Grounding the Storm ✓

Chapter 9

I have no memories of the king. All I've heard are the stories of his cruelty and that wicked, lopsided grin on his face. I've heard of the parades he holds in the capital square, parades leading to executions of prisoners locked away because of minor crimes. I've heard of his wife's beheading, a gentle queen who loved her people as she did her sons.

That lopsided grin doesn't reflect in his black eyes as he looks down at me and surveys us like pieces of meat. I see where the two princes' get their mass from, he's as large as they are—if not stronger. Renit shares his black hair with the king, not looking a day past thirty. Instead of short, the silky, straight strands flow to the king's broad chest with a gold crown ringing around the top of his head. Spiked, same as the throne.

I shiver. The room grows cold around me, especially as Silas hands off my chains to an ordinary guard and abandons me there, all alone. He bows to his father and takes his seat directly next to the king. The smaller throne must be for Renit then, next to the empty throne belonging to their mother.

At the same time the thought goes through my head, the young prince strides into the room and bows to the king before walking up the dais and taking a seat. Every move he makes is swift like he's been practicing rigidity his entire life. I can't imagine being that stiff.

The king looks at my parents. "Well, well, it's been a while since you've been here, hasn't it?" He asks.

"We mean you no trouble," my mother speaks. The calming force of our group and possibly the only one able to persuade the king to keep our heads. The next best option is Celestine but I look over at her to see she's completely frozen, staring at the floor. I nudge her with my elbow and all I receive is a slight shift in her stare.

"You've caused me more trouble than you realize. Taking my citizens, my land, and creating a village of your own. That seems like trouble to me." He looks to Renit for confirmation and the prince nods, solemn. Our eyes meet for a split second but he looks away again. To him, I am nothing.

My father clears his throat. "We understand our conducts weren't in your best interests but we wanted a better life for our daughters. They were young and with all the executions, we didn't—"

The king holds up a hand to stop him. If the king allowed it, my father could have spoken for hours. "I don't care about why you did the things you did, foolishly. It led back to me, didn't it?" His lips curl into a tooth-revealing smile and my breath catches in my throat at the sight of his fangs, sharpened to tips. I don't want to know what he does with those and I hope it's not another family tradition.

The black gouges are in their ears, all three of them, and the tattoos appear to be a common trend, as well. Peeking out from the sleeve of Silas's tunic are similar whorls of black ink compared to what I saw on Renit and his father. The tattoos on the king are more proudly displayed; the ink travels up his throat and stops at his sharp jawline.

"Everything leads back to me," the king muses. His eyes flash with delight and my arms go numb. It takes me a second to realize I've been clenching my fists the entire time. "How has life been in your little village since you stole it? Were the people satisfied?"

"They loved it," my mother responds carefully. "We were a family, and we built together. It was the most love I've ever felt in my life."

The king chuckles under his breath. "Even from your husband? The mortal witch? It's not often an immortal woman gives up a few precious years of hers to a mortal man. Normally, you women don't stoop so low." He scratches at the shadowing stubble on his chin, surveying her. "You are a beautiful immortal."

I clear my throat. Anything to take the focus away from my mother and what the king might want to do with her. "Your son didn't provide us with any information as to why we're here. We request that information now," I say with little conviction. My blood heats and I wonder if the power of the king is presenting itself or merely my own embarrassment.