Page 8 of Warrior Princess (Blood Weaver Trilogy #3)

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T he air grew even cooler as we approached Keldara's capital, a stark fortress city built against a backdrop of towering mountains. The city's walls, which were constructed from the gray stone of the surrounding peaks, stood imposing and formidable against the twilight sky. As we neared the massive gates, the clatter of our horses' hooves echoed off the stonework, announcing our arrival.

Guards in heavy armor with stern faces under the shadow of their helmets manned the gates. They scrutinized us closely but stepped aside the instant they recognized Mykal, their expressions shifting from suspicion to respectful wariness. Mykal nodded slightly, a silent command that was promptly obeyed, and the heavy gates creaked open to grant us entry.

Inside, the capital was a blend of rugged aesthetics and stark functionality. Stone buildings lined the cobblestone streets, their structures utilitarian and fortified, designed more for defense than beauty. Torches flickered against the stone, casting a warm light that flickered across the banners of Keldara—depicting a bear and a crown—fluttering in the evening breeze.

We dismounted in the palace courtyard, a vast expanse surrounded by high walls and watchtowers. Servants hurried forward to take our horses and Mykal led the way across the cobblestones towards the grand entrance of the palace. The doors were enormous, carved from dark wood and reinforced with iron. As they opened, a gust of warm air scented with spices and hearth smoke wafted out.

The inside of the palace was a stark contrast to its austere exterior. Rich tapestries hung from the walls, depicting the storied history of Keldara—battles won, alliances forged, and kings crowned. The floors were covered with thick, plush carpets that muffled our footsteps as we walked through the opulent halls.

The hallway led to a grand audience chamber where the throne of Keldara stood—a massive chair of dark wood and iron perched atop a dais lined with red velvet. The room was dimly lit by iron chandeliers, their candles casting a soft glow that illuminated the throne and the intricate mosaic on the floor, made of colored stones portraying Keldara’s emblem.

Mykal spoke quietly as we approached the chamber. “This is where you'll meet King Eduard. He's a man who appreciates directness and strength, so be forthright with him. Your only hope rests on this meeting, Leila.”

I nodded to show I understood, even as a sense of unease began to form. “Okay... so when will he arrive?” My voice echoed slightly in the vast, empty throne room.

Mykal cleared his throat, a hesitant gesture that did little to ease my growing apprehension. “Well... I haven’t told him about you yet,” he murmured, his eyes not quite meeting mine. “He doesn’t know you’re here.”

My eyes widened in disbelief. “What?” I exclaimed, my voice reverberating off the high stone walls. “You brought me here without his permission?”

He grimaced, and an expression of regret flashed across his features. “Sometimes it’s better to ask for forgiveness than permission,” he offered, his words sounding more like an excuse than reassurance.

“Not with a man as unpredictable as King Eduard!” My astonishment was tinged with a hint of panic. “He’s going to kill me,” I murmured half to myself as the reality of my precarious situation sank in.

Mykal quickly grasped my shoulders and turned me to face him. His grip was firm, intended to steady both my body and my spiraling thoughts. “No, he won’t,” he asserted with conviction. “I won’t let that happen.”

My face must have paled at his words because his expression softened slightly. “He’s the king, Mykal. If he wants to kill me, there’s not much you can do.”

He wore a determined expression. “I’m his adopted son. There’s much I can do. Don’t worry. Now, stay here while I go speak with him. I won’t be long.” He gave my shoulders a final reassuring squeeze before he turned away and strode towards a door set deeply in the shadowed wall, presumably leading to the king’s private quarters.

Left alone in the throne room, I took a deep breath and allowed my gaze to wander up towards the towering ceiling. The room was an architectural marvel, built to intimidate and impress. Vaulted ceilings soared overhead, supported by vast columns that lined the room, their surfaces carved with intricate bas-reliefs depicting Keldara’s storied past. The air was cool and smelled faintly of old stones and lingering incense, a scent that seemed to permeate the very walls of the palace.

As the enormity of Keldara's palace enveloped me, I felt both awe and a profound sense of isolation. The room had been artfully designed to exude power and authority, yet it felt like an opulent cage. Each decorative tapestry and echoing footstep reminded me that I was very much alone in a foreign land, waiting on the whims of a mercurial king I had never met, in a place where the grandeur of the past loomed large over the present.

As minutes stretched into hours, a gnawing worry began to consume me. Mykal had assured me he wouldn't be long, yet there I was, abandoned in the echoing vastness of the throne room, each tick of the clock amplifying my unease. The delay could only mean that King Eduard was displeased with my unannounced arrival, an ominous sign not just for me but potentially for Mykal as well. If the king chose to punish Mykal for his unilateral decision, I would be truly isolated in a land that remained a steadfast adversary to Valoria.

Just as the weight of my isolation pressed down upon me and tempted me to flee back to the safety of the Grasslands by any means necessary, the heavy doors at the back of the throne room swung open. A young servant, all skin and bones, her dull brown hair escaping in frazzled wisps from a hastily tied bun, entered carrying a tray. On it was a single goblet and a decanter of what appeared to be wine.

“Your Highness,” she greeted with a slight bow, extending the tray toward me.

Curiosity about Keldaran wine flickered within me, but under the circumstances, indulging in alcohol seemed unwise. I needed a clear mind to navigate the complexities of my current predicament.

I stepped back to maintain a polite distance. “No thanks.”

The servant looked surprised, her eyebrows arching high. “Your Highness, Commander Mykal insisted—”

“Where is he?” I cut her off, my patience thinning.

“He—” She was clearly caught off guard by my directness. “He is dining with the king.”

A hollow laugh escaped me as I ran a hand through my tangled hair, grimy from the journey. “Is he really? Well then, I guess I’m not needed,” I declared more to myself than to her as I strode towards the doors.

The sound of the tray clattering to the floor halted me. The servant rushed after me, placing herself between me and the exit. Her actions were desperate, almost frantic.

“Your Highness, you cannot leave!” she insisted quietly, her eyes flicking nervously behind her before settling back on me with a wince.

“And why is that?” I asked, folding my arms across my chest defiantly.

She leaned closer and dropped her voice to a whisper. “The king has placed guards outside the throne room to stop you from leaving. Please, Your Highness, stay here. I will bring you whatever you need. Commander Mykal has assigned me to be at your beck and call.”

My frown deepened as I assessed her, trying to discern if her intentions were genuine or if this was another layer of the king's machinations. Clearly, King Eduard didn’t trust me if he’d already taken measures to confine me within these walls. This prolonged waiting was indeed a power play—a typical move to assert dominance. I snorted disdainfully at the realization. Gods, some men are so damn stupid, I thought. Absurdity of the situation briefly overshadowed the gravity of my predicament.

I sighed, resigned. “I don’t need anything.” I spun on my heels and headed back to stand near the dais, my mind racing with thoughts of escape and negotiation. “What’s your name?” I asked more gently, turning to look at the young servant who was hurriedly gathering the tray and wine which, by some miracle, had not spilled.

“Diane,” the servant replied, her voice soft yet clear. She straightened and carefully balanced the tray. “Please call me Diane, Your Highness.”

I nodded, then my gaze drifted back to the empty throne perched imposingly on the dais. “Would you like to keep me company, Diane?” I suggested, motioning toward the vast, ornate space around us that felt far too large for just one person to occupy.

“If that is what Your Highness desires, I will.” Her posture remained formal, yet there was a hint of relief in her voice.

“Tell me about Keldara.” I leaned against one of the cold stone pillars that lined the room. “Are you happy here?”

A prolonged silence stretched between us, heavy with the weight of her answer. Finally, Diane spoke, her voice barely above a murmur. “It’s a hard life here. But I live better than those of the Crimson Clan.”

“Do the people of Keldara agree with the enslavement of the Crimson Clan here in Keldara?” I probed further, seeking any information that might aid my understanding of the political climate.

Diane pressed her lips together, her expression troubled. “I don’t think they disagree, because if it’s not the Crimson Clan, it would be us from the lower class forced to take their place. We don’t want that.”

Her answer was disheartening, yet it painted a clear picture of the dire social dynamics within Keldara. “But you’re tired of war?” I pressed, hoping for an ally in this seemingly indifferent servant.

She nodded slowly. “Yes. We’re exhausted. It seems we’ve been at war with one nation or another for centuries. It’s never-ending, and the people of Keldara are tired.”

That was something—a flicker of common ground. But it was a slim thread to hold onto. I was about to delve deeper when Diane suddenly paused, her eyes shifting toward the doors.

“Your Highness… you should know—”

Her words were abruptly cut off when the heavy doors swung open. I turned sharply, my heart skipping a beat. An older man with a stern, weathered face framed by a crown of pitch-black hair stepped into the throne room. His presence commanded immediate attention. His dark eyes, sharp and calculating, swept the room before settling on me. Regally dressed in ornate robes that spoke of power and tradition, his bearing was undeniably that of a ruler—a man accustomed to being obeyed.

Behind him, Mykal followed, his expression unreadable but tinged with tension. The dynamic between the two was palpable; the king moved with the assurance of absolute authority, while Mykal’s stance was that of respect mixed with a subtle undercurrent of defiance.

The king’s gaze was intense, probing, as if he was trying to discern my intentions from a simple glance. As he approached, the room seemed to shrink and the air grew oppressive with the gravity of the moment.

This was King Eduard of Keldara, the man whose decisions would either herald peace or prolong a bitter conflict.