Chapter Four – Threads and Thorns

Her lips still remembered his. But she couldn't afford to. Even if her mind doesn't give her rest.

Metheea was exhausted. She wanted nothing more than to return to her room, and bury herself in her bed but she was far from done.

Azrayel didn't talk to her anymore after that, but she could feel his eyes following her. What he had said lingered in her mind, making her nerves spark beneath her skin. And yet, she didn't have the will to ask him what he meant.

She went to her next class without looking back.

Embroidery.

When she stepped into the room, she was instantly surrounded by ladies in tailored academy uniforms and embroidered with their house crests.

This was the class meant to polish future wives of power where refinement, grace, and obedience were taught.

"You there. What's your name?"

She stopped and looked at a girl blocking her way. "Velista Alwyn," she said smoothly, giving the fake name they had assigned to her. "It's rude to ask for names without offering yours first."

Then she saw her, the woman who had dumped wine on her dress, surrounded by the same people.

"Alwyn?" one of them said louder. "Oh. I know that family."

They giggled together as if sharing a joke. She had seen nobles act like this back in Dythrid, but it was worse now that it was aimed at her.

Girls in nobility were the same, even across different kingdoms.

"From the North, right?" another chimed in. "Do northern nobility usually dress like peasants?"

She blinked, then looked down. Her boots were dusted, still faintly soiled from the training yard. She had forgotten to clean them in her hasty escape from Azrayel.

She straightened her back. "I hadn't noticed." She almost said her teeth looked dirtier and asked if she'd forgotten to clean them too but she held her tongue. She walked to an unoccupied chair and sat down.

"Well, we have," said the redhead as she stood. She walked over with contempt in her eyes and slammed her hand onto Metheea's desk. "Baroness blood, I assume. Did your mother whore herself out just to get you here?"

Her lips twitched in quiet amusement.

If only they knew.

She smiled sweetly and tilted her head. "Do high nobles usually behave like tavern drunks? Just curious."

Gasps fluttered across the room.

The redhead looked like she might lunge across the table, but before she could, a voice called out from the door.

"Teacher's coming!"

It was a blonde girl standing by the entrance who had been silently observing the scene. The moment she shouted, the rest of the girls snapped their heads in her direction, eyes sharp with irritation.

Still, they scattered quickly, returning to their seats like nothing had happened though their eyes were still burrowing daggers into her.

A tall woman in plum-colored robes stepped in. "I am Instructor Verentia," she said briskly. "Discipline is expected." Assistants handed out hoops and silks as the girls fell silent, heads bowed in focus.

Metheea took a deep breath and forced her focus on threading the needles.

She glanced sideways at the girl who had shouted from the doorway earlier. The blonde was now seated beside her, hands moving steadily through her hoop.

"Don't take it to heart," the girl muttered, eyes fixed on her stitches.

She continued, voice low, "Those girls only came at you because we all saw you walk in together at the ball."

She nodded toward the redhead who had slammed her desk earlier. "That's Resme. Count Resca's daughter. Be careful with her. She's already staked her claim on the prince."

"The prince barely spoke a word to me," she muttered under her breath. Well, there was that kiss too. No—don't think about it.

The girl beside her gave a half-shrug. "Doesn't matter. Resme's the jealous type. She's staked a claim, even if it's just in her head."

Metheea glanced at the redhead again. Did she fancy herself becoming his mate? The thought made her lips twitch, but not in amusement. 

Dragon-blooded only had one true mate in their life, but they could still marry for advantage. It was also rare to choose both.

She remembered that pull again—that strange, visceral thread between her and Azrayel.

No. That can't be.

She cleared her throat. "I'm Velista Alwyn, what's your name?"

"Kalistra Revines. Fourth daughter of Baron Revines."

She gave a small nod. Her father was a rich merchant from the North who had been awarded a barony. "Pleasure to meet you."

"Pleasure." Kalistra then paused, studying her. "Strange I haven't heard of your name before. You said the family Alwyn? I do not believe I've met you."

"I'm a bastard," Metheea said quietly to stop her from scrutinizing her.

That did the trick. Kalistra's face shifted, uncomfortable.

"Well." She cleared her throat. "Join me for tea later. I haven't made a single friend here yet, and I would like to learn more about your stitching technique."

"I'd like that," Metheea said, though her smile never quite reached her eyes.

After all her classes, she walked the long halls of the academy, her shoes barely making a sound on the polished stone. A few girls passed by in pairs, their whispers barely concealed.

But she kept her pace steady.

By the time she reached her room, Lerima was already there, grimly waiting.

"Why didn't you come report after your meeting with the prince?" Lerima asked, her tone clipped.

She cocked her head. She didn't like the way she said it.

"You were reckless," Lerima pressed. "He looked right at you, and you talked with him."

That was when Metheea turned.

"Who am I?" she asked, voice even.

Lerima blinked, frowning. "Is that a trick question?"

Metheea turned to her sharply. "Tell me my name," she said, each word clipped and cold.

Lerima's expression faltered. Something in Metheea's tone finally reminded her who she was speaking to. She bowed her head quickly, spine stiff. "Princess Metheea Feylisse of Dythrid and Katarthan."

"I am your princess," she said coolly, her voice like ice. "And unless you'd like the Queen to hear how poorly you're guarding me, I suggest you remember your place."

Lerima bowed her head lower. "Apologies," she said, though her voice didn't carry the weight of it.

"Do not question me. I know what I am doing. I didn't want to appear shaken," Metheea said. "I went to my classes. The prince doesn't know who I am, and he'll only be here for three days."

"It's dangerous," Lerima said. "You know that."

"I know," Metheea snapped. "I'm not dumb enough to give him hints."

Lerima straightened. "I already informed the Queen."

Metheea sighed and sat on her chair. "Tell me more," she said sarcastically. Even far from Dythrid, the queen still controlled her every move.

"She sent you a message."

Metheea opened the letter.

My dearest daughter,

Another new wolf was caught near your chamber. Be careful there. That wolf can eat a lamb when he knows it's a lamb.

Metheea sat down slowly.

She wasn't safe. And tomorrow, she'd see him again.