Hated by her lineage, Iliya Dalaminai dwells in self isolation, awaiting the day her cousin marries so she might escape the Throne.
Feared by the Gods, Sorein Chakrine's crown is mainly a relic put on display at royal ceremonies to ward off evil.
Wh...
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The sound of metal on bone once sent shivers down her spine, the act of scrimshaw sickening. Yet as his deft hands smoothed over the ivory surface, a hilt began to take form.
Qudja ensured the heels of her riding boots skimmed across the polished stone, alerting the company to her arrival. She closed the distance with a swift stride.
Offering a stiff bow, she waited for the slightest hint he might have heard her.
From his throne, Damien Ravellier slouched to the side, a firm grip on his project. In one hand, he bore an obsidian dagger sharpened for the occasion. In the other was a femur that had been whittled down with runemarks carved into the side.
"She sails for Darkwell," Qudja said calmly.
The King of Zavere's gaze never strayed from the hilt in his hands.
Silence deafened the room, her breath the only soft disturbance.
Had she listened to her father, Qudja might not have had to navigate the minor insanities of the ancient king. Still, she preferred this to the rigid, polite ways that her village clung to.
Even dwelling on the idea too long made her muscles tighten.
She frowned at Damien, standing upright and crossing her arms. "Are you sure she's ready?"
Piercing blue eyes tore away from the makeshift blade, the only movement Damien offered her. One brow lifted slowly.
"Please don't tell me you're waiting for me to ask the right question again," she said.
"Then stop asking the wrong ones," he muttered.
Qudja bit her lip, her fingers tightening into her arms. Whenever he made such outrageous remarks, she found herself humming hymns her mother once sang. Eventually they scrubbed away the grime she felt from his hairsplitting.
The King went back to his whittling, small shavings of bone fluttering to the floor.
She sighed, glancing around the empty dais which connected to a dusty, unused ballroom. Sheets covered many – she assumed stolen – artifacts, both statues and portraits alike. Sadness lingered here, the emotions remaining untouched by the man clad in navy blue and charcoal.
Qudja could only imagine his loneliness, even as he hid behind such a deceptive smile.
"What comes next, then?"
Damien's smirk grew, his attention shifting completely. "Now we tell her the truth. The whole truth. No matter the cost."
In one fluid, cat-like motion he rose from his throne and padded down to her level. His gaze never met hers for too long, like he was afraid she might notice something she shouldn't.
Qudja watched Damien as he stuck his hands into his pockets and headed for the door.
"It is time to cross the Veils."
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