Chapter Three

The difference between belonging and having to belong was not lost on me as I was shoved roughly into a carriage.

By the insignia alone, I had figured out that this was a royal carriage, and my thoughts grew even more bitter as my mind lingered on that image of belonging.

I had belonged in Ardour as much as I had belonged to it, Ardour was the kingdom I have vowed to protect. The people were my keepers, for they were who I served.

But now I no longer belonged to Ardour, or in my home country, I belonged to someone, a man so callous that the world trembled at his feet, and the truth of it all stabbed through my chest, a pain made to fester and infect.

The sadness that rippled through me was a constant lull, always there, a pain that grounded me as the worn leather of my boots dug into the plush carpet beneath. The curtains drawn close, that darkened green, to conceal all light.

I was surprised the crown had not been ripped from my head, I had not been humiliated in front of my people, belittled as I knew he had done to so many.

A fraction of my soul, begged for an end, wondering if life as a prisoner was better than having no life at all. Whether if I could reach for a severed piece of glass I could put an end to this, either by slitting his throat or mine.

But wasn’t that giving in also, to cast my life away when I vowed to be his unbecoming, to destroy his court from within? That was something that very much required breath in my body. He expected me to be subdued, a trophy to strung up, shown to his people and probably worse.

I would become the very thing he feared, for no one could instil fear in my heart and expect it to remain there, untouched, uncorrupted by the pure thought that I could be more than what he anticipated.

I even grinned lightly to myself, the thought of regicide a calming one, it could be as simple as smothering him in his sleep, or taking one of the very many poisons their land grew, and slipping them into a food I would pretend to dotingly make.

Maybe he would believe that I was in fact a lost soul, a sheltered princess, that he was so easily able to destroy, with his years of militant experience, but he did not know my father as I did. Did not know that the blood on my dress was more his soldiers than my people. There were skills, ingrained in me from my mother, the Casacaliyia were not the only ones who knew how to kill.

I sat there, imagining twisting the knife in his neck, watching the blood drain, until I heard the clasp of the door unlatched. I schooled my expression, quickly like the players in the theatre I would watch as a child. I thought of the people, letting a genuine tear slide from my eyes, my face heating with rage but maybe he would view it as embarrassment.

I held my head low, leaning against the fabric of the curtains, coarser than I had expected.

The door swung open, a rush of cold seeping through, the night young as the sun had disappeared, casting darkness upon the soldiers that would escort me to my new prison.

Carelessly he pulled himself into the carriage and slammed the door. There was something remiss, anger underlying every fluid movement, as he pulled his gloves off, throwing them to the side. He raked a hand through is hair, a hollow expression in those eyes that finally resting on me.

“You, Adelaide Armen are far much more trouble than you are worth,” My mind faltered at the statement, I had not expected that.

“Perhaps, you are too used to being obeyed, and that is why you think I am trouble,” all need of preservation left me. I knew the rues I had to play, the one in which I was whittled down to nothing but a frightened child, but from what I knew of the King, he enjoyed a fight. A breaking down of the soul, so maybe it would be better for me to show my defiance now and give him the satisfaction of thinking he had truly broken my spirit.

“Perhaps you are right,” he leaned forward, dangerously close, the dark green almost black cloak falling form his shoulders, as deft fingers loosened the clasp.

I shrunk backwards, the cushion of the seat hindering my movement, as he got closer.

“Or perhaps you are already afraid,” it was no question, but it was framed as one.

“I’m not afraid,” the lie was a smooth, but the hitch in my voice gave me away.

He laughed, the cool sort of laugh that indicated anything but humour. Hollow, and woven by the laughter of the dead.

“Only a fool would not be afraid of what’s to come.”

“Threats do nothing for me, as long as my people are safe, what becomes of me is irrelevant,” and that was the truth. I did not care for my life, for my safety, not if Ardour could live a little longer, thrive and not be condemned to a war that they were not ready for.

“Ah yes, that pitiful treaty you had me sign. Your naivety as a ruler is a clear as those sacred rivers you boast,” he paused, a sly grin welding itself onto his face, sharper than the angles of his jaw and cheekbones, able to cut through all my resolve, “Or rather how clear they used to be.”

That was what sliced all semblance of patience, of adherence to a plan I had worked through with my court. I lunged forward, all ideas of self-preservation leaving me, as anger flared in my heart. Seeing those rivers, running red, the pools of blood floating across the bank, the bodies, thrown into the water that was so sacred to us. It was too much.

My hands curled together as I reached for his neck, so sure that I would suffocate him, make him know the feeling of breath leaving your body. Praying that the rage in my eyes was the last thing he saw before he was condemned to the depths of hell.

He was too quick, practiced hands halting my own, with an almost bored grip. He pulled me closer, until I fell into him, the lurch and pull of the carriage that was now moving, another force, allowing me to get closer.

Though my wrists were enclosed, I kicked my legs out, meeting flesh, but it did nothing to loosen his grip. My last resort was to claw at his face, the unblemished skin would at least have a cut or two from my roughened nails. I would not have him unscathed not when my people suffered at his hands.

My struggle lasted mere seconds, before he stood in the carriage, lifting me with him and twisting my arms in one fluid motion, seizing my hands with a single arm, the other holding onto the gold beams holding up the carriage front.

“Are you quite finished, Adelaide?” my breath was heavy as I tried to loosen his unrelenting grip, but once more I was stopped by hands that were so well versed in the art of capture.

He leaned forward, the gleam of his smirk reflected in the metal plating of the carriage walls. I watched the image tilt with each movement of the vehicle, my heart pulsating frantically, as he spoke, unwanted shivers snaking down my spine, “I do rather love a fight, but it’s quite unbecoming of a lady to attack her King.”

“You are no king of mine,” I ground out, still thrashing. The intrusion of the thought that even with a single hand he could subdue me, tightened my stomach as bile rose to my throat.

“Your treaty says otherwise, you belong to me for the rest of your days, or your people die for it.”

“You are pure evil, Rhydian Koen,” his name was bitter on my tongue like a curse I was forbidden to say, “You thrive off the suffering of others. And you will never be a King that is loved. For a king does not need to kill to be recognised.”

Each heave of my chest was another admission of my struggle, the weight of having my hands twisted and out of reach, took its toll. My head swimming, as my knees almost caved.

He watched me, the unceremonious gnashing of my teeth, like a rabid animal as I spoke, “You are no king. Let alone a king of mine.”

“Ardour would say differently. I own your home, but most importantly,” he leaned ever closer, a hiss of words in my ear, too close to the serpent in all the fables, the one that stole the town children when no one was looking, and feasted upon them, “I own you.”

With those words he roughly threw me back in my seat. I went to get up to fight once more, but exhaustion enclosed over me. I fell back as soon as I rose. Defeat a clear picture on my face. As I stared at the sliding tears, the ghost of a person gazing back at me in those polished walls.

I did not want to cry, did not want to break so easily, so I merely closed my eyes, unable to look at that sardonic grin. That sliver of evil that was so well rooted in those venomous eyes.

I whispered, defeat lurking so close but far enough away that my words could be heard, “You will get your reckoning Rhydian Koen. I swear it.”