Chapter 23

Ceven

CEVEN STOOD IN Sehn’s suite. The hand he placed on the hilt of his sword quivered, and his pulse quickened with a familiar fear. Instead of his brother, as Ceven had planned, King Calais lay in the center of the luxurious suite. It was larger than Ceven’s and adorned in dark hues of reds, browns, and gold, matching the darker nature of its owner and current occupant.

The king sat on the sofa facing the grand fireplace made of black marble, a contrast to the one in Ceven’s, his arms and wings spread out across its red velvet upholstery. All the curtains in the suite remained closed, the only light coming from the fire, which cast dancing shadows along the walls. King Calais didn’t turn at Ceven’s arrival, nor was he dressed in his usual exuberant attire—vibrant robes overtop a tailored suit and polished boots. Instead, he looked unusually normal in a plain, cotton top and riding trousers. He still wore an excessive amount of jewelry, however, with rings adorning multiple fingers and chains roping down his exposed chest.

“Your Majesty,” Tarry said, bowing at the back of the king’s head. Ceven kicked himself for not speaking first and letting Calais’s unexpected presence rattle him. He hated how this man had the power to make his gut turn inside out, his legs feel like they were on board a ship. Like he’d woken up from a wicked night of drinking only to find all his weapons and armor stolen and a knife at his throat. No, that night was preferable to what he was feeling now.

Ceven strode farther in, with Tarry at his side. He squared his shoulders and kept his chin high but avoided meeting the king’s eyes. “Didn’t expect to see you here. Where’s Sehn?”

From his peripheral, Calais smiled, and Ceven recognized the condescending expression without turning to look at him. “I was curious when you would return to the castle. And if it would be Sehn whom you’d meet with first.” The king cocked his head at the blazing fire. “But I’m more curious about what you have to say to a brother whom you’ve always loathed.”

Ceven’s stance wavered, and he cursed himself for keeping his hand on his sword. He folded his arms instead and forced himself to meet his father’s eyes. “Perhaps you should ask him yourself.”

“You’ve been avoiding me. I’ve left you to your own devices, but now it seems you’re hiding things from me.” Calais flicked his hand in Tarry’s direction, only Ceven noted the brief hesitation in the Royal Guard before they locked eyes. Tarry bowed and left.

“I’ve done what you’ve asked of me since returning here. I’ve kept my nose out of the kingdom’s affairs, entertained those Aerian women you insisted I court with—even attended the ball with one of them. If I’m not going against any of your direct orders, I don’t see what the issue is with how I spend my free time.” Ceven kept his voice firm. Anything less and he risked the king seeing right through him. Seeing the truth.

“My advisor has gone missing. You wouldn’t have anything to do with that, would you, my bastard son?” Without shifting his head, Calais’s gray gaze flicked toward him, freezing Ceven in place.

Ceven ignored the usual jab and forced his brows to furrow. “Lord Ryker is missing?”

The king laughed mirthlessly before standing. Ceven couldn’t help himself; he took a step back, but the king turned and whipped open the heavy maroon drapes blocking the glass doors to the balcony. Ceven’s suite didn’t have one, not that he would’ve used it like most Aeriens did anyway—as another entrance to come and go as they pleased.

The rays from the rising sun reflected off the ripples in the king’s gold wings as he fully stretched them. It was odd to see such regal wings paired with attire similar to Ceven’s. In the light, dark veins coursed through Calais’s body, his skin paler than Ceven last remembered. He beckoned Ceven forward, and despite himself, Ceven obeyed, standing a couple of paces away.

“Run your sword through me.” 

Ceven blinked, his mouth ajar. “Have you lost your mind?” 

“Oh, don’t try to act noble now. I know you’ve thought about it countless times. It was written all over your face.”

When Ceven made no move to stab him, King Calais snatched him by the front of his shirt and yanked him forward—over the balcony.  

“Put me down!” Ceven spat. His feet dangled in the air, and he flapped his wings furiously, knowing they wouldn’t work, even now with the risk of dropping from one of the highest points in Castle Peak. The freezing air whipped at his hair and clothes, and he gripped the king’s arms for dear life.

“You’ve always been too soft–hearted, boy. You’re nothing like this family,” he sneered as he kept a firm grip on the front of Ceven’s shirt. “You still can’t fly, can you?” 

Ceven’s eyes fixed on a landing not too far below him, the blue-and-white scaled roofing angled in such a way that he could land with his feet or latch on with his hands if needed. “You spitting know I can’t!” Ceven’s teeth were clenched. He had dealt with that humiliating fact his whole life, but it had been bearable when he’d been in Atiaca, surrounded by Rathans and welcomed as a foreign prince. Then he had returned to Peredia and was reminded of what he really was. An unwanted, bastard prince whose beauty served as nothing more than a trophy for how useless both his wings and himself were to this kingdom.

“Prove to me you’re worthy. Use that anger and hurt me.” 

“Why are you doing this? What’s the point!” Dots danced in his vision, and he remembered all the times Sehn had held him to the floor, pounding his fists at him, demanding he fight back. But he hadn’t; instead he had cried out for his mother, cried out for anyone to help him. He felt just as helpless now as he had back then.

The king loosened his grip, and Ceven hated the sound that slipped from his throat. “From this height, even a Nyte would die instantly as soon as they hit the ground. You’ve seen me do worse things. Do you really think I won’t follow through?” 

Ceven knew he would. He wore a similar expression to the time he had forced Ceven to fight him until he could no longer move. He had only been fourteen at the time, and the king still mercilessly attacked him, even when he had already broken Ceven’s arm in three different places.   

Drawing on that anger, Ceven snatched his sword and rammed the blade into his father’s stomach. 

The tip missed as the king leaped backwards, using his wings for momentum before dropping Ceven. He landed on his feet, on the balcony floor.

“Finally, you’ve learned to fight back.” 

Ceven’s whole body shook, his teeth clenched and his heart slamming against his ribs. “Do that again and I’ll kill you.” 

The king took a step toward him, and Ceven raised his blade higher. He had never held a weapon against his father willingly before. As a kid, he hadn’t had the guts, but now . . . he wouldn’t hesitate to strike the final blow.

“The strong outlive the weak. And you, Ceven, had always been weak. Never fit enough to rule this kingdom and always cowering in your brother’s and my shadow.” Ceven’s grip tightened on his sword, and the king’s eyes narrowed. “If you decide to go against me and this kingdom, you won’t stand a chance.” 

Ceven’s knuckles stretched thin and appeared white before he exhaled through his nose and sheathed his sword. “I’m leaving.” Ceven turned on his heel.

“Ryker . . . he had been working with someone else. And I fear the biggest threat to this kingdom is yet to come.” 

Ceven wanted to keep walking but paused in the archway to the foyer. “And why should I care? You said yourself I’ll never be fit to rule this kingdom, anyway.” He tried to deliver the words with the same careful control as his father but failed.

“Because it has to do with Evangeline. You’d do best to kill that girl now while you have the chance. Before it’s too late and she dooms us all.”

I’d sooner kill you, Father, he didn’t say as he strode off, an unsettling feeling weighing on his chest, pressing against his still-racing heart.