Page 66 of War Queen
They circled one another, each waiting for the other to strike. The Aleon king was calm, steady.
Interesting.
Soren launched the first attack with a lunge and a powerful swing. He could already tell the king had some skill just by his fluidity of movement. But not enough skill to save him. Soren chuckled silently to himself—he would flay this man.
The king was quick and met his sword with a firm counter before launching an attack of his own. Soren had to shift swiftly to keep from being driven back.
Veryinteresting.
They broke and circled again, but the Aleon king didn’t give Soren much time before launching another attack. He arced a series of swings, and Soren had no choice but to take defense. As they broke, the king shot him a grin.
What was even happening? Anger coursed through him.
Soren shifted his mind. For blood. He leapt forward in a lethal sequence, each strike carrying with it the power of death. The Aleon king met each one with a skilled counter but slowly gave up ground. Soren refused to relent. He wielded his blade with more speed, more power, driving the king back farther, toward the rail. He would pin him to it, soak the wood in his blood. Soren was stronger, but the king was faster, and as they drew nearer to the rail, the king twisted in another counter and spun right, repositioning himself toward the field and out of the path of Soren’s drive toward death.
The king gave another grin, seemingly unrattled. “I think you’re even better than the stories,” he said. He took another step back and paused, a call to end, and slid his sword back in its scabbard. Their spar was finished, and Soren silently cursed his missed opportunity. But he couldn’t bring himself to sheath his own blade.
“You’re impressive, Destroyer. But I’m not surprised. I know I don’t match your skill. Or your power.” He gave a sly smile. “And I do appreciate your restraint.”
Restraint. Soren could still kill him. He wanted to kill him, more than anything. For what he’d done. For who he was—Soren hated him for who he was. But Salara wouldn’t be pleased. The opposite, in fact. Yes, not killing him now required restraint.
The king drew nearer to him. “Do you ever show your face?” he asked. He stepped even closer, but Soren brought the tip of his blade to the king’s chest, stopping him.
The act would have earned him a lashing in Kharav. Salar would have flayed any man who raised a sword to him, but this king wasn’t Salar.
The Aleon king only looked down at the sword against his chest. Then he gave a light chuckle with a smiling frown. “I hope you’ll entertain a conversation with me while you’re here. I’d really like to know—and see—the great Destroyer.” Then he gave a nod, turned, and headed back toward the castle.
Soren could only watch as the king disappeared back into the safety of the citadel. He let him go, and he cursed himself. What was he even doing? He cursed again. Then, he stalked back himself, his sword still in hand, unable to sheath it. Unable to sheath his anger.
His mind reeled. He’d tried to temper his reaction to this man, tried to act as though seeing him—meeting him—hadn’t possessed him with an all-consuming fury. Soren tried to act like he didn’t know who and what this man was.
But he did.
Chapter eighteen
Thecastlebuzzedwithactivity. Norah stepped out into the hall from her chamber, feeling the excitement in the air, and headed toward the sound of celebration. It was the night before the wedding of King Phillip and Princess Daiyona of Osan.
Cascades of vining flowers draped the hall’s arches and flowed down the pillars to the ground, and bright silk swags with colorful bouquets crested every door. White-clothed tables hosted assortments of sweet treats and wine, and she hadn’t even reached the great hall yet.
Norah looked back at Titus behind her. “Fancy.”
She stepped into the great hall, and a hush fell over the room as all heads turned toward her. Then the crowd brought their hands together and clapped. Heat sprang to her cheeks, and she resisted the urge to crawl under a table. She glanced back at Titus, who was also not one for attention and was doing his best to conceal a scowl. Kiran, beside him, raised his brow.
As she turned her focus back, Phillip appeared before her, taking her hand and lifting it to his lips.
“Queen Norah,” he said with a smile.
“You certainly know how to make someone feel like a guest of honor.”
“As you should. You were almost queen of Aleon.”
She wasn’t sure if it was a jest or a jab, or simply a genuine statement. She supposed they would talk about their failed alliance at some point, how she broke their betrothal. Preferably that point wouldn’t be here. Or now.
Phillip pulled her hand around his arm assumingly and led her toward the center banquet table. As they approached, a petite woman stood. Her skin was dark, like the people of Kharav, and her hair was black as night. But her eyes slanted back like trails of teardrops. Elegant. Beautiful.
“Queen Norah, may I present my betrothed, Princess Daiyona.”
The Osan princess curtsied respectfully with a warm smile and a bow of her head. “Queen Norah. It’s an honor.” She bowed again. “And I’ve not forgotten the kindness you showed my brother when he so foolishly crossed the border into the Shadowlands.”
