Page 22 of Kingdom Of Veil And Vow

Loyalty. Fuck, I hate that word. Hate that I have to prove it over and over again. Your loyalty to him is an atrocity. The thought of the shifter eases the sting of the magical punishment, so I cling to the image of her in my mind, eyes glowing so brightly I could swear they were golden as her lip lifted in a snarl. Moonlight hair framed her face, worse off from her time in the dungeon yet still a beacon in the darkness. Jaw flexing, I slide the dagger the king gave me underneath my belt just as he, Simon, and the small retinue of guards leave.

“Shame,” Jerrick says, clicking his tongue as he makes his way around the table, his candidates filing towards the door. He jerks his chin towards Darin’s lifeless body. “Had you better prepared them, he might not have hesitated.” Miles chuckles, the four men letting the door to the dining room slam shut behind them.

“I will try to find out as much as I can about the next trial,” I say to Theo and Alden quietly, turning my gaze down to where Darin lies. “But if you would like to drop out as—”

“Hell no!” Theo interrupts, running a hand through his flaxen hair. His normally tanned skin is pale, but those sandy-brown eyes stay glued to mine as he takes a step closer, mindful of Darin’s body. “I’m here because I want his rule to end. This”—he pauses to gesture in Darin’s direction, keeping his voice low—“is the cost of participating. A cost we all were aware of.” I glance at Alden, and though he looks less than pleased about what’s happened, he concedes with a nod of his head. “We continue forward, and we will not let his death be in vain.”

I return to the barracks and shower before dressing in my usual armor, my hands steady as I strap my sword to my waist and slip my helmet on over my head. Darin’s death is another cut on my skin, joining so many others. Small mistakes that I’ve made over my time here at the castle, under the king’s thumb. I should have noticed the nervousness in Darin’s voice and made him leave. Now I still feel the stain of his blood on my fingers, despite the hot water that burned them earlier. Staring at myself in the mirror, I look for my mother’s features to help focus me, but all I can see in my reflection is the king. Numbly, I dress and head to the stables. Once saddled and on my horse, I ride to Stonebrook, a small village a few miles to the east of Vitour. It contains only a few shops, the rest dedicated to farm land. One of those farms belongs to Darin’s family. Climbing down from my horse, I tie him to a tree, hesitating for the length of a breath before knocking on the worn-down front door.

A woman with the same bright red hair answers the door, a baby on her hip as she takes one look at the armor I wear and retreats a step back into the house. Swallowing, she angles her body so that her baby is farther away from me. “How can I help you, sir?” Before I can answer, a man joins her in the threshold of the door. He’s tall, light brown hair brushed back on his head, freckles dotting his cheeks. Though Darin’s hair clearly came from his mother, he is the spitting image of his father. More children appear behind them, and I find that the words I gathered on my tongue to say no longer want to come out. Perhaps his parents can tell, because his mother’s hand flies to her mouth, her face burying into her husband’s shoulder while his eyes hold mine.

“Darin?” he asks in confirmation, his solemn voice adding another layer of invisible scars.

“I’m sorry. It was an accident in training,” I lie, the taste of it raw and bloody on my tongue. I offer a few more untrue words, like the body was burned as is honorary for those in the guard. They clutch their children close, tears staining their cheeks and slicing like a blade through my defenses. Just because I had worked hard to shield myself from the king and everything I was forced to do in his name—to protect the resistance—it doesn’t mean that I am impenetrable. Feeling things deeply, connecting to them emotionally, has always been a perceived weakness of mine. I had thought that, after so many years of being guarded, it would be easier to stand tall in the face of what I’ve done.

But I realize that it never gets easier pretending, and time isn’t the ally I thought it was.

Chapter Sixteen: Siyala

“Stop worrying about me, child.” Despite the old woman’s command, the croak of her dry voice and slight slur to her words only increases my concern. It’s been days since she was thrown into that cell, the time marked by meager meals and the water I had been given. Immie was given nothing.

“How is your wrist?” I ask from where I lean against the bars, my chin resting on my drawn-up knees. She had woken hours after the guards brought her down, quietly moaning out in pain. I called out to her, wanting to let her know that she wasn’t alone. I think I startled her, likely because I used her name, and she’s been quieter since. Only engaging in conversation that has nothing to do with why she’s been captured or how she is feeling. She hasn’t ventured to ask how I know her name. Then again, I haven’t given her mine either.

“It is as it was the last time you asked. Fine.”

I blow out a breath, scratching at the dirty fabric of my trousers. Lately, my daydreams have been filled with figuring out a way to trick one of the guards into bringing me fresh clothing. More rags and water for a makeshift bath. Anything to help me feel as if I am clean again. “I will ask that you be given meals too when the guard returns to speak with me.”

“You will do no such thing.” Even through the clear exhaustion of her voice, her resolve is strong, and I wince at her curt tone. “I can take care of myself. I have been doing it for far longer than you’ve been alive.”

I run my fingers through the knotted strands of my hair, attempting to brush them out. “What makes you think I am so young?” I counter, smothering a smile when she makes a tutting noise.

“Don’t insult my intelligence. I can hear the naivety in your voice.”

“Ouch.” She chuckles, but it sends her into a coughing fit. I stare at the waterskin at my feet, only a few sips of water remaining within it but enough to likely soften the dryness of her throat. “Stick your hand out through the bars of your cell,” I tell her, reaching for the soft leather pouch.

“What are you talking ab—”

“Don’t argue with me. I’m trying to help you.”

Though she grumbles, she does as I’ve asked, reaching a shaking hand out into the dimly lit corridor. My heart stutters at the sight of the bruises on her arm. Those bastards. What sort of men hurt an old woman? Those who work for the king. Men like Xander.

And you might be surprised to find that, for some guards, there is no fondness to be found for the king. Even if they vowed in blood to be loyal to him.

It was far too convenient a thing for him to say. He wanted information and would do anything—say anything—to get it. Despite what Immie said, I am not naive enough to think I lucked out by getting assigned a guard who harbored no true loyalty to King Dolian. He will lie to get what he wants, just as I will. “Are you going to do something, or do you have some kind of weird hand fetish?”

“Sorry,” I rush out, standing and gauging the distance between her cell and my own. “I’m going to toss you my waterskin.”

“No, no. You need it.”

“The guards will bring me more water as part of my deal with Xander. I can afford to give you what remains in this one. Now, be quiet so I can concentrate.” Sticking as much of my shoulder as I can through the gap between two of the bars, I wind my arm back and throw the waterskin in the direction of her hand, the smile that has been taunting my lips finally breaking through when it lands just outside her cell. She grabs it, and I retreat back to my cot, sitting on its edge as I exhale.

“That was kind of you,” she breathes, her voice already softened. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Immie.”

I hear a door open as someone enters the dungeon, their footsteps steady.

“Well, child, you know my name. Seems only fair that I get yours, yes?”