Lord Tanvir nodded at Tyne, and then turned to Evelayn, a knowing look in his glowing eyes. “I will be eagerly awaiting the morning, Your Highness.”
And that’s when she realized what he’d done—how effectively he’d distracted her from her unhappiness. She didn’t understand how he could have known a race would lift her spirits, but he had. And she was indebted to him for the brief distraction. Evelayn lifted her hand to him, something she rarely offered anyone.
He gently took it, the callused skin of his fingers brushing against the soft pad of the underside of her hand, sending a delicious shiver through her.
“I will send word of when and where to meet me, my lord.” Evelayn managed to keep her voice even, despite the thump of her heart, which seemed to originate from where Tanvir touched her rather than her chest.
He bowed and released her. “Until tomorrow then.”
“Until tomorrow.”
Lord Tanvir turned and strode away, and only then did Evelayn realize a great many eyes were on them, watching their exchange. She quickly schooled her features into a mask of blankness, void of emotion of any kind, and gestured for Tyne to lead her back into the castle.
But as she followed her lady-in-waiting to her room, Evelayn’s fingers curled in on the spot on her hand that still pulsed with the memory of Tanvir’s touch.
THE TRAINING ROOMS WERE FULL OF DARK DRAíOLON, the air thick with their sweat and shouts, as Lorcan strode toward the one isolated room where only the most elite were allowed to train in privacy. That’s where his father and Lothar were waiting for him.
He opened the heavy door, and once it shut behind him, it closed off all noise, leaving behind a silence as heavy as the stare his father leveled at him, his silver eyes ominously dark.
“You’re late.”
Lorcan held up the missive in his left hand. “There was a messenger from the warfront.”
The anger on King Bain’s face tempered to speculation. He strode forward and snatched the sealed parchment from his son, then turned his back to open it. Lothar waited on the other side of the massive room, already stripped down to just his pants to spar with Lorcan. Their father preferred for them to train without protective clothing—to truly feel any mistakes they made. King Bain had the block on both princes’ power removed when they were only fourteen and twelve so they could train longer than other Draíolon. Their bodies bore the reminders of the many errors they’d both made throughout their lives, the scars a map of their growing skill and their father’s fury.
Lorcan stripped off his own vest and shirt, trying to quell his curiosity while the king read the letter with the unfamiliar seal. He didn’t want his father to scent it and use it to manipulate him. He didn’t risk asking either, knowing it would only goad his father into keeping the information from him, unless the king deemed it necessary that he know what the message held.
“What are you waiting for?” Bain suddenly snapped. “Get started.”
Lorcan swallowed his angry retort and refocused his irritation into the power that flowed through his body. Lothar nodded at him from across the room, and Lorcan stalked forward. Their father wanted a show, so a show he would get.
Lothar attacked first—a blast of black, flaming shadow that Lorcan deflected with the shield he conjured, also made of shadow. Darkness versus darkness. It wasn’t the same as fighting a Light Draíolon, but it was better than nothing. Lorcan went on the attack next, shooting two quick blasts at his brother—the first a snaking tendril of darkness to wrap around his ankles, the second a thicker band that would entrap his arms while Lothar was distracted trying to escape the snare on his feet. Lothar barely managed to twist out of the way, blocking the second but tripping and falling to the ground from the bindings around his ankles.
Lorcan hesitated for a split second before attacking again, allowing Lothar to break the bonds on his feet and jump back up, prepared to defend himself once again.
Lorcan’s bare back exploded with pain. He arched away from it instinctively, almost falling to his knees. He barely managed to stay upright and swallow the bellow of agony that threatened to escape. It was one of his father’s favorite tricks: turning the shadows into a whip that sliced through leather, skin, and even bone if wielded strongly enough.
“You’re going easy on him.”
Teeth clenched so tightly they ground together, Lorcan whirled to face his father, even as he felt his own blood slipping down his spine, soaking into the waistband of his pants. The king’s silver eyes were cold, his mouth tight with disappointment.
“Do not ever give your enemy the chance to break free, to stand up. You attack and attack and attack.” The letter crumpled as the king clenched his hand into a fist.
He’s not my enemy. Lorcan bit back the words and merely nodded, knowing it would only mean more punishments if he said or did anything but agree, comply, obey.
“Again. And this time, don’t hold back or else I will show you what it means to spar.”
Lorcan turned back to face his brother, hoping Lothar could read the regret in his eyes. And then he attacked.
An hour later the king finally grew bored of watching his sons slashing at each other and lifted his hand.
“That’s enough for today. Go get cleaned up and join me in the council room in one hour. The time has come. We depart in the morning.”
“Where will we be going?” Lothar risked asking, picking up his shirt and using it to mop the blood off his chest from the wound Lorcan had inflicted on him just minutes earlier.
The king’s silver eyes glittered with malice as he lifted the creased vellum. “To kill a queen.”
Though Lorcan burned with the need to know what the message was—who it was from—he didn’t let his gaze drop to the letter. “It was good news then, I take it?”
“Very.” The king glanced between his sons, and after his gaze raked over the many wounds Lothar was nursing, he finally smiled, a cold, cruel twist of his lips. “Lorcan, you will meet me in my rooms in thirty minutes. I have a few things to discuss with you in private before we meet with everyone else.”
Lorcan stiffened but then quickly bent forward into a shallow bow, the wound on his back, which had already begun to close, pulling at the movement. “As you wish, Father.”
The king nodded, not even looking at Lothar again before turning and leaving the room.
Once the door was shut and the brothers were alone, Lorcan hurried over to Lothar’s side.
“Here, let me help.”