Page 41 of Fated to the Wicked King

When he lifted his gaze to mine as he straightened, the brilliant light in his blue eyes made my heart pound.

He was majestic—devastatingly beautiful.

He held his hand out to me. “Shall we?”

I forcibly blinked out of my fluster. “Right. Of course.”

It didn’t help my racing heart when the king scooped me up in his arms, because—why bother walking when he could simply fly over the landscape toward Lucerne?

We flew amidst the rapidly dropping temperature, the beginnings of a fine, white flurry gradually growing thicker with the increasing altitude.

The king shifted, tightening his grip as we coasted along in mid-air, and I accidentally kneed him.

“Stop fidgeting.” He grumbled, “I told you it would be so much easier if you let me shrink you and carry you in my pocket.”

“No to that,” I declared. “In fact, never to that.”

My legs were just starting to cramp when the clouds parted, revealing the first glimpse of the grand structures atop a mountain peak.

I held my breath.

The Kingdom of Lucerne was carved from the hard, black basalt of the mountain, built upon a sheer, rugged cliff face that dropped a treacherous two thousand feet into a perpetual fog bank.

Thick stone walls were twenty feet of solid rock, veined with a complex vascular system of polished iron and shimmering brass, seamlessly integrated with copper embellishments. Steam billowed from vents placed along the castle’s exterior, blending with the mountain’s mist.

Searchlights swept across the frozen snowfields below, the pockets of sprawling villages clinging to the rock face, slate roofs and copper-sheathed chimneys belching plumes of smoke into the air.

We approached the bridge crossing the trench and the massive timber-and-iron gates, both dusted with a thin layer of snow, gleaming white in the dim night.

As the king put me down, my boots settled against the frigid stone. It seemed to hum faintly beneath my weight, as though the very ground had been engineered to sense intrusion.

I was still marveling at the coiled copper pipes winding along the ramparts—clearly used for carrying geothermally heated water to keep the battlements clear of ice—and the spectacle of steam and technology evident in the castle’s architecture.

I almost missed the impending danger.

Above us, the parapets bristled with archers, silhouettes dark against the overcast sky, bows drawn. Between the crenellations, ballistae stood with their steel arms drawn taut and aimed squarely at the bridge. Soldiers stood in disciplined ranks beyond the courtyard, unmoving as fine snow drifted steadily around them, but unmistakably ready.

I could feel the others—the hidden watchfulness behind narrow slits in the stone, the faint shift of movement in shadowed alcoves, the subtle alignment of weapons tucked behind reinforced shutters.

A muffled chaos layered over the din in the back of my mind, my chest heavy with several dozen auras as I felt their indignation, their courage.

The cold air itself tightened with the quiet tension of a kingdom prepared to defend itself to its final breath.

My breath puffed visibly in the worsening weather. Rubbing my hands up and down my arms for warmth, I forced my mind into a rational calm. I had done nothing wrong.

Except perhaps bringing the lion to slaughter the lambs. And I was a lamb in a lion’s cloak. I would be targeted on the sole basis that I stood unharmed beside the Wicked King.

Walking beside me, the king seemed less than perturbed. His gaze traveled over the weapons, the walls. No doubt he was keenly aware of everything too. But he did not slow his breathing, nor did his posture yield. If anything, there was the faintest shift in him, something like recognition, like interest, as though he had stepped not into danger, but into something worthy of his regard.

A strong, confident voice calling out from the ramparts drew my gaze.

“It is late, Your Majesty. I cannot imagine what business you might have that brings you to our kingdom’s gates.”

I squinted to make out his figure. He was tall and broad-shouldered. His golden-blond hair glinted beneath the moonlight filtering through the clouds. Cool and composed, he was perfectly aware of the threat we posed, but he was also quietly confident that his castle’s defenses were at the ready.

Brushing delicate flakes of ice off one shoulder, the king gave a slight tilt of his head. “Prince Gregory, I presume.”

“With all due respect, Your Majesty,” Gregory replied. “It might be in everyone’s interests if you were to turn around and leave.”