Page 10

Boundary Lines

VEYRION

The crowd naturally parts for me as I escort the Eryx Oblation from their midst. Yet as soon as we clear the doors back into the castle’s main hall, I find Princess Seraphyne not nearly as respectful.

“Hey, listen, can I have one last meal before this punishment of yours begins? I’m seriously starving.”

I turn my head to squint at her. Yet again.

“Is that a no?” she asks into my silence.

“I am wondering why you do not take the repercussions for your wayward actions seriously.”

“Bet. If you want me to act scared, just get me another plate of that delicious roast meat and bread that was delivered last night. I’ll be able to act all sorts of terrified after I’m fully fueled.”

“Does your audacity know no bounds?”

“Most likely, yes. But maybe that boundary line is just on the other side of a plate of food.”

“By Eryx...”

Fortunately for her, her care remains my duty until the time of sacrifice.

I grab her upper arm and change direction, guiding her down several hallways to the place where I always eat—my private standing table just off the kitchens.

My Door Gravel must have already sent word. A full shank of roasted taarhorn waits for us, along with fresh bread and my usual morning order: twelve barnkip eggs and darkleaf tea. I typically prefer to hunt and eat my own food before moonsrise training, but this will suffice.

Her entire face lights up when she sees the meal. “Yes! This is exactly what I wanted—wait…”

She frowns up at me. “This isn’t human meat, right? There are rumors…”

I sigh inwardly. “We do not eat intelligent animals. Though we do have rituals that involve painting ourselves with the blood of our enemies.”

She gives me that blinking stare again. “So, not human meat? I just need a strong yes or no here, because cannibalism isn’t on my pre-murder bingo card.”

“What is a bingo card?”

“No idea. It’s just something humans say when they’re shocked. Or talking about stuff they really don’t want to do. Like the cannibalism.”

I sigh again. Outwardly, this time.

“This is the meat of a taarhorn—a ruminant mammal found in plentiful supply on our mountains. They are shorn each moonsend for wool, which we spin into uniforms for our gravels and Mountain Goats.”

A large smile once again reveals the curious space between her central incisors. And then I learn what it is like to be on the other side of this Eryx Oblation’s gratitude.

“Oh, my moons! Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!”

A warmth unfurls in my chest as I watch her fall upon the food, humming happily between bites and shimmying her hips with each swallow.

Between gulps of my own barnkip yolks, I find myself refilling her water glass.

To prevent her from choking, I tell myself. Not because I enjoy hearing her say “thank you” every time I lift the pitcher.

“Are you satisfied?” I ask once the taarhorn shank and half the loaf of bread have vanished.

“I mean, sure—unless there’s dessert.”

“What is dessert?”

She blinks at me with genuine pity. “That is the saddest question I’ve ever heard. You don’t have dessert? No wonder your people are so angry and violent.”

I bristle. “You mean the victorious rulers of all we survey.”

She presses a finger to her chin, eyes dramatically shifting in seeming consideration of my correction.

Right before she says, “Nah. I said what I said. If y’all reacted like that to a flower bush, imagine what a few honey cakes could do for your whole vibe.”

She then sips her water as if she hasn’t just insulted an entire kingdom.

I stare at her. Violence and something else I cannot name giving rise within my chest.

I wish to fuck her.

I wish to clear the table with a sweep of my arm, bend her over it, and prove to her—beyond all shadow of doubt—who her sovereign is.

Meanwhile, she sets down her glass and says, “It’s this way, right?”

Without waiting for my answer, she strides down the corridor that, yes, leads to my chambers.

Does her audacity know no end?

I have asked myself this question many times in the single dayspan since I first laid eyes on this insolent princess.

And the answer appears to be: No. No, it does not.

With a steaming grunt, I redouble my steps to catch up with her.

“So as not to appear as if you possess more power than I do,” I inform her, “you may walk either beside or behind me.”

She doesn’t protest the terms, simply adjusts her stride to walk at my side as we continue down the corridor.

But just when I begin to suspect she truly meant what she said about a hot meal being the key to her compliance, she asks, “So, appearances… is that why you’re still keeping me alive for another two nights even though you’re mad at me and we won’t be having sex?”

Not being able to perform an Eryx Sacrifice before engaging Solmane is often blamed for my brother’s untimely death.

This Oblation’s dying blood will give my horde the confidence we need to mount a second conquest—first to rule the other half of the lands we occupy, then perhaps the rest of Lunaterra.

I know my duty.

Yet it does not bring me the satisfaction it should, not when she phrases it like that.

I glance down at her. “It is best for things to appear as they are. I am the king, and you are the agreed-upon tribute to our moon.”

“And the king must be deferred to in all things?” she asks.

Not all things. There are rules of law, even for kings. A few remaining boundaries that separate us from chaos. And those rules are the only true barrier between her and the dark thoughts that have plagued me since she dared to molest me in my sleeping state.

But instead of saying any of that, I simply reply, “Yes.”

This answer is safer. For both of us.

“Well, I guess you put me in my place,” she replies.

But her tone suggests she is neither cowed nor planning to become more circumspect in her behavior.

For the first time since ascending the Blood Throne, I find myself unsure of what to do with one of my subjects.

On one hand, disrespect cannot be abided. It is a killing offense, worthy of moving her sacrifice forward.

On the other hand… I have no desire to do such a thing.

Perhaps because I am finding the duty of spending time with the Eryx Oblation not nearly as tedious as my father led me to believe.

Despite her audaciousness.

We arrive in the great hall, where most of the Door Gravels have resumed their posts, awaiting command from nobles who tend to sleep in until after moonsrise. Yilara is, hopefully, appeased.

But despite the return to order, many of the Door Gravels call out compliments across the hall toward my chambers:

“I love the cosmogolds!”

“Your bushes of nature jewelry are so pretty!”

“I keep sneaking outside to look at them!”

“I can’t wait to see tomorrow’s luntunias. What color will they be?”

The Eryx Oblation responds to them all with a casual cheer that does not match the punishment about to be visited upon her:

“Thank you, Doornessia!”

“So glad you enjoyed them, Doorkathian!”

“What a compliment, Doorvarkenth. Thank you so much for visiting them. Also know, they do love to be talked to.”

And to the one who asked about color: “Oh, my moons, Doorpeth, they’re the prettiest—I mean the absolute prettiest —light purple with a crown of yellow. I can’t wait for you to see them.”

How does she know all of their names?

I can only assume she must have been beloved by this princess people.

Her earlier cowardice and duplicity aside, she moves among the door staff with such ease, as if she considers them peers… or even friends.

It is… strangely charming.

And beside the point, I remind myself as we approach the arched doors of my chambers.

There will be no gardening tomorrow. I grind my teeth and make plans to lock her up by both wrists tonight.

“Question for you,” she says as we step into my sleeping quarters, now lit with several torches to accommodate her weak eyes. “What happened to?—”

Whatever she was about to say vanishes when she sees the metal basin I had my Door Gravel prepare for her torture.

But instead of reacting as my father assured me she would when he advised me in the art of quelling the oft-defiant Aralyssean princesses, her entire face lights up.

“Oh, my moons, is that a bath ?”

I squint at her. “Yes.”

“Oh, wow. You big, beautiful king,” she breathes. “I can’t believe you ordered me a bath. It’s exactly what I need after a long day of gardening under the hot suns.” She looks around. “Wait. Where’s my punishment?”

And I find myself experiencing a most unfamiliar feeling as I inform her, “ This is your punishment. I was told your kind does not like baths.”

She blinks. Then makes an odd sound from her nose, somewhere between a sneeze and a scoff. “Okay.”

Just that. One word. No further comment. Yet, somehow, it feels like she is laughing at me.

I begin removing the weapons from my body, laying each one aside with careful restraint. So I am not tempted to use them before the time of the sacrifice.

“You will strip out of your dress,” I tell her. “And I will proceed to clean your body.”

“Yes, sir,” she answers, saluting—this time with all four fingers, rather than the singular middle one she offered earlier.

I do not care for this version of a salute either. She seems far more confident— impudent , even—than the situation warrants.

But then she shifts awkwardly, her feet shuffling on the stone floor. “Would you mind turning around? And maybe letting me clean my own body?”

Here lies the difference between us. She tries to hide her defiant glee. I succeed.

“No,” I say without emotion. While doing triumphant aerials inside.

She sighs. “Okay, now it’s starting to feel more like a punishment.”

She throws her shoulders back. “One doomed-princess strip show coming right up. Let’s see if I can remember how the dancers performed at the First Princess’s pre-wedding party, back before she married the second son of Elephim.…”

With that, she begins humming a nonsense tune, lyrics improvised as she dances.

“Boo-boo-boo-boop, taking off this tunic I got from a goat…

Dah-dah-dah-dah-DAH, and here goes this dress I’ve been dying to get off for nearly two whole days… La-la-la-la-LAAAH… I guess the shoes gotta go, too.”

The dance and the song are meant to be silly—I can tell. But there is nothing unserious about how my body responds to the reveal of her bountiful curves.

She looks even softer with nothing on.

Cute talonless toes. Thick, stout thighs that look made to hold her bottom in the air while I conquer her in the name of Eryx. Ample hips—wide enough that my hands will not slip down them, no matter how hard I take her from behind. And breasts—large and round…

Nipples that tighten under my stare, budding into small stones I could pinch between my fingers.

I do not realize she has stopped singing until silence blooms in the room, tense and pulsing, like the organ no longer trapped behind my stone sleeping cast.

She breaks it first. “Are we going to, um… get on with this terrible punishment?”