Patience.
Killing him would only lead to her death or permanent imprisonment. Neither would help Lorne. Her gaze moved to the sprawling white city beyond the docks and emotion swelled in her chest. She’d never actually been away from Lorne before. In fact, her very first trip to visit the southern islands of Neamh and Meith had been due to take place that summer, two weeks after her wedding. It felt only proper to do it then, her father had said. She had a dragon now, and was in the prime of her life, and she would be married to a fine man in the navy.
Now, that would never happen.
Wren held back what felt like the millionth sob. She had no idea when she had become such a crybaby, but now it felt like tears were a welcome friend of hers. The elven capital Wyrn was absolutely stunning. It was so different from home. The isles hosted small stone homes or buildings with thatched or moss-covered slate roofs. Wyrn was comprised of interlocked bone-white buildings with terracotta and cerulean roofs, and cobbled streets. A thick dark green forest crouched at the edges of the city.
“Welcome to our kingdom, Princess Wren.”
She stiffened and looked at the prince when a couple of his men sniggered. Had she been gaping like a country bumpkin? Or was it because he’d sneered princess? Either way, it didn’t matter.
The prince gestured to the castle just west of the docks. “Upon reaching the palace, you are to meet the High King Soren. A great honor indeed. I fully expect you to cooperate or things will,” a weighted pause, “go badly for you,” he finished, his voice much softer than before.
It was chilling.
The commander’s words, alongside his tall, well-built, and ruthlessly efficient crew truly did frighten Wren. The Verlantians were a cruel people, and now she was caught in their web.
Don’t show fear.
She kept her mask in place and forced herself to focus on the feel of the cool nail twisted beneath her shirt.
You can defend yourself. You’re not helpless.
“You will be afforded the privilege not to be gagged or bound on our way there. If you trespass upon my generosity, customs be burned. I’ll treat you like a common piece of trash.”
It was with great difficulty that she held her tongue.
He nodded and once again dismissed her, walking across the ship ramp to the dock.
The redhead smiled at her then mockingly sketched a bow. “My lady, if you please.”
She arched a brow at him and walked off the ship on wobbling legs. It was embarrassing how weak she’d become in captivity. Regardless of how she was half-starved, sore and filthy, she kept her head held high. Men could take many things, but they couldn’t take your spirit if you didn’t let them.
Barefooted, Wren trudged along a grandly built harbor twice the size of Lorne’s, then up, up, up an elaborately paved path that led through a small grove of oak trees. It continued to climb until Wren was struggling to breathe, and then, when she thought she might pass out from malnutrition, the group came across perhaps the largest building she had ever seen.
The Verlantian Palace was immense and not like Lorne Keep. The palace was not built upon many levels, for one, instead spreading itself out like a yawning cat in all directions for what felt like forever.
Three towns could fit in that building.
She hated it but Wren had to admit it was impressive.
The stonework did not seem to have any lines that suggested the building had been made with anything but one singular piece of carved, smooth white rock.
It looked like magic had been wrought upon it, though Wren knew that was impossible. Perhaps the palace had been built back in the day when dragons might’ve roamed farther from the isles, and the rare ones which blew fire from their lungs could have been used to reinforce the building and turn it into such a seamless, beautiful thing. It screamed wealth. How many kingdoms had the elves raided to afford such a place? How many lives had been lost for such luxury and greed?
It was a stunning landmark for a cruel people.
She huffed out a breath as she was directed up a set of steep white stairs that lead to the entrance of the palace. Wren kept her head down and focused on not passing out. Her head spun and she slipped. A hand clamped around her forearm, halting her from dashing her brains out on the marble stairs.
She lifted her head and gasped. The prince stared impassively down at her. Wren tore her arm out of his grasp, almost losing her balance again.
“Don’t be stupid.”
“Don’t touch me,” she countered as she righted herself and continued up the steps.
He sprinted up the remaining stairs, leaving her behind with his guards.
The steps weren’t the worst of it.
Their cruelty was only further reinforced when Wren was paraded through the palace toward what could only be the throne room. She tried not to tug at her soiled black shirt that exposed too much of her legs.
Her face flushed with indignation, though she forced herself to calm down. There was nothing she could do about the situation she was in, aside from keeping cool and taking the first opportunity she was given to attack. Who cared if she was humiliated in front of all these people she did not know? They did not care about her, and she did not care about them. Their opinion of her meant nothing.
So why was her heart beating so quickly? Why, with every pair of eyes laughing and sneering in her direction, did she feel even more like she wanted to crawl inside herself and never return?
Only you have the power to let others shame you.
With her mother’s words ringing in her ears, Wren conducted herself as a bloody queen. She’d bring no reproach on Lorne. Cruel laughs and stares would not take her dignity.
A pair of ornately carved doors opened and she was led across a marble floor polished to a high shine to stand in front of a tall, gilded chair. She looked up to find what was potentially one of the most beautiful—and most frightening—faces she had ever seen carefully regarding her.
The High King of Verlanti. Soren.
Even sitting down, Wren could tell that the man was willowy and tall: taller than almost any man she’d ever seen in her life. His white-blond hair tumbled over his shoulders all the way down to his waist and was delicately braided with all manner of jewels, spindle-like gold jewelry, and silver pins. His eyes were framed by lashes of black and blue and silver, accentuating the crystalline color of his irises.
Crystal.
Like father like son.
Wren glanced over at the commander dressed all in black before she could stop herself. The resemblance was uncanny: the same eyes, the same high cheekbones, the same pale hair. The main differences that Wren could see between the two men was that one was slender whereas the other was broad, and that the king clearly preferred fine silks and gems to leather and armor.
It was surprising however to find the prince of a nation in the frontlines of an invasion. Leading it, in fact. Was it because he was illegitimate? The fact that Wren herself had been treated like Oswin’s daughter by blood did not mean that other kings felt the same way about their own children who were still theirs by blood but born out of wedlock to another woman that was not their queen.
She kept her thoughts to herself.
Someone pushed her from behind and she fell unceremoniously to the floor. The resulting crash echoed all around the throne room, and she grunted when her knees cracked against stone. Pain radiated up her thighs, but she didn’t cry. Wren panted through it and then gritted her teeth. She knelt for no man.