Page 83 of Of Realms and Chaos

Henry burst into laughter, trying to speak between chuckles. “Of course you would go off script.”

I smirked, flicking back my hair, which was now down to my hips. Unlike Henry, I was not brave enough to cut it myself yet. The normally silky curls were too often becoming tangled, parts near the base of my neck regularly needing violent brushing sessions. It would have to be soon.

Farai was shaking, his eyes flicking from me to the bloody guard. With a sigh, I ordered the female guard and the other seven nearby to help the male get to whatever medical professional they had. All nine were soon gone, leaving just our group and Trint at the table. Explaining myself to Farai—and apologizing—would have to wait.

“I can help you with your predicament, King Trint.” Focus on the here, the now, the plan. Focus on the rage.

“You killed one of my guards with a shoe, and you expect me to believe you can help?” The question was more of a panicked whine, but he sat back down, his body shaking. I remained calm, straightening my skirts. Blood now stained the teal fabric.

“He will live. And he started it. Well, you started it.” Trint’s jaw went slack, his hands opening as if to ask “how?” Despite that, I looked to Henry. “Go get Ranbir and have him try to save the eye.”

Henry nodded, winking at Trint before disappearing in a burst of light. The king nearly fell back in his chair again, but I grabbed onto his flailing hand just in time. Strange, he did not seem to be one that would panic this way.

“Are you ill?” Though my question was serious, Wrath burst into laughter, crawling out from under my chair and leaping into my lap. Trint’s face took on a sickly pallor, his body swaying slightly. He ripped his hand from my grip as if I had burned him. Odd how he had gone from propositioning me to trying to have me killed.

“You tried to kill a man with a shoe!”

I laughed, my hand reaching up to scratch Wrath’s neck, the dalistori looking at Trint as if he wanted to take a bite from him. Farai was nervous. I could sense it radiating from him, but I had no time to defend myself. He knew what I did at public sentencings—he knew who I was.

“Yes, well, it seems those shoes came in handy after all.” It must have been my shrug that sent him over the edge of sanity, because the once flirtatious and calm demeanor turned into one of unmanageable fear. He stood once more, rushing to the other side of the table and grabbing a dinner knife.

“You are insane! You spoke to me in my mind and made my guard speak against her will! You are a monster!” When he pointed the black knife at me, I rolled my eyes, grabbing my spoon and scooping up a bite of custard.

“Wow, my compliments to the chef. This is delicious.” Speaking with a mouthful of custard likely did not make me seem any more sane.

“An absolute lunatic,” Trint mumbled in astonishment.

Briefly, I wondered how long it would take to kill someone with a spoon. I assessed the silverware, the light from the wall sconces bouncing off the dark edges. With Farai beside me, it was difficult not to remember how abhorrent I had once felt murder was.

“You should reconsider how you speak about my queen,” Wrath warned, his yellow eyes burning holes into the mortal’s face. He jumped onto the table, leaving small gray hairs all over my dress. Though the blood had already ruined it, I still huffed in annoyance.

Looking up, I found a slowly growing Wrath nearly nose to nose with a shaking Trint.

“I expected you to be…less skittish. Did you not already know what I could do?” When Trint did not respond, still visibly horrified as Wrath surpassed the height of a small youngling, I grabbed the dalistori’s tail. He yelped, turning on me with wide, bewildered eyes. “Oh, please. Do not be dramatic. Sit down before he pees all over himself.”

Wrath turned back to King Trint, hissing once more. Then he leapt off the table and walked away, likely searching for a bed to claim. Farai stayed put, his breathing heavy.

I know I probably scared you. We will talk later. For now, we have to focus.

His nod was small, nearly imperceptible, but after a long and deep breath, he reached over and grabbed my clean hand. My own sigh of relief was loud, just like the voices in my mind that told me he would never forgive the sins I have committed—nor would he love me when he knew I had stopped being sorry for them.

“So, how many soldiers will you be offering?” Trint’s eyes were on the open archway that Wrath had exited through, his thoughts a mixture of curiosity and debilitating terror.

“What is it?” he asked instead of answering, not so much as looking my way.

“He is a dalistori—a creature that hails from the Underworld.” Farai’s hands tightened on my own, a squeeze likely meant to remind me that I was to be selling us as worthy allies who can encourage his subjects to accept him as king and not scaring him. But he knew what I was. The goal was not to fool him but to fool his people.

“Is that where you come from?” His voice was suddenly monotone, as if he had been stripped of all feeling. I would not be surprised. Terror had the ability to drain one of all things good—to morph them into something to be feared instead. I peeked into his head, then, and was swept away in the horror of the moment from his point of view. It reminded me of doing this very thing with Shah only weeks ago.

The difference between the two rulers’ reactions was glaring. Then again, that was how it was in this world. Women suffer and climb and claw their way through merciless existences, just as the Behamn queen had. Trint, though, had always known he would be king—had never been forced to fight for that right or this rule or the luxury of it all. His fear showed that. Shah had suffered enough to not balk at the next monster that strode her way. Trint did not understand such things.

“Some might say so.” This time, Farai kicked me under the table, the side of his boot hitting my calf hard enough to draw a gasp from my lips. I glared over at him, willing him to understand. “What, should I lie?”

The Shifter groaned, reaching his hand up to his face and roughly rubbing at his dual-toned skin. Looking back to the king, I saw he had relaxed slightly, those broad shoulders squaring once more. I felt the shift in his mood, unable to resist looking into that head of his again.

So it seems the psychopath still respects honesty to some extent. Which is more than I can say about all the many gossips and liars surrounding me who like to label and judge me too. Perhaps all in power must face the fact that no one truly knows who they are.

Well, well, the king seemed to think himself more similar to the monster before him than he liked to admit.

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