“I am sorry, I didn’t mean what I said about your parenting,” Clen said as they trudged out of the Dueling Hall.

They were at each other’s throats until their frustration was drenched with exhaustion, and they both called it quits.

Clythia’s panic had sparked when she realized she had lost count of how many times she had wielded magic. If Casarda’s notion was true, nothing would happen to her until all others were affected, but she decided not to tempt fate. Thus, besides chastising herself, she had warned Clen not to use magic for the remainder of the day, despite his grumbles.

“I am glad to see the fire in you,” Clythia said. “Though, I am a bit disappointed that the death of your father is what brought it forth.”

Before Clen could respond, General Arkansov met them at the top of the second landing. Behind him, a state room’s door was ajar, revealing canvases and lavish seats with paintbrushes arrayed neatly.

“No one dead, yet,” Arkansov’s brow perked up, his tone wary. “Good.”

But Clythia’s attention had drifted past his broad shoulders to the room. A glimpse of long auburn hair, captured with stunning hue and texture on a canvas, was peering through.

Clythia strolled past the General and into the room. The painting portrayed a very young girl with auburn hair fluttering in the supposed wind, gold eyes filled with sharp sapphire tears, clutching a wooden toy, with children playing in mud behind her.

And those honeyed eyes seemed to echo loneliness and yearned protection and screamed helplessness. Her clothes were neat white but despite her vibrant background the child had succumbed to despair.

It was surprisingly lifelike, so much so that it didn’t feel like a painting but rather a girl frozen in time and captured in a frame. Clythia traced the edges and curves of the girl’s eyes, nose, and shoulders, igniting a mellowness within her.

“It is beautiful,” her tone reflected the cathartic feeling swelling in her. “Who has such talent?”

“It’s one of the servants,” came the General’s voice from behind. Clythia, still mesmerized, didn’t drift her eyes off the painting. “She’s friends with my daughter and she gifted her a beautiful portrait on her birthday. I was so stricken by her talent that I asked the seneschal’s permission for the servant to use this room.”

“You did well.” She faced the General. “Wait, your daughter is friends with a servant?” The General gave her an I-believe-so shrug. “And now I’m more intrigued to meet this person, but for now, I am exhausted.”

Clen was gazing at a painting of a bow and arrow shooting down on Zyvern—a blue ball interrupted by greenery, portraying islands and continents. Zalax was the smallest at the north, and below it was DavinSaw, the largest. To its right, Makefort and Surial were rendered with accurate precision. On the southeast, Nadir was painted, and on the northwest, below DavinSaw, Elfive was depicted. The foreboding Stormia was underneath them, acting as a god supervising from below—the only land hued chalky.

“The servant drew this too?” Clythia approached the painting.

“No one else is as talented as Afia in this castle,” said the General. “Or anywhere, if I’m being truthful.”

“Afia,” the name rolled off her tongue, coated with curiosity. “Only a gifted artist can portray like this, and a knowledgeable one,” she trailed off, her chin tilted. “And one could wonder how a servant came to have both.”

But her fatigued limbs were screaming for an ounce of rest for her to summon the servant right then.

She turned to Clen. “If you make any ruckus while I’m sleeping, you won’t have fingers to do your dirty work anymore.”

Clen wasn’t listening, his false grunt confirming it. She didn’t bother to repeat herself, so she stepped out, the general falling into step beside her.

“I didn’t return to give you two space,” he said. “And I’ve dealt with the eavesdropper with a memory potion. Is everything back to normal?”

“As normal as it can be for Hoverlows,” she shrugged.

The general remained quiet; it was clear he had held back all the gnawing questions about the assassinated former prince, simmering within him until Clythia had at least rested.

----------------------------------------

Clythia was half-awake, thanks to her rumbling belly after a dreamless slumber. It must be dinner time, but she didn’t have the courage to open her lids even a fraction, encouraging the smolder of exhaustion to let her mind roam free to her rather bizarre day.

In a land forsaken, dreams awake; with the wisest one, a pact was made.

For Clythia not to disregard the seer, she had shown all the symptoms that overusing the Shadows’ magic would cause. Sickness being scarce in Zyvern, that was an alarming omen one wouldn’t ignore unless one was a fool. Moreover, she had warned her not to fall into the wrong hands, and there was no such thing as being too careful.

Clythia tossed, mumbling, the silk sheets caressing her exposed thighs.

The hair on her back prickled as if she wasn’t alone and someone was watching her. She opened her eyes slowly, and instead of the foreboding dark wall, a flash of grey eyes was peering down at her.

Her eyes bulged open, registering sharp jaws, dark brows adorned with faintly gleaming beads, honeyed skin, and a magnificent body clad in a dark tunic and leather, lying on the blanket.

Tiyus.

She jumped out of her skin, rolling off her bed, gravity taking advantage of her imbalance and pulling her back to the matted floor. Then, fingers wrapped around her arms, sending a jolt down her spine.

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Tiyus’ face was expressionless as he pulled her back to bed.

“How—what—how—what the fuck are you doing here?” Her voice was quivering, as thousands of emotions flowed through her—not one of them rising to the surface—anger, surprise, rage, relief, curiosity, dread—chasing exhaustion away from her.

“Do you ask your subjects’ permission to have an audience with them?” His voice was barely above a whisper, and the purr sparked goosebumps on her skin.

She struggled to free her arm from his grip, but his free hand coiled around her other arm, pinning her on the bed. “Let go of me, you madcap!”

“Behave yourself.” He clenched his teeth, his vocal cords bobbed—was that an attempt to flutter her bones or loins like grass? Because either way, it was working. And that infuriated her further. It didn’t make sense. She wasn’t frenzied over coitus all the time, and yet the god—no—the man before her was drowning her in it.

“Nicely, you say?” She wriggled—or tried to—but his steel hands were biting against her skin, forcing her to still. “You are in my chamber, uninvited, and how did you get past—no one can Eventuate into the castle—how did you get past the guards and the wards?”

“Answer my question first,” Tiyus rasped, pulling her inches towards him. His grey eyes, like a pool in twilight, peering through, exposing every fiber of her essence to his light.

“No.” Her mouth betrayed her before her mind processed the saner option, like beckoning a spear to ram through his heart. “I don’t—don’t ask for permission. Are you referring to yourself as my master?”

His lip quirked up, parting for his exquisitely white teeth to flash. Her heart skittered. “I don’t have to refer to anything. You gave me your consent to be my subject.”

“I did no such thing.” But her tone, like the night before, was that of a docile maid, not that of a queen.

Tiyus let go of her arms, but before she could scramble out of bed, a tug pulled her neck forward to his chest.

Something was wrapped around her neck. Her eyes traveled to the source but halted midway—Tiyus’ calloused fingers were clenching a chain, the other side ending on the wrapped coolness on her neck.

Her hands met smooth metal instead of skin. She tried to pull the metal off her neck, but as if it were part of her skin, it didn’t budge—tailor-made to fit her neck perfectly.

Another tug.

The tip of her nose grazed his tunic as she lurched forward, dew and leather wafted through her nose, erasing any common sense. She leaned further, propelled by her own will. Tiyus’ low rumble of laughter was barely felt through the fabric, but her body shivered as the fabric fluttered against her skin.

He let the chain loose, pushing her shoulder back. A moan of frustration left her.

“As much as I want you to grovel for me,” he said, “Another time.” His lips formed an arc. “You will go to Stormia with the Prime.”

“And who the fuck do you think you are—” This time the tug wasn’t only a force; it stirred a piercing sting that doused her whole body. She whimpered, powerless against the pain.

“If you don’t start behaving, I will torture you. And it won’t be the kind of torture you will enjoy. You have submitted your freedom willingly, and now I get to do what I want with you, my queen,” he gritted.

The warning was fracturing her limb by limb, shock and dread making her feel small—the smallest matter in the universe. She needed to get out of here—out of his grip.

Clythia reached out to her Inner Sense, imagining a spear forming in her palm, but as if sensing her thought, Tiyus’ face was doused with fury, his lips forming a thin line. He yanked the chains, the pain he delivered worsening tenfold.

Her whole body succumbed to uncontrollable tremors, and her neck burned like a tongue marred with chili. A helpless screech rolled off her throat, her head sinking between his legs, dangerously close to his loins.

“The seer,” she whimpered, “The seer said—how did she know?”

“Ah, you met one of my minions?” he chuckled. Her vision only allowed her to see a thigh clad in smooth leather—how would it taste if her tongue run across it? No! That was not something she should think. She closed her eyes tightly shut.

“You are no wizard are you? The seer said she was only there until she served me.” Collared queen was her words but Clythia wasn’t going to admit that out loud. “You sent her. What are you? Who are you? How can you have such power over her?”

Over me.

“Honestly, I am a little disappointed you were ignorant when you begged me for release,” he said. “But only a bit. Your cluelessness would make our adventure more fun.” His fingers began running up and down her hair, like a dog being soothed by its master. It took all her will not to moan and lean close—close to the bulge she wanted to see unleashed.

“Stormia is a dangerous territory I don’t want to be disintegrated by the Sovereign.” She gritted out, against her soft will who wanted to obey without question. At least for the moment, her cogent side won.

“I will protect you from whatever unprecedented occurrence you will face there. You only have to obey.”

“And what if I don’t?” she asked.

“Pick,” he said. “Should I take out a potential friend or the apple of your eye?”

Clythia’s instinct propelled her to remain quiet—the only right answer. The apple of her eye was Clen, obviously, but she didn’t want to confirm that or who her potential friend was.

“Good girl,” he purred, fingers running softly on her scalp. Her core jolted with the words.

What was wrong with her? He was not offering her a choice between forbidden dalliances, but to kill people who meant and would mean something in her life.

This was wrong on so many levels, and yet...

“Just to make a point,” he continued. “One of the two will trip over themselves today. A small mercy.”

Silence rippled through the room, her neck felt lighter, the room felt lighter.

Clythia opened her eyes slowly and jerked her head up. Tiyus was gone. Her fingers trailed over her neck—her skin. She let out a sigh of relief.

Through the window, she saw the night draped over, jeweled with a crescent moon. She didn’t linger long, afraid Tiyus would reappear—hence she scurried out of her bedchamber as if a ghost was chasing her.

After taking two rounds of steps, a silver tray gleamed at the edge of her vision.

Downstairs, a servant holding a tray of wine was making her way to the Dining Hall. Her hair was red, cascading down her back in a braid; her face, tan-skinned.

She was strolling forward, task at hand, unaware of the wet floor a few steps away.

Clythia raised her hand, yelling, “Watch out!”

The servant’s attention snapped to her, not halting. Her feet slipped forward, and in a desperate attempt to regain balance, her body tilted backward at an awkward angle. The other foot skidded sideways. The jar clashed on the ground, spilling the violet liquid on the tile.

Clythia raised both palms; air gushed under the servant, inches from cracking her neck, her red hair soaked with wine, giving it a burgundy hue. She made a motion, and the servant stood on her feet.

Damn it, she had used magic yet again.

“Don’t move,” Clythia was aiming for an assuring tone, but it came out as intimidating.

The servant’s golden eyes followed her as she finished the steps, then dipped her chin in reverence.

“Thank you for saving me, my queen.” Despite the slip she just faced, her voice was smooth yet sincere in her gratitude.

“What is your name?” Was this the potential friend Tiyus spoke of?

“Afia,” my queen, she dipped her chin again.

“Of course, you are.” Clythia heaved a sigh, palms on her waist.

“Pardon me, my queen?” Afia stared at Clythia. She really did have the spine many servants didn’t possess. From the steel in her honey eyes, Clythia could tell Afia was a strong-willed person.

Clythia grasped her cloth at the neckline, jerking her forward. “Tiyus sent you, didn’t he? What are you two conspiring against?”

Afia’s eyes bulged, her brows shot up, fear creeping through her features. “I don’t know who Tiyus is, Your Majesty.”

Clythia released her, a bit ashamed that she sounded like a mad person. Tiyus was eating away at her sanity. “Damn that man—but he wasn’t a man, was he?

He was something else.

And she would do anything in her power to find out who or what he was.

“Your paintings are just jaw-dropping. How do you possess such talent?” Clythia beamed at her, locking her arms around the startled servant’s elbow and leading her to the dining hall.