Page 54 of Wrath of the Dragons
Elowen looks back at Finnian who steps closer to her. “Go with them,” I say.
Ryder nods, not looking pleased but knowing I’ve taken on far more dangerous tasks than looking through a lord’s correspondence.
Alexus pops his head into the hall before holding the door open for them. “It’s the first door on your left.”
I keep my eyes on Elowen’s back, gritting my teeth as the door shuts behind her, and turn to walk up the second staircase that leads to a much shorter hallway displaying a dark crimson-and-black theme as in the rest of the house. It might’ve been a decent place if it wasn’t so gaudy. Alexus quickly unlocks the office and lets me inside.
“This is where I leave you.” He tosses me the key. “They’ll notice my absence when they need more wine, and I’d rather not have the mission fall apart while we’re all inside.”
“Collect your things tonight if you have anything here,” I say while scanning the room. “If we don’t find anything now, I’ll handle them in a different way.”
“Are you not worried about an internal rebellion anymore?”
“I always have another plan.” It’s better to control them and keep them in my back pocket, but either they’ll bend, or I’ll break them.
I walk toward the large oak desk set in front of a wide fireplace. Xantheus must’ve just been in here because the heat is stifling. I don’t waste time removing my coat, but I do pull the hood down. The plush rug absorbs my steps, but I still step lightly enough to ensure anyone in the room below won’t hear. The lockpicks are cool in my grip as I pull the smallest one from my pocket and drop to my knees, making quick work of getting the first drawer open.
I filter through the parchment, making sure to keep everything in order when I return the useless stack and relock the drawer before moving on to the next. It reeks of bergamot in here, and I wouldn’t be surprised if Xantheus burns the incense because he thinks it smells like wealth. There’s some kind of vase or gold piece wherever I look. It seems every inch of the house is crammed with trinkets.
The next drawer slides open, and I repeat my earlier actions, flicking through page after page until I pause. Dropping the stack of financial records on the desk, I scan a letter from a lord of Thirwen letting Xantheus know that there aren’t enough ships left in their kingdom to continue trading throughout the war. Thirwen lacking ships makes no sense. They’re an island kingdom, same as Galakin—their navy is far superior to their armies.
Fuck.
I knew Thirwen would be offering reinforcements to Imirath by sea, but I didn’t anticipate the magnitude. It’s a risky move considering it leaves their own kingdom unprotected…but there must be a reason. Something more than just a marriage between future heirs securing their alliance. I find a piece of blank parchment and place it atop the letter to trace the words and signature. I fold the letter and commit the sigil on the seal to memory—a ship’s helm. Ryder will be able to re-create the simple design in hot wax before it dries. We’ve been forging documents for years.
Before slipping into the hall, I make sure nothing is out of place. The last thing I want is Xantheus running from the kingdom before I have the chance to bring him to heel like the bitch he is for what he said about Elowen alone. I’d rather not waste my time tracking him down. I love a chase, but only when the reward is worth it.
“Did you find something?” That voice. That sweet fucking voice. That’ll always be worth it.
The sitting room is just as obnoxious as I anticipated. Moonlight bounces off the gold-plated furniture as well as every vase and relic propped on various podiums. Jewels in varying shades speckle the walls like the skirts of a hideous gown, and my nostrils burn from all the damn incense. The three of them could’ve heard whatever the lords were saying downstairs if they stayed on the couches, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they decided to sit under the windows for some fresh air.
“I did.” I crouch in front of Elowen who has her back pressed against the wall, and a half-eaten pastry held up to her mouth. “What did you hear?”
“A load of bullshit,” Finnian growls, biting into the soft bread in his hand.
“Foolish men running their mouths,” Elowen adds. “I’d have stopped listening if I weren’t on a mission.” I raise a brow, jutting my chin toward the food. “Spying takes awhile sometimes, so Chef Leonardo made some pastries.” Leonardo, the chef at Veles Manor, was all too excited when I informed him the lady of the house has a love for sweets and baking. I lean forward before she has the chance to react and take a bite. “Hey!”
“Thanks, angel.” She narrows her eyes. Elowen would hand over her meal if she knew I hadn’t eaten, but this woman does not share her sweets. She could be stuffed after four courses and still manage to make room for dessert. “Are you going to tell me what they said? Because I’ll happily go down there and ask myself.”
“Oh, I’m sure,” she mutters. “If I spent my life crying over what men said about me, I’d never leave my room.”
“Yes, you would because I’d kill them.”
“They’re a bunch of rich pricks who haven’t gotten the shit kicked out of them enough,” Ryder grumbles.
Elowen pats my chest and shoves herself to her feet, finishing off the pastry and walking to the door to peek into the hall. “I’m not telling you here because we didn’t spend all this effort spying just for you to reveal our presence by losing your head and going down there with blades drawn.”
My anger pulses under my skin. They can losetheirheads for all I care. “It was that bad?”
“Their hatred can be weaponized if we wait for the right moment to wield it.” She turns away from the door, crooking her finger at the three of us ready to storm down there. “Men say spiteful things about women and yet the world keeps turning. Don’t mistake my calm for complacency. I’ll silence them, but you’re all going to follow my lead and let me do what I do best.” She swings the door open and steps into the hall once we’re close. “Outsmarting those who consistently underestimate me.”
Chapter
Twenty-seven
Elowen
Cayden’s hardly said a wordto me since we left the estate, more than likely keeping his temper reined in by a thin leash. Insults made by cowardly men who would tremble in fear if forced to say it to my face don’t bother me. It’s easy for them to follow one another’s opinions like mindless sheep, to view themselves as untouchable gods. What’s difficult is knowing how to sink your claws into the minds of the masses to control their perception. The tragedy of language is how few people have the ability to string together words that actually mean something. The lords can spew whatever vitriol they want. All it does is provide me with more ammunition to use against them.
