A Court of Heart and Fealty | Rhysand

Chapter 7: Snide Remarks

Eyes within the throne room turned, darkening and composures stiffening. From beside her, Rhysand stood tall, his face still and the foolish grin he had worn earlier wiped from existence. The High Lord of Hewn City, her mind sang. His exuded power, and not the arrogant kind that he had in the Day Court, but a ripple of true darkness. Night itself. There was no visible sign of it, but her bones shook with the sensation.

A hand laid on the small of her back, leading her away. Even Galadriel wasn't stupid enough to brush it away until they were far away from the eyes, even if her muscles twitched under his touch. Swallowing, she faced the reminder of what power he held. Of who he was. It was enough to crop her tongue for the time.

"Where is Azriel?" she asked as they strode through a more open chamber that seemed to be a foyer of some kind.

"Eager to see him?" Rhysand said, jeering underlining his voice.

"Eager to know why you are here with me instead of attending whatever High Lord duties you have," she corrected. Though it didn't need correcting. "I would have thought you might send a servant, or Azriel since he knows me."

"How long have you worked for him?"

"About two hundred years," she said, admiring a rather gruesome piece of artwork that rose a brow. It was little surprise that he knew next to nothing of her. Azriel spoke nothing of him, and nothing of his other spies. Their relationship was a small globe of just the two of him. Being next to Rhysand felt like she was breaking that itself. "Well, I knew him for about a decade before I started working for him but I was undertaking training through that time so I count it."

"And how long were you in the Autumn Court for?"

"Around one hundred and ninety years."

"So that makes you?"

"Did you never learn not to ask someone's age?"

"Entertain me."

Galadriel pursed her lips for a moment before answering. "I'm two hundred and seven, High Lord. Satisfied with my history?"

"Barely," he scoffed. "That math doesn't add up. Unless when you started working for him when you were—"

"Twelve," she interrupted. "I was twelve when Azriel found me." The memory was not a fond one. What came after, more so, but the only reason she was under his supervision at all was because he had to save her from a fate that took the rest of her family. Four brothers. A mother. Father. "I rounded up. He trained me for seven years."

"You've been in the Autumn Court since you were nineteen."

"Congratulations, High Lord. That was basic addition."

"I'd be careful how you speak to me here." Galadriel only kept walking with her head forward. That was, until a hand firmly planted on her stomach and forced her to stop. Rhysand shifted around to her front, blocking the path. "I'm quite serious, Galadriel." Considering the only other time he used her name was for something somewhat sincere, she listened. His dark violet eyes peered around them, but there were no ears close enough to listen. "Behind closed doors, fine. I can put up with your attitude. But out here I'm a merciless High Lord who needs to contain people who simply tolerate me. So don't do that out here where I will have to act in the way they expect me to."

The weight of his warning settled on her shoulders. His eyes were far darker than they ever had been, his shoulders stiff and straight. People had moved away from him like a parting of a sea. "Alright. I'm sorry." She should thank him for the warning, rather than skipping over it, but the words of gratitude stuck in her throat.

He nodded in acceptance and removed his hand. Galadriel held her glare and straightened the fabric. "Would you like to see the actual city now?" he questioned. She nodded and gestured away.