In between bouts of anxious pacing, Trista tried to rest. Part of her expected to hear screaming at any moment in the halls, as if he would be there cutting down anyone who stood in his way.
It just didn’t make sense. His very presence there wasn’t logical. She would think that she had fabricated him if she wasn’t so sure of her own mind. But she remembered exactly how it felt to be held by him, to stare into his gilded gaze and know exactly who he was.
Time passed slowly and all at once. A knock on her door, hours later, had her so alarmed, she froze in place. Another knock.
“We are going to be late,” Demurielle’s voice traveled through the thick wood. “And I want to get seated before it gets too crowded and we are stuck at that far table again next to The Coven of Sand.” The last part came out a whine.
The tension and pure dread dissipated. Not bothering to even look to see if her hair was in place, Trista opened the door to greet her friends.
The sun witch beamed at her.
Zyana was too busy muttering about how she didn’t understand why they always felt the need to make an event out of dinner. “Can’t they announce this stuff another time? I just want to eat,” she grumbled.
Linking arms with Trista and a reluctant Zyana, Demurielle started them toward the dining hall. “So,” she said conspiratorially, “I went for a quick walk in the gardens earlier, and I overheard two witches talking about the princess.” She looked between them excitedly.
Zyana grimaced, thought for a moment, and then shrugged. “Oh, all right, what were they saying about the princess?”
“She was spotted in the castle. It sounds like she has been gone formonths.Where do you think she has been? Do you think she has a secret lover, maybe a forbidden love affair with a mortal man?”
“Maybe she was sick,” Trista offered. “The rich like to go away when they are.”
Demurielle pondered it. “Maybe, but forbidden love is much more of a thrilling idea, isn’t it?”
“Maybe she was off learning how to fight,” Zyana proposed wistfully. “Flying on dragons and forging her magic into a weapon.” She mimicked swinging a sword with her free arm.
“Surely not,” Demurielle frowned. “She’s second in line for the crown. There’s no way they would just send her away or put her in danger.” For once, the chatty witch became lost in her own thoughts as they traversed the corridors to the dining hall.
The din of conversation preceded their arrival. “So much for being early,” Zyana muttered as they entered. Fortunately, their usual seats were open, but the tables filled quickly around them.
Trista stopped herself from watching the entrance or checking the hall to ensure there were no tall gods looming in the corner or sitting amongst the covens.
When the Witch King clapped his hands twice to get everyone’s attention, the hall’s commotion died. “I am elated to see the covens seated together in one place, united for a common goal.” The corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled out at them.
“The covens haven’t joined in Spellspire for over twenty summers. It is a failing on my part for not calling Circes sooner. We are only as strong as our bonds to each other. No one coven is greater than another.” His gaze paused on each covens’ tables.
“Sun and Gold, where youth and summer are never-ending. Mountain and Moss, without whom we would not be as well protected as we are. Forest and Nightshade have produced many remedies that allow us to thrive. Moon and Bone with their ability to see what others cannot and guide us true. Sea and Storm, who allow us to connect with our sister covens across oceans. And finally, Marsh and Fire—mysterious though they may be, have aided in keeping our borders safe from those who wish us harm.”
As he continued to talk, Trista’s gaze traveled around the room. Though all the covens had their official representation and the plethora of witches and mages participating in the Circes season, they weren’t necessarily united. They tended to stick to themselves or interact only with certain covens. Stigmas and stereotypes affected their social and economic relations. Not to mention, at that very moment, they all sat somewhat separate from each other, sticking to their own covens. Especially the foreign ones—they sat farthest away, their entire parties sharing one or two long tables. The easy relationship between her, Zyana, and Demurielle was an oddity here.
The dining hall fell ominously quiet, pulling her from her own observations. “What’s this?” the Witch King questioned, trepidation in his tone.
Trista followed his eyes to the main entryway. Her heartbeat quickened. Standing there in all black, looking every bit like The God of War, was Ares. Her hand tightened into fists in her lap as she looked between the Witch King and the god.
“Wait, who isthat?” Demurielle whispered to her.
Two other men stepped up, flanking Ares on either side. One was lean and bronze, and he moved with a self-assured swagger as they moved into the dining hall. Trista was confident he was the man in the blue mask who Ares had approached last night. His hand rested lightly on the hilt of his sword, unbothered by the eyes upon them. In fact, the smirk that curled his lips begged for someone to challenge them.
On Ares’ other side stood a bald and brutish-looking man with three jagged scars over the left side of his face. With his entire body thick with muscle, he looked like a half-giant, standing taller than Ares himself. His stony and dark features only aided in making him appear harsh and unapproachable.
“Oh, they don’t look like mages,” Demurielle commented.
They walked down the main aisle, between the sea of covens, toward the Witch King. The silence that had descended in the room caused their steps to echo off the stone. Trista only had eyes for Ares. She was mesmerized by the way he projected power without doing anything. And no one in the hall knew who he was. A scream of warning built in her lungs and constricted her throat.
“Nero?” Prince Roan’s voice broke the spellbind Ares held her in.
“Prince Roan,” another voice greeted, friendly and expectant.
“Ah,” the Witch King finally exclaimed, something like relief and recognition in the word. “The Iron Prince, welcome. We weren’t expecting you for another week.”