Page 13 of The Last Guardian

Yet Kaenington’s notoriety preceded him. Uncle Marlon had told us that he had fought alongside him a long time ago, when I was a child. Apparently, the commander walked through battles like smoke, leaving only death and ash behind.

An exceptional fighter, a killing machine, too. The greatest asset our father had in his armies for the past twenty years. If Kaenington obeyed. Which, obviously, he did not. The king never managed to keep him on a leash. Even the mention of his name could unsettle a room and the king, for obvious reasons.

Commander Kaenington never came here. Never knelt. Never acknowledged Father as king. He refused to appear in the capital—or before the king at all. It was the greatest act of disrespect.

The king had nevertheless decided to keep him in his armies despite the distance and disrespect. If war broke out between kingdoms, or if the Order attacked us, the commander would be the salvation of Vallen—an obscure threat that no one would dare confront.

With a gesture from the king, the steward resumed his task and announced, “Their Majesties, King Malik and Queen Maeva, monarchs of the Kingdom of Nazar and the Sapphire Sea.”

Nazar, one of the places I longed to see the most in our empire. It was known for its paradise lands, palm trees, and long stretches of white-sand beaches. And the queen was a reflection of her land; she wore a bronze silk dress that swirled around her neck, and her long, dark-brown hair formed a lotus behind one ear. Their emblem.

The Nazarian monarchs were real beauties, with their bronze skin and black hair. They embodied everything I imagined their kingdom to be: a picturesque coastline, bright blue skies, and warm days.

The king tenderly touched his spouse’s back. A silence filled the room when the steward didn’t announce the prince and princess. What a tragic event…

I looked away for a moment, letting my gaze wander over the crowd of faces surrounding us. All the noble families of Perygan were there, watching us as if we were caged animals.

Gilded cages, perhaps, but cages nonetheless.

Tonight, the palace’s door opened only for the high aristocracy to celebrate the arrival of the four royal families. At the next ball, everyone was invited, and Lyra would be there. A friendly face to hold on to at last.

But tonight, every single person looked the same, dressed in their finest clothes, wearing their most beautiful jewelry, and forced to smile.

The murmur of the crowd faded to a low hum and my attention settled on someone leaning against one of the marble columns. There, among all those unfamiliar faces, one stood out—not that I knew the person, but I had seen him somewhere.

Oh, I remembered.

I had only seen him from afar, but I knew it was him from his tall stature, his black hair, and his strange eyes. I recognized the other man beside him, too, from the commemoration, with his mid-length hair.

Arthur’s friends, the ones he went to see in the cemetery.

The tall man and the broad man wore the same kind of black wool tunic, made for a ball. But they were perhaps the only ones who were not wearing details on their clothing; perhaps that was why my gaze had settled on them. Other people were chatting with them, laughing at something Princess Derya—Asael’s sister—was saying.

The tallest ran his hand through his dark hair, slicking it back. A low, effortless laugh escaped him, and he averted his gaze, sparkling like emeralds, and our eyes met—clung. A sharp, curious, assessing gaze.

I didn’t let it linger too long. I looked away the moment our gazes met, forcing myself to glance back at the crowd, pretending not to have noticed him. And yet, even trying to look away, I couldn’t ignore that slight knot in my stomach.

Who were these men?

The steward called out the last royal family. I focused on them instead.

“Their Royal Majesties, King Eric and Queen Ingrid, monarchs of the Kingdom of Boren and the Tundra. Followed by their Royal Highnesses, Crown Prince Arne, Prince Rune, First Princess Yeva, and Prince Aleksi.”

Each member of the Rotunberg family possessed long silver hair. Their customs dictated that men wear their hair long to prove their power; some shaved the sides, while others preferred braids. The king had opted for two braids, which hung down to his beard. His first son had only a ponytail; the rest of his head was shaved. Rune preferred to leave it long all over. Only Aleksi had a cropped haircut.

Everyone was adorned with tattoos, with most of the men sporting facial art. Yeva had one on her neck and an iris flower on her wrist, the emblem of Boren. The king and his eldest son were dressed for battle.

“Welcome,” Father greeted, sneering at their attire, which was not suited for a ball. “Thank you for joining us to celebrate my daughter.”

King Erik beamed as he replied, “What a pleasure!”

The queen glanced at me. “By the Old Star, my dear, you look so much like your mother.”

“Please don’t remind me,” Father replied, loud enough for everyone to hear. “It’s already torture seeing her every day.”

I flinched, and Dorian’s hand found mine, tightening around my fingers. The murmur of the crowd stopped, and an awkward silence followed, filling the air with hate.

Until the steward spoke one last time: “King Eldric invites each of you to join him at the table for the feast.”