Page 3 of Godbound
The silence that follows our entrance is sharp. The low hum of conversation dies out, the scrape of boots against stone stills, and all eyes turn to stare in our direction.
I keep my chin up, fighting the instinct to shrink beneath their gaze.
Then, a whisper cuts through the quiet. “What’s that she’s carrying? A shame, truly. You’d think she’d at least try to have respect for the occasion.”
The words rake against my skin. A slow, crawling heat rises in my chest. The urge to react, to meet their gaze, to say something sharp enough to draw blood thrums beneath my skin, but I swallow it down.
They expect me to falter. I do not.
Instead, I let silence be my armor. My fingers tighten around the bones, but I do not slow. I do not waver. Let them watch. Let them whisper.
One day, when I am their queen, they will bow before me.
I keep walking, but just as I pass the cluster of women from which the whisper came, another voice slices through the hush—cool, effortless and laced with venom.
“The real shame, Daphne, is that your tongue outpaces your brain. Perhaps you might eat more and speak less.”
A choked sound follows, whether from shock or indignation, I don’t know, nor do I care. I don’t turn, don’t risk feeding their satisfaction, but a slow flicker of amusement curls in my chest.
Eva, my fierce friend, is near, even if I don’t see her. The thought is enough to steady me, to steel my spine just a little more.
Only once I lower myself into the seat beside Mael does the space around the plaza finally exhale, the noise resuming as if my arrival had been a passing spectacle, nothing more.
Mael looks at me as I settle beside him, a smirk tugging at his lips. He is Ryker’s opposite in every way. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, lacking his brother’s golden radiance. A reflection of the mother he never knew, the queen who died giving him life.
“I fear your new pet might need a little water,” he murmurs, nodding toward the skeleton in my lap.
Behind me, my duenna lets out a sharp noise of disapproval as she finds her place at the rear of the dais. Always behind, always watching.
Having Ryker’s brother nearby eases something in my shoulders. Not because I expect protection, but because Mael is chaos incarnate, and right now, I need someone else’s scandal to drown out my own.
I turn the skeleton slightly, letting the flowers catch the light. “I gave it a little milk this morning,” I say, low and grave. “It didn’t seem to want it.”
Mael chuckles. “My poor brother,” he says, eyes flicking to Ryker. “So convinced you’re his polished little bride-to-be. Sweet. Obedient. Safe.” He leans in, his voice velvet-smooth, laced with mischief. “He’s known you all these years and still has no idea who you are. But I see you. You like the weight of life and death in your hands.” He pauses, then adds, almost lazily. “Careful, Raylane. That sort of appetite has a way of growing.”
My head snaps toward him, a flare of defensiveness burning hot in my chest. Ryker knows exactly who I am, he just chooses to see the best in me. But isn’t that what one should want from a husband?
A sound from the center of the plaza pulls me away before I can speak. I turn slowly toward the noise, and my heart clenches.
The Red Hunter.
Zyrel Falcon walks like he owns the stones beneath his feet, broad-shouldered and brutal. No title. No reward for his services.
Just a man who built a life on dragging cursed girls to the poles to satisfy his sick cruelty.
The sigil of Thul'Barak, the God of Change and Beasts, coils over the thick muscle of his bicep—a spiral of fangs tightening inward, the symbol of consuming change. He wears it openly, though Calcatra bows to a different god, Demetria, now.
Behind him, stumbling, is Brienne, pulled by the thin chain around her neck. The snare rod is a carved wooden staff with a looped metal chain-cord at the end that can be tightened around a person’s neck or body to control them from a distance. It seems designed for catching rabid animals, rather than young girls.
Hot rage bursts in my chest at the sight. As if hurting her isn’t enough, he has to humiliate her too.
I want to leap from my seat and scream into their smug faces how wrong they are. How wrong all of it is. But propriety—and my station—demand silence. And so I stay seated while the harsh words claw inside me, desperate to tear free.
Brienne’s gown, once gold and elegant, is now streaked with filth and blood. Her arms hang limp, heavy gloves shackled at the wrists to conceal the Crimson Tether curse darkening her fingertips. Her hair, once pure white, now burns red in tangled strands.
Noises of derision are spat from the crowd. Once, she stood amongst those court ladies, regal and proud. Now she is barely standing at all.
My pulse quickens. I tear my gaze from Brienne and look up at Ryker.
