Page 147 of Lore of the Wicked Wood
“Fine.” He inclined his head, but there was a look of warning in the depths of his turquoise eyes. “You know where to find us if you need us.”
Atlas nodded and Caedian bowed stiffly before he and Veros turned and headed down the corridor, leaving him alone with his thoughts and wavering confidence. He waited until they were out of sight before he made his way to the throne room. Two guards shoved open the intricately carved wooden doors depicting a lone wolf traversing through a thick forest, and the hinges groaned, announcing Atlas’s arrival.
His father either didn’t notice or didn’t care.
If Atlas had to guess, it was the latter.
Kralv Oldrich sat upon an obsidian throne that shone like the darkest night kissed by moonlight. He cupped a goblet ofred wine lazily, swirling it about while the contents sloshed dangerously close to the rim. His boot tapped a jovial rhythm on the granite flooring, the tempo just slightly off in comparison to the musicians whose less vivacious tune carried up into the arching ceiling above. A handful of nobles loitered near the bountiful tables overflowing with food and wine, their mediocre conversations hushed while they pretended to enjoy the gilded splendor. It was all a bit excessive, considering the company was meager, and the kralv wore an expression of tedious toleration. Upon first glance, he looked drunk and bored, with the way he slouched in the throne and stroked his beard. But his dark eyes were clear and keen, never missing anything.
Atlas approached the throne and bowed deeply. “Father.”
Oldrich propped himself up on his elbow and took a hefty gulp of wine. “What do you need, boy? It’s unlike you to call upon me unless you’re in want of something.”
Atlas’s jaw popped.
He rarely asked for anything. It was always his father who was making demands of him.
Atlas smoothed the front of his navy shirt, as though he couldn’t be bothered with the kralv’s insults. After all, he’d grown accustomed to them over the years. “I’ve come to speak with you about my future bride.”
Those seemed to be exactly the right words to say.
Oldrich straightened then, a gleam sparking in his nearly black eyes. “Is that right? What sort of trouble has the girl gotten herself into this time? Has she passed out in one of the parlors from too much drink? Or have you already caught her with her legs spread for someone else?”
Atlas’s nails bit into his palms until he thought for certain he would draw blood. Agitation tore at him, threatening to release his increasing temper. He cleared his throat, cautious of his tone. “None of those things.”
“Then tell me what she’s done, and I’ll take care of it.” His father waved a dismissive hand and took another long drink of wine. “I realize her name is already being cursed by every eligible female in Prava, but I’m sure we can whip her into shape in no time.”
I’m doing this for Everinne.
Atlas reminded himself of that over and over as he stood before his bastard of a father. Everinne would be in the palace, with Atlas, likely in his bedroom. And it was a far safer location than the Mystic Obscura.
“She unknowingly entered into a blood contract with the Mystic Obscura.” He kept his words soft, for his father’s ears only, and his posture rigid and unapproachable, in case anyone looked in their direction. “I spoke to Reine, but she refuses to release Everinne, even though she failed to mention the truth of the terms before collecting a drop of Everinne’s blood.”
“I see,” Oldrich murmured, and all the previous mocking amusement drained from his face. “This is a serious matter indeed.”
“Which is why I came to you.” Atlas dipped his chin in a show of respect. “I figured if anyone could free her, it would be you.”
The words were bitter on his tongue, but a little flattery never hurt.
His father considered his request, stroking his beard once as his bushy brows pulled together in a stern line. He glanced up at Atlas, canting his head to the side, a look of concern etched into the rugged lines of his face. “What did you offer Reine in exchange for Everinne’s release?”
“Anything.” His shoulders rose and fell in defeat. “Everything.”
Oldrich’s gaze narrowed. “And she still refused you?”
“Yes.” Something about their conversation caused Atlas’s skin to prickle with awareness. The hairs on the back of his neckstood on end, and the unnerving, unsettling sensation of being watched burrowed into his subconscious. The kralv was being too obliging. Too understanding.
“Very well.” Oldrich stood then, depositing his empty wine goblet on the arm of the throne. He puffed out his chest, tucking his hands behind his back. “We can’t have the future Princess of Prava trapped in an unpleasant blood oath, now can we? I will see that she is freed immediately.”
Too easy.
The entire transaction was incredibly too easy.
His father gripped his shoulder. “However…”
Ah, there it was. The infamous catch.
“I imagine the cost for her freedom will be quite high, therefore, I must ask you to grant me a small favor. If you will.” Oldrich increased the pressure, a warning to obey.
