Fury Bound (The Wolves of Ruin, #2) — Chapter no 33

33

MERYN

t’s bliss not being covered in sweat and grime for the first time in ages.I The bathing chambers are as luxurious as the rest of the castle, as are the clothes we’re provided. The garments are still strikingly different from our usual attire—Astreonan clothing of such fine quality that I can’t move for fear of ripping the delicate fabric or tugging on one of the sewn pearls.

The women in our party have all been given lightweight gowns with intricate lacing up the backs, long sleeves, and high necklines. It must be court fashion, though it seems impractical in this weather.

I guess if you have the luxury of living in an enormous castle designed to funnel breezes and can afford servants to fan you, you don’t have to worry about beating the heat.

Studying my reflection in my room’s gilded mirror, I finish doing the best I can with my hair. The bright red of the dress is a more vibrant color than I’m used to wearing. The fabric makes me look as if I’ve been flayed.

Daintily flayed.

Leaving my room, I take in the rest of our party.

Stark in Astreonan clothing stops me short. He’s in loose-fitting pants and a tunic made of a similar lightweight fabric, all in shades of blue. The pants are a darker navy, but the shirt is a bright light blue, like a clear sky on a sunny day. The contrast between the bright color and the deep darkness of his eyes makes me swallow, hard.

His tunic has long sleeves and a high collar, and they cover up the majority of his tattoos so that just the ones on his hands and the top of his neck are showing.

My mind fills in the blanks without my permission. I want to map the course of those tattoos as they dip down to his chest, spread across his abs, and lower… I turn abruptly and head into Venna’s room to see if she needs any help.

Venna is hurriedly dressing to make up for lost time. She was busy scouting the castle while the rest of us prepared.

Siphons at the war front may know how to identify our spies and see through their skills, but it’s evident that things are much more lax this far from Nocturna. Her Kryptos abilities made her quick and undetectable as she mapped potential escape routes.

According to her report, no one saw her.

“And it just seems like a castle,” Venna says.

“Yeah. I’ve thought that before,” I scoff, remembering what we found lurking beneath our own castle’s bones. If there were secrets hidden by Siphon magic, would Venna be able to tell? Would any of us?

Alarmingly, it seems like we’ve all gotten used to the hint of sweetness in the air from their magic. I don’t even notice it anymore.

“But there are guards posted at all the exits—ostensibly for security.

Though it feels more like containment. Here, Meryn.”

Venna taps my thigh, and I lift my leg and pull my skirts up to my hip.

She bends and straps a sheath to my leg, then slots a dagger into it.

I do the same for Venna, slipping the leather into place against her skin.

It’s easy to hide blades beneath flowing skirts, which is good because we’re absolutely not going into this completely unarmed. Trust in our hosts is justifiably nonexistent.

I could always use shadebending if things go topsy-turvy… but I trust myself with knives almost more than with my magic.

We emerge back into the main room as a knock sounds at the doors, loud and insistent. I sigh. Somehow even their knocking sounds rude.

“Ready?” I check in with the rest of the group.

“As we’ll ever be,” Noemi replies.

“I know I’m as likely as any of you to be the one who slips up here, but we should try our best not to throw a wrench in negotiations before we know what’s on the table,” I say grudgingly. “No matter how much we want to throw caution to the wind and let our wolves run wild.”

I brush my mind against Anassa’s at that, and she sends me a rush of

support. “Good luck. But should you need me to run wild, my fangs are eager to destroy our enemies.”

My mouth twists. I look around—it’s clear everyone else is talking with their direwolves as well. I wish they could all accompany us tonight.

Saela gives me a tight hug. She’s going to take dinner in our suite; political negotiations are no place for a child, especially ones that could devolve into violence.

Fredrich—I still can’t quite think of him as Father—has offered to stay with her. I tried not to let it hurt that Saela seemed excited about this.

Moving from my sister, I open the door and reveal a perfectly composed Felippe. If he’s annoyed that we kept him waiting, he doesn’t show it. He’s standing so straight I wonder briefly if there’s a metal rod surgically implanted along his spine.

“Good evening. You have been summoned for your dinner audience with King Lucien.”

Summoned. A ripple of irritation runs through our group.

Felippe, meanwhile, looks us over, clocking our transformation from travel-weary to dinner-ready. It’s clear from his sneering expression that he finds us lacking.

We follow his brisk gait through the castle’s glorious halls. Venna glares at Felippe’s back like she’s imagining ripping the rod out and shoving it into his eye socket.

He leads us through a series of increasingly ornate corridors—painted silk hangings fluttering in the warm breeze, tilework glistening in dozens of clear pools, statues of long-feathered birds in flight in the stone alcoves— until we reach the royal dining hall.

Felippe bows only his head as two servants push the tall wooden doors

open in perfect synchronization.

The space they reveal is stunning.

The ceilings are high and arched, covered in intricate mosaics. It looks as if we’re walking under a star-soaked night sky, the constellations a swirl of shining gold leaf and glinting precious stones. Along the far wall, enormous windows offer panoramic views of the city below and the desolate yet beautiful desert beyond.

Several members of the Siphon court are already seated at the long, dark, polished wooden table laden with glittering dinnerware and

wineglasses, including Elias, who gives me an insincere smile as we enter the room. They’re all glittering with jewelry and embroidered finery.

Beautiful, like all Siphons.

And at the head of the table… King Lucien Brightbane.

I know it’s him instantly, even if he’s nothing like I expected. His skin is smooth and pale. Flawless. I’m aware he’s ancient, but I was unprepared for how young he appears, physically.

He doesn’t look any older than Stark. Late twenties maybe.

His hair is white-blond and shoulder-length, tucked behind ears laden with golden earrings. The light locks frame a face of such perfect symmetry it seems almost unreal. Impossible, as if a master sculptor shaped him from ivory, smoothing his features with both hands in careful caresses—sharp and high cheekbones, full lips, a strong chin.

He’s beautiful to an almost painful extreme.

Lucien lounges with casual elegance in an elaborately carved chair, the back curving around his shoulders. A gold crown is perched atop his head.

It’s formed of twisting metal spikes that look both beautiful and lethal. They frame his face like rays of sunlight.

I stifle a breath. It’s the crown I saw in my foresight vision, when I was trying to decide if we should accept Ruby’s offer.

Though seated, Lucien’s height is evident. One long arm is draped over the table before him, his heavily ringed fingers playing at the stem of his crystal glass. His broad shoulders are clothed in midnight-black fabric adorned with subtle gold embroidery.

Black. Bold choice for a land of seemingly eternal sun.

He’s clearly paid careful attention to his appearance. The black fabric complements his pale complexion. His golden jewelry draws out the strands of blond in his nearly white hair. The rings on his fingers are heavy but vary in design so as not to overwhelm the shape of his long fingers. But none of the trappings holds a candle to his eyes.

Their familiar glint sends a cold current through me. They’re a piercing deep blue, and despite the difference in shade, looking at them shoves me straight back into Killian’s arms.

At least Lucien’s eyes don’t play at innocence, I note. From first glance, it’s easy to see that he’s cynical and cunning.

I hope he doesn’t stretch things out longer than necessary. I’m not in the mood to play games.

King Lucien’s gaze is on me as he tilts his head back and speaks from his seat. “Welcome. It’s been quite a few years since I’ve met a Sturmfrost Queen.”

The casual reference to Queen Chiara, paired with that note of amusement in his voice, sends another shiver down my spine. He knew her.

Personally, most likely.

What’s ancient history to me is mere memory to him.

I reassure myself by focusing on the subtle press of the dagger against my thigh.

Before I can respond, Stark steps in front of me, angling his body as though he’s preparing to block a weapon’s blow.

“Stand up and greet her properly, then.” His tone is cutting.

Lucien’s attention shifts lazily to Stark, a sharp grin spreading across his face. “Ahh, yes, and as usual, the queen has brought a protector.”

There’s a brief pause during which he spins the tip of his finger around the rim of his glass. Then he stands.

The way he unfolds his tall frame and moves through his bow is deliberate. It’s practiced. Careful. But it’s also slow and shallow.

Once again, I can’t tell if I’m being disrespected.

As he rises to his full height, something glints on his crown. I narrow my eyes.

Cradled in the center is an opal similar to the one in my mother’s necklace and my own crown, and in the Mother Priestess’s ring.

Another Goddess Tear?

My heart starts to pound in my ears. What does it mean that another Tear is here in Astreona?

Lucien’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. Or even the entirety of his lips.

His features aren’t very yielding. “Why don’t you come sit at my side so that we can speak properly?”

“Take the opposite end of the table,” Stark advises over our bond. “Mark yourself clearly as his equal.”

I could. But then, I’m here to find out what Lucien wants. Hear what he has to say.

It’s going to be difficult enough sharing private words with him with the

way the sound bounces back down from the vaulted ceilings. I don’t want to have to yell at him about how our kingdoms have been trying to murder each other for centuries and pretty please won’t you stop that?

I touch my hand to Stark’s arm, then take the seat next to Lucien. Lucien looks pleased.

His many earrings flash as he sits, and his robes fan out around his lithe body. Stark immediately thuds a little ungracefully into the chair on my other side, placing himself between me and the rest of the Siphon court.

Once Venna and Noemi are distributed along the table, Lucien subtly signals his servants, and they open a door down at the end of the hall, allowing two armor-clad figures to enter.

Starks leaps out of his chair, ready to protect me.

“Just some light predinner entertainment,” Lucien says to us, his tone somehow both mocking and soothing. “A tradition here at my court. Don’t be alarmed.”

Their armor does look more ceremonial than practical. Golden breastplates, tinkling silver mail sleeves that end at the elbow, shining helms. The warriors—both women—draw their swords to salute their king, who claps politely. The rest of the court follows suit, so I put my hands together once before letting them fall in my lap.

Neither of the women is wearing a helmet. My eyes narrow as I study the shorter one.

I gasp. It’s the human from the Siphon town, the one we tried to save.

She catches me gawking and blushes, ducking her head.

“What are you playing at?” I snap at Lucien, gesturing to her.

He blinks slowly at me. “A Siphon died. It was her fault. She neglected to make a payment, and then she resisted when her landlord came to collect.

His blood is on her hands.”

Stark slams his fist on the dinner table, and a delicate glass tips over, clanking against a plate. “His blood is on my hands. I’m the one who killed him.”

Lucien lightly shrugs a shoulder. “Alas, you are a diplomatic representative of a foreign nation. She is one of my citizens, who was raised with our laws. If she had not broken them repeatedly, it stands to reason that the Siphon would still be alive.”

My mouth tastes like ash. If we hadn’t intervened, she wouldn’t be here.

But… how could we see what was happening to her and not try to stop it?

“So you’re going to have them, what, fight to the death to whet our appetites?”

Lucien rolls his eyes. “Don’t be so dramatic, Queen Meryn. As I said, it’s just entertainment. No one needs to die here tonight.” I can’t help but read the subtext there. “She had a choice between this or imprisonment, and she chose to fight. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like the show to begin.”

The two women square off as servants enter carrying platters of food.

The dishes are elaborate and colorfully presented, different from any food I’ve ever seen, even as a Rawbond in the castle.

The aroma is enticing and unfamiliar. The heady sting of spice fills the air—on grains, meats, and fish—coupled with the gentle sweetness of foreign fruits, which have been sliced and arranged to look like flowers.

There are deep purples and mouthwatering reds. Pale yellows and rich greens.

But my eyes keep drifting back to the human we doomed to this humiliation.

Servants set the food down in front of us as the mock-battle begins.

They are clearly used to such dinner entertainment; their hands are steady while serving cold soups and pouring a thick golden liquid that smells bracingly alcoholic. They entirely ignore the grunts of the fighters and the loud clangs as swords clash.

The human woman comes out surprisingly strong, slashing rapidly and putting her opponent on the defensive.

It’s hard to watch: I’ve seen fighters like her before, people down on their luck and in over their heads. Her speed smacks of desperation.

She lunges, taking advantage of an opening, and nearly nicks the Siphon woman, but the Siphon dances back just in time. Her sword catches a corner of the Siphon’s sleeve and cuts effortlessly through the fabric. The breezy slice of material drifts slowly to the floor.

I watch as the Siphon presses forward, at first meeting blow for blow and then suddenly speeding up faster and faster.

“Siphon contestants are required to give humans a two-minute head start before using any powers, to even the odds,” Lucien says conversationally.

“Sintar is one of my favorite fighters.”

Sintar no longer holds back. I watch her advance with impossible speed,

her movements a blur in my vision. She’s forcing the human back toward our table. A few of the Siphons at the end of the table scoot chairs back as the pair draw close to the chalked boundaries, just feet away from the diners.

My stomach yawns with dread as I see how mismatched the fighters truly are.

Is this meant to be entertaining? There’s no contest here.

This poor woman. Her son’s face floats forward in my mind, scared and worried in the doorway of their home. Who’s looking after him while his mother is here serving as the king’s amusement?

Violence for sport. It’s all too familiar.

The human slips to a knee after a maneuver from the Siphon too swift to follow. I wince as Sintar draws blood, two slashes in rapid succession. A cut across the human’s right cheek and then the left.

How far are they planning to take this? I reach for my dagger, ready to draw.

But just as I move to rise, the fight comes to a halt as Sintar draws third blood, a thin slash across the back of one of the human’s hands that makes her drop her sword.

The human holds her palms up in a clear sign of submission.

The Siphon courtiers applaud again, a few of them calling out compliments to the victor. Lucien looks pleased.

My stomach twists in nausea.

“A good fight,” he says. “That human lasted longer than most against my champion.”

As he speaks, another procession comes from the servants’ doors, but this time their hands are empty.

Half a dozen beautiful men and women, all dressed in scantily flowing garments that leave little to the imagination, enter in twin lines on either side of the table.

One of the women, a curvy brunette with heavy-lidded eyes, approaches Lucien and settles gracefully onto his lap. His ringed hand moves over her thigh and up to her hip. I watch the display with bewilderment, wondering if this is some weird Astreonan sex thing.

Maybe it’s normal here for people to have an orgy or two before dinner starts, just to work up an appetite?

I turn to see that the victorious fighter, Sintar, has been offered a chair at our table.

Strangely, her defeated opponent is settled on Sintar’s lap, their heavy breastplates removed and cast to one side. Sintar is laughing and chatting with the Siphon to her right, idly twisting her fingers in the blonde hair of the human woman in her lap. The woman’s eyes are vacant.

It takes every part of me not to race to her side, pull her out of Sintar’s lap, and ferry her out of this castle.

Lucien smiles at his champion across the long table. She looks up at him, and he gives her a nod and raises his glass to her.

“Take your right as victor,” he proclaims. “Well done, Sintar.”

The human woman closes her eyes, holding herself still. Blood drips from her chin, still leaking from the twin cuts on her face.

And there’s another glimpse from my foresight vision—blood dripping down a neck.

I watch in horrified paralysis as Sintar lifts the woman’s wounded hand and laps up the trail of blood in one long lick.

“Enjoy your meal,” Lucien says to me then, his deep blue eyes locking on mine in a challenge. He bends his head toward the gorgeous woman in

his own lap.

And then sinks his fangs into her neck.