Page 50 of The Coven of Ruin
“Or not,” she huffed. “Anyway, we are just here to witch-watch, drink, and dance.“ Demurielle happily sighed as she took off her own shawl revealing a tight floral bodice attached to flowing layered pink skirts made for dances and twirls.
They sat with their backs to the outer wall to watch the tavern’s bustle. Demurielle pointed out witches, commenting on what they were wearing or who they were talking to. It wasn’t until they started their second round of drinks that her friend gestured to someone she hadn’t expected to see in a crowded witch tavern.
“The iron generals? I wonder if that means their prince is here too.”
She didn’t know how she hadn’t spotted him. He stood out in a way that she couldn’t quite place. Maybe it was the way he carried himself. Or how his lethal energy preceded him.
He and Grae walked through the crowd unhurried. Grae stole a cup off a tray from a waitress while somehow charming his way out of being reprimanded. Someone bumped into Ares and gesticulated wildly at him until the god turned his attention to the mage. The mage suddenly looked down at the ground, muttering what she could only imagine was an apology.
They were both at least a head taller than any mage there. Witches marked them, whispering to each other behind their hands, their eyes flashing with interest at their arrival. What she didn’t see, and what usually gave The God of War away, was his sword. It was strange seeing him without it, but perhaps whatever his intentions were at a tavern full of witches did not require a blade. Scanning the room, she found Brune leaning against the wall in a shadowed corner.
“We should go talk to them,” Zyana suggested.
Demurielle and Trista both looked at her, surprised.
“What? They’re more interesting than most of the mages of Circes! Besides, Trista obviously has something for General Reas,” she added quickly.
Demurielle pursed her lips at Zyana before side-eyeing Trista. “It does seem that way after the tournament. We haven’t really talked about it, now that I think about it.”
Trista knew she was dying to do just that. Glaring at Zyana, who hid her smile in her cup, she was just about to explain exactly how littleGeneral Reascared for her when the Iron Prince appeared from a much smokier part of the dimly-lit tavern, drawing their attention.
“His father has gone mad and is severely ill. His elder brother is missing, leaving him to inherit the throne now,” Demurielle explained when she spotted him.
“Lady Demurielle, would you grace me with a dance?” A brown-haired mage interrupted them as he approached their table. Trista remembered Dem mentioning him before. Majus Saffon’s son of The Sea Coven.
She eyed him before nodding once. “Be back soon,” she said, taking his hand and letting him pull her to her feet.
Zyana watched her depart, not looking away for a moment as she began dancing to the upbeat rhythm. “She does not see me,” she muttered.
Following her gaze to Dem, Trista tapped the side of her cup with her fingers. It hadn’t been entirely lost on her that Zyana might harbor feelings for Demurielle that were beyond friendship. There was always something more profound in her gaze when she interacted with the sun witch. Not lust or platonic love, but like Zyana was witnessing her very soul.
“You could tell her thatyouseeher,“ she finally offered.
Shaking her head, the mountain witch sighed heavily. “This friendship,” she gestured between them and out to Demurielle, “has changed everything. It is too important. I just want to be in her presence, in whatever capacity she will have me. I would not let my heart ruin it.”
Though Demurielle and Zyana were younger than her, they tended to have more first-hand worldly experiences than Trista. But in this aspect, she understood. Her friendship with Kace was forever changed when it stopped being purely platonic between them.
However, it was disrespectful to compare Zyana’s purity in her feelings to that of Kace’s lust. “I don’t think your heart could ruin this,” she offered.
Zyana winced, but shook her head. “Forget it.”
They watched their friend dance, her steps graceful, even when the mage led them into a pair of witchmen standing at the fringes. When the song was over, Demurielle excused herself, leaving him to stare after her.
“He was an awful lead, and his breath was even worse,” she declared as she sat back down, wrinkling her nose. Trista could practically see her cross him off her imaginary list of suitors. And she didn’t have to look at Zyana to know she was pleased.
Though Demurielle kept a constant discourse on those coming and going, Trista’s gaze always found Ares. They were in some kind of meeting with three mages she didn’t recognize. Grae and the Iron Prince did most of the talking. She wondered idly if Prince Nero had told them about the importance of three, which was why Brune wasn’t sitting with them. She was still unsure if he knew their identities, but he always seemed comfortable with them.
A witch with red-painted lips and wavy brown hair twirled perfectly and tipped into Ares’ lap. She laughed, pressing her hand against his chest as she feigned embarrassment. He dipped his head to speak into her ear.
Something unfamiliar crept from Trista’s throat to the pit of her stomach, leaving an icy trail in its wake. She looked away—at the patrons, at the staff who moved expertly through the crowd with offerings of drinks—only to glance back as the witch’s face fell. He whispered something else to her, and she nodded once, extricating herself from his lap far less elegantly than she had fallen into it.
Ares said something to the mages across from them, and they slid a small parcel across the table, which he picked up and tucked inside his tunic in one swift motion.
Demurielle elbowed her, drawing her attention away from the god. “Look, the Dragon Commander is here too.”
Sure enough, he was standing with two other mages who wore the same dark dragonhide gear, identifying them as members of The Dracosian Fleet. Witches moved toward him from all directions. They reminded her of spiders reacting to something particularly delicious getting caught in their web.
Leaning in closer, Demurielle whispered, “Maybe you could ask to see his dragon.” She moved her brows suggestively.
