Page 23 of Lore of the Wicked Wood
His gaze was drawn to the double doors where the late afternoon sun was already creeping to the west, streaking the sky with ribbons of amber and crimson. Beyond the doors was his verandah where dense shrubs rose up like a wall, surrounding his personal pool, and offering him a shred of privacy. Its smooth surface reflected the leaves and early winter blossoms, reminding him of a looking glass. Curls of steam floated over the turquoise waters—all the pools on the palace grounds were kept cool in spring and summer, and warm in autumn and winter—but Atlas couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually been able to enjoy any of the pools without feeling like he was on display.
Filtered sunlight sprinkled onto the desk in the corner of his bedroom, highlighting a pile of sealed invitations to parties he didn’t want to attend, and a decanter of honeyfire.
Atlas walked over to the desk, ran his fingers along its grooved edge. Slowly, he pulled open the smallest drawer and removed a wooden box. He swiped his thumb across the top, removing a fine layer of dust, revealing the worn initials carved into its surface.
VS.
Valentyna Skye.
Sighing, he flipped it open.
Cushioned on a pile of scarlet velvet was a ring.
It belonged to his mother. She’d given it to him years ago as a gift, for whenever he chose a wife. Set in gold was a large, oval teal sapphire. It wasn’t the ring his father had given her when he proposed marriage, but this one, well, it had been her favorite. The ring had been passed down through generations of fae royals on his mother’s side, usually to the daughters. But since Atlas had been the only one born to his parents, she’d givenit to him in the hopes that perhaps one day she would have a new daughter through marriage.
The beautiful ring was all he had left of his mother.
His gut clenched and a twisted vine of anger and despair knotted its way through him. He snapped the lid closed, replacing the coveted piece of jewelry in the safety of the drawer. If his father had his way, that ring would be on the finger of one of the wealthiest females in Prava. Some female who likely didn’t give a fuck about the former queen and would pout and protest that she hadn’t received a fire ruby with a halo of pearls instead.
Atlas locked his jaw, grinding his teeth together so fiercely, a dull ache took form in his temples.
Leaving his room, he aimed for his study at the far end of the wing, the one place that was farthest away from everyone and everything.
Fuming, he shoved open the door, bypassed the shelves of books that he never bothered to read, and went straight to the bronze rolling cart in the corner. He grabbed the crystal decanter of scarlet whiskey—stronger than honeyfire but tasted like oak and bitter thyme—and poured himself a hefty amount.
He plopped down onto the plush sofa and deposited the decanter on the round wooden table before him. Propping his feet up on the table, he kicked one ankle over the other and stared into the stone hearth where a fire crackled.
Atlas had just brought the glass of whiskey to his lips when Veros appeared in the open doorway.
“I thought I might find you here.” Veros walked in, then lowered himself into one of the winged high-back chairs.
Atlas glamoured another glass, poured some of the pungent alcohol for Veros, then handed it to him. “Can’t say I’ve got anywhere better to be at the moment.”
Veros swirled the murky golden liquid. He took a sip, then settled back, stretching his legs out. “So…marriage, huh?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” Atlas glared at the flickering flames of the fire, where sparks jumped and danced, filling the study with a comfortable warmth. Of course Veros would already know about Oldrich’s demand. If the palace was good for anything, it was the expedient spread of rumors.
“You knew it was coming.” Veros tapped one finger on the rim of his glass. “It was only a matter of time.”
An absurd turn of phrase coming from the master of the hour himself.
Atlas pushed his unruly hair from his face and took a large gulp of his drink.
“Even still, I thought I’d have time to get to know her first. But apparently my father thinks I should pick one, then fuck her until she’s pregnant.” He held up one hand. “And before you respond, yes, I’m aware of my current reputation. Whoever I pick, however, will be the next Kralvina of Prava, and will likely have to deal with my father’s bullshit until the day he dies.”
Veros nodded slowly, then pulled out a pack of stigs from his front pocket and tossed one to Atlas. Veros reached over into the blue bowl on the table next to his chair and fished out a lighter. After two clicks, a midnight blue flame appeared. He lit his stig, then handed the lighter to Atlas.
“About this future bride of yours,” Veros continued, balancing his stig between his fingers while still holding his glass. “She’ll need specific qualifications, then.”
“Yeah,” Atlas said around the stig dangling between his lips. The flame flared and he inhaled deeply, blowing out a cloud of floral and mint scented smoke. “She’ll have to be fucking brilliant. She’ll need to possess a spine of cold iron but know when to keep her mouth shut.”
“Because of the kralv.”
Again, not a question. Simply a stated fact.
“Exactly,” Atlas agreed, then took another drink. He would love to find a breathtaking bitch of a queen who could win hearts just as easily as she could crush them. It would be even more preferable if she didn’t take shit from his father. At the same time, she would have to know when to tread carefully. He couldn’t allow her to be sent off to the Rizenrok Forge for crossing the kralv.
“What about her magic?” Veros asked, pulling a drag from his stig.
