to the middle-aged female merchant.

The browsing customers spot me coming and slowly back away from the wares.

The tailor shoots from her seat, slamming her knitting onto the table with a gasp. Afraid of me. She bubbles out a greeting and curtsies. “What brings you in today, Your Majesty?”

“I’m just looking.” I cringe and step back, giving her the space she needs. I forget they’re not used to seeing me. It must be as much a shock for them as it is for me.

My fingers trail through the furs, catching on a frostcat cloak.

The fur is creamy and warm next to the gray-brown fur of its neighbors.

Like a dollop of cream on hot chocolate.

I recognize the color, and as I run my thumb backward on the fur to reveal its dappled undercoat, my brow pinches.

The spy has the same gold-flecked pattern in her eyes.

Glaring at me from my throne room floor, they burned with rebellious flame.

I release the cloak, flexing my hand.

Not a spy. Princess of the Brine, she said. Freezing cold and locked in a cage. What kind of monster are you?

“That’s one of our finest cloaks,” the merchant says, shuffling closer. “My husband speared her himself, last hunting trip. Not often that you find a frostcat on the plains. A rare thing of beauty, they are. I’d be honored to see it worn in the glory of your hall.”

I pinch the corner between my fingers, already missing the touch of the soft fur. It’s a gorgeous piece. Golden thread wraps around the edge, protecting the skin from fraying.

The merchant rushes to remove it from its hanger. She holds it for me, showing off its size and length. The furs brush the tops of her toes. Judging from the width of the shoulders, it would fit the Brine Princess perfectly.

“I meant it for a female frame,” she stutters. “Might not fit the likes of you, Your Majesty. No offense intended.”

I’m already opening in my pouch, fishing among the coins. “How much?”

“No cost to you, Your Majesty.”

I grunt, dropping five gold coins into the basket before I can change my mind. “I’ll take it.” Will it match her eyes? Will it keep her warm?

My pulse thunders in my ears. She wraps the cloak for me, and I tuck the parcel beneath my arm. I glance at Orson and find the young guard watching me with stunned interest.

My ears burn. The high of the purchase plummets, and I’m left with regret twisting in my stomach.

A stupid, rash decision.

I hurry into the streets, weaving through the other shoppers. Beneath my arm, the cloak grows cold.

Why would I buy something for a prisoner? A foreign spy? She’s not welcome here. She’s not a guest—no matter how much Deirdre may wish to entertain her.

And it’s not like she can wear it underwater.

I pull my cloak around the package to disguise it. If Deirdre sees it, no doubt she’ll have questions.

Would it fit my housekeeper, instead? It could be a surprise gift. A thank you for putting up with all my shit over the years.

I clench my fists. Behind me, Orson scurries to match my increasing pace. I push harder, eager to escape into the safe, dark halls of my home.

I was a fool to take the healer’s advice.

Kingly routine? Interact with more people? How is this helping anyone? I’ll never be one of them; I only scare them. It’s the one thing I’m good for.

As I approach the center of the market, the crowd thickens. They gasp and scurry out of my path. Voices echo loudly, growing more unbearable by the second. Their eyes watch every twitch of my face.

I clamp my teeth. Suck air through my nose, out my mouth. Breath crystalizes on my exhale, pushing through drying lips.

Too many people around. Nowhere to hide.

Somewhere, a shop owner slams a door, and I jump out of my skin.

Two guppies dart across my path, and I narrowly miss barreling them over.

My heart beats quicker. The knot in my stomach bursts, and ice crawls along my spine.

Fuck.

The guppies shriek, a pitch too high, piercing and ringing through my head.

I pass them, but the ringing persists.

Like an itch inside my skull.

Louder.

Louder.

I slouch deeper in my cloak to hide the blue scales creeping from my fingertips.

Louder.

I’m through the gate now, a few paces from my back door. Orson rushes to open it for me, and I storm inside, leaving behind the wind, the snow, the voices, the chaos.

“Leave me,” I bark to the guard.

My feet slip on the floor, numb and wet.

The ringing intensifies.

I lean against the wall and grasp my skull with both hands, dropping my package. I squeeze. Hard. But the ringing is still there. Itching, burning.

Come.

A foreign voice sings through my thoughts, and the world grows still.

It sounds like a golden sunrise—warm and clear.

What the fuck?

A shiver traces my spine.

The scales crawl past my elbows. In my stomach, the Beast purrs, awakening with a burst of ice.

And then I’m running.