Page 8 of Veiled Flames (Destiny of Dragons #1)

Five

Rosomon

W alking several steps behind Father and my two younger brothers, I step into the banquet hall, my body moving as if my joints have been fused with iron bolts.

In two long lines, courtiers bow as we pass. Normally, most of these men have straightened their postures by the time I go by, but tonight some show me the same respect as my male relatives. I suspect I’m the last to know of my upcoming nuptials.

I must look on the bright side. Finally, I am to be of use. Finally, I’ll have value. Finally, I’m going to travel outside Achotia, something I’ve wanted since I first read about faraway lands. I wish I felt more happiness, but perhaps that will come.

Tonight’s feast is already spread across three long tables—two reaching down the length of the room for the courtiers, and a shorter one stretched across the hall’s width. The head table is reserved for our family and honored guests—one of them my future husband, I expect.

The scents of venison, boar, and pheasant waft into my head, along with roasted gourds and roots. I was ravenous, after my day long ride in the fresh air, but my stomach has turned to a twisted pit of stones. None of the food seems appealing.

The horrid King of Khotor stands ahead of us, and the Crown Prince behind him to his left. Both men are wearing simple crowns, and I expect they have finer ones held back in Khotor.

Behind them stand five or six other people, a few not much older than me, and all are dressed in the finery of a royal family.

The books I’ve read about Khotor were scribed before I was born and recounted only the current king and his eldest son.

I don’t know who the others might be, or which prince or nobleman I’m expected to marry.

I stop five paces behind my father, the place I’ve occupied ever since I could stand on my own, and I can’t hear as the introductions are made. My mind is incapable of turning sounds into anything with meaning.

The stones in my belly churn like they’re caught in whirlpools at the narrowing of a river.

“Princess Rosomon.”

My name snaps me out of my stupor. Olifer is standing in front of me, empathy in his kind lavender eyes that so resemble mine and our mother’s. “Sister, are you well?” he asks softly.

I nod, and my stiff neck pinches.

“I am to present you to the royal family of Khotor.” Olifer extends his arm to me, in the same way Alfryd did earlier.

I place my hand gently on my brother’s forearm, and he guides me toward the visiting party. I didn’t think much about the men’s appearances when I saw them earlier. Not beyond the bulbous belly of the King, and the Crown Prince’s cruel face.

The King’s hair, what little there is, is silver and wispy, and the Crown Prince, who earlier wore a cap, sports well-groomed indigo hair, nearly as dark as Sky Stallion’s, punctuated by a few streaks of silver.

I’ve never seen a soul with such dark blue hair and wish the tomes I’d read had colored illustrations.

I curtsy in front of the King.

He grunts. “I suppose she’ll do.”

I keep my eyes cast down as the old man walks slowly around me, as if inspecting a piece of meat his cook might roast for dinner.

Olifer presents me to the Crown Prince, and I dare to flick up my gaze.

Could this be the man I’m expected to marry?

He’s at least the age of my father, having thirty years more than I, but he’s handsome enough.

His features are strong and well set, and his skin tone reminds me of freshly cut stonewood—fetching in contrast to his deep blue hair.

I flick my gaze toward the Crown Prince’s eyes, the deep green of an evening forest, hoping to find a glint of kindness inside the malice of his temperament.

But I see nothing beyond indifference. Indifference is something I’m well used to, and it’s better than the cruelty held in the tight curve of this prince’s lips.

This is the man who suggested the servant girl needed a drilling.

A young woman, close to my own age, steps forward. She’s introduced as the Crown Prince’s wife, and I’m equal parts shocked and relieved.

I’m not meant to marry the Crown Prince.

That’s a relief. He already has a wife. Unless Princes of Khotor take more than one bride?

The young princess is strikingly beautiful, her hair bright gold, like fresh corn in the sun, and her complexion’s far paler than her husband’s, but not as pale as mine.

Some have compared my skin tone to silver or moonlight.

“In which kingdom were you born?” I ask the young woman.

“Silence.” King Vyktor slaps the back of my head.

I lurch forward. The room spins, and I struggle to maintain my balance. I glance toward my father, but he’s turned away.

“Women should be seen— never heard.” The king strikes me again, this time even harder and over both of my ears at the same time. My dizziness amplifies, and I find it hard to remain on my feet. It’s impossible to keep tears from my eyes.

“We heard you were feral.” The King grips the back of my neck and squeezes. “No matter. Any wench can be tamed.” Tightly squeezing the back of my neck, he forces my head forward, and I cast my eyes down.

When the King releases me, I feel bruises rising in place of his strong, boney grip, and I slowly lift my gaze toward my father. This foreign king’s words and actions are as much an insult to the King as to me. Red has bloomed on Father’s cheeks, but he won’t even look toward me.

Olifer shoots me a sympathetic glance, and Alfryd’s hand twitches, like he’s fighting not to unleash his sword. At least my brothers stand ready to defend me. Yet, neither has acted.

I expect they were briefed on the importance of this transactional marriage. In fact, they may have known about it for weeks—perhaps a full moon cycle—and neither whispered so much as a hint to me.

“And this is one of my grandsons, Prince Tynan,” the despicable King says.

They brought a grandson.

This prince must be my future husband. Nerves swirl in my belly. Even if this young man is hideous and humorless, even if he’s cruel, at least my husband might be someone born within the same ten years as I have.

A pair of highly polished boots step into my line of vision. But I dare not move—not even to adjust my gaze—lest I be struck again.

Prince Tynan’s shadow, cast by the roaring fire behind him, lengthens as he leans forward, and the temperature around me noticeably rises. This prince smells of lemons and poplar wood, and I feel as if I’m drifting, as if the air has become infused by some kind of luxurious intoxicant.

I quite like the scent of my intended. But my continued light-headedness’ is likely less about this prince’s scent and more about the lingering effects of his grandfather’s blows to my head.

“Look up,” he whispers. “I dare you.” His lips are so close to my ear I feel his breath. “I’m not entirely repulsive.” He leans back.

Slowly, I dare let my gaze rise. Above his shiny black boots, I discover deep green breeches, so tightly fitted I can’t help but notice the shape of his legs, and how his thigh muscles bulge as they rise above his knees.

The impressively muscled thighs stretch strongly toward solid hips, and his jacket, formed from the same deep green velvet, cuts his body just below his waist. Two rows of golden buttons flare over his chest—very broad in contrast to his lower half.

When I finally lift my eyes higher, I gasp.

The prince is striking. The most attractive and tallest man I have ever met—even more handsome than how I imagined the stranger under the cloak in the woods. Could it be the same man?

No. This man’s scent is different, his eye color too, and although both men are tall and muscular—at least compared to the men in my family—Prince Tynan is taller and houses remarkably different energy.

My stranger exuded immense, restrained power, but this young prince is like a coiled spring ready to explode.

Prince Tynan is freshly shaved, and his jawline is sharp, almost as if one might cut their palm against it.

And above his jaw, hollows emphasize prominent cheekbones, framing a nose so finely shaped it might have been carved from hard stone.

His hair is the same indigo blue as his father’s, but with no hint of silver, and curls spring out from his head in several directions at once, dancing around his ears, as if he took no time to groom himself for tonight, as if he’s just come in from horseback riding.

A smile creeps onto my lips, and I let myself hope that riding could be a past time I might share with my husband.

Perhaps he’ll even allow me to ride alongside him.

Perhaps even astride a horse, rather than being handicapped by the sideways position the Tenets of Othrix dictate for women. Hope for my future rises.

Our eyes meet.

My belly flutters and heats, just as it did during my ride with the stranger.

Prince Tynan’s eyes are green like his father’s, but far brighter, sparkling like spring meadows after a rain.

And much more importantly, in my future husband’s eyes I sense humor and mischief, along with other things I cannot name. Things that excite me.

“Like what you see?” he asks.

His words snap me out of my thoughts. How long have I been staring?

The young prince is smirking, clearly understanding that I’ve been admiring his appearance, and suddenly his mischievous look seems closer to arrogance. My cheeks flush, and I bite back my urge to either deny the truth or make light of it—or to point out that he has been similarly studying me .

I dare not speak. Not within his grandfather’s striking range.

Dread invades all the hope in my heart. If Prince Tynan learned how to treat women from his elders, my future will be miserable.

I calm my fears, telling myself that while this man may be arrogant, I saw no cruelty in the Prince’s eyes. Cruelty that radiates from both older men so strongly they may as well be wearing signs declaring their malicious dispositions.

“She’s comely, Grandfather,” Prince Tynan says. “Well done.” He smirks as he steps back.

My future husband finds me attractive. Pride and hope warm my chest.

A princess, his sister, is introduced, but I barely hear a word. And then Alfryd steps forward and bows as he brushes the princess’s hand against his lips.

Everyone laughs, and I wish I could tell whether it’s because they don’t recognize the custom, or whether they’re delighting in my brother’s obvious attraction to the young princess.

“Perhaps it’s this pair who should wed,” Prince Tynan says.

His words stab me. He doesn’t want me. Or is he, too, wishing he didn’t have to marry on command?

“She is acceptable,” King Vyktor says to my father. “Our accord is struck.”

The old king grabs my upper arm, his fingers digging into my flesh as he gruffly yanks me forward. “Come,” he says. “Stand behind me as I feast. Tonight, you shall keep my wine challis full, and my belly stuffed.” His eyes narrow. “After we are wed, you will find many more ways to serve me.”