It’s not until Sitri bypasses the table and starts up an extravagant set of steps that I realize we’re not heading to be seated at the center table at all. I falter and he’s at the top of the steps in no time, turning back to shoot me with a pointed warning glare.
I start up the steps behind him, hurrying to catch up with him. I’m just thinking about how many in this room would probably take great joy in seeing me stumble and, like a self-fulfilling prophecy, my foot catches on the next step and I barely catch myself in time with my hand to the marble stair. Berated by an echo of laughs behind me, I quickly right myself, face flaming as I successfully accomplish the rest of the stairs.
Sitri doesn’t meet my eyes but his disappointment is palpable as he positions himself behind a small table at the top of the steps. It turns out our seating is a small table elevated above everyone. I think this might be the throne room except the thrones have been removed, replaced by this table, positioned as the center stage so everyone can gawk at us.
I pull the chair out beside Sitri, about to slump myself into it when he kicks at me. “Wait,” he hisses.
I freeze, breaths stilted as the attendees slowly climb to their feet. Or some do—others remain seated in a show of defiance. A slow clap builds but it’s pathetic, considering how many are here. It soon dwindles to a lull. Sitri shoots me one sharp appraisal I’m not sure how to decipher before lugging his chair out and taking a seat. I follow shortly behind him as does the rest of the room.
The weight of a hundred heads turning to sneak in glimpses of us boils the blood in my cheeks as hushed murmurs break out among the guests again and I shrink in my chair, casting Sitri a sideways glance. He’s still as a statue and just like when he’d brought the seamstress up, an utter coldness emanates off of him, like he’s furious to find himself in this position—seated next to and married tome, a nought.
I’d completely expected it this time but it still somehow manages to prick inside of me like an unfurling vine of thorns.
Positioned on the table in front of me is one white empty plate and an empty glass. The stares below us turn less pointed and frequent as the chatter around the table builds back to its former glory. Scattered around the fringes of the room are more tables, smaller ones. The Magi seated there don’t appear quite as lavish as the ones directly below us. I realize they must be the attending commoners.
The daemon is pounding inside of me so vibrantly I grit my teeth, a sheen of sweat forming across my forehead. I’m really wishing I’d let it out to wreck something before coming here. It’s going to take everything in me just to get through this night and keep it contained.
I jolt as the glass in front of me suddenly fills with a blood red liquid. I look over to find Sitri’s has done the same. He doesn’t reach for it. My mouth has gone dry, tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth with my anxiety. I stretch my hand toward it with trembling fingers and grip it tight. I’ve already made a fool of myself by falling, I’m not going to spill my wine too. I peek over at Sitri to see if he intends to stop me as I bring it to my mouth. He doesn’t meet my eyes but something in his demeanor seems disapproving or maybe…that’s just how he already looked.
I assume it's some form of wine. Wine was not afforded to the Shrouded but I know of both its desirable and undesirable affects.
The liquid is a clear, crisp tang, not exactly sweet yet not overly bitter. It does little for the dryness of my mouth and I take several more swallows before carefully settling it back on the table.
The effect is almost immediate. I’m so certain I’m careening sideways in my chair I reach a hand out to steady myself against the table. My breath catches as I feel the blood red liquid warming my stomach and moving through my veins like a cold ice sizzling the flames of the daemon. I suck in several sharp breaths as the potent effect clouds my vision but by the time I release my third breath the effect has lifted. I feel heavier than I did before, a little bit sloppier yet somehow lighter…more relaxed.Like, none of this is quite as panic-inducing as I had thought.It dulled the daemon.
It’s now little more than a dull pulse beating in my limbs. I almost want to grin. It’s a miracle liquid. I reach for my glass again, this time gaining Sitri’s attention. He frowns down at the glass in my hand but both of our attention is snagged by the scraping of a chair being pushed against the floor. The buzz of voices peter out and I carefully set my glass back down, turning my attention down the table in front of us.
“Morin, King Corvus wishes for me to pass on—to all here,” he bellows to address the room. “That he thinks what it is you’re doing here is a travesty!”
“Ah, Aym, we haven’t even had the main course yet,” Morin says, picking up her glass to casually swish the red liquid.
“He’s sent me to tell you you’re muddying our lines,” the man carries on, unperturbed. From the angle in which he addresses the table I can only make out his burly form, ruddy cheeks, and dark yet thinning hairline. “Annihilating the Horned God’s line and ruining the possibility of future marriage pacts of our descendants.”
A quiet groan emits from Sitri’s direction. The small expression of dismay does not translate to the facade he’s taking great lengths to exude, slouched in his chair with a countenance of utter boredom.
Several beats pass, only a few coughs and clearing throats breaking through the all-consuming silence before Morin says, “Funny, you think if Corvus felt so passionate about this, he’d make the effort to say so himself. Instead he sends his bro--”
“Corvus is very busy. I can speak for the kingdom of Avalon just as well as he can.”
“I think his absence displays his lack of concern.”
“I will say it then!” Another voice rings out, tone reeking of disapproval. White-headed and bearded, I recognize the man whose eyes blazed with hatred as he slams a fist against the table and rises to a stand.
Morin considers him, utterly unfettered as she brings the glass of wine to her lips. “Go on then, Veylor.”
“I’d rather hear your words, Morin. What explanation can you possibly have for marrying the Prince of the Horned God’s line tothat,” he spits, turning his body to point one condemning finger at me. I shrink further to the back of my chair as Morin’s and several other eyes follow his finger out to me. “You didn’t even discuss it with the council!” he snarls.
“I was intending to address the party once we’ve eaten.”
Neither man makes to back down and Morin releases an audible sigh. “Fine. Have you all forgotten that the Horned God’s line was already muddied?” she asks, her cold voice ringing out sharply to deliver the words across the table.
“Not like this!” the white-haired man snaps. “A nought is bounds below even a commoner, Morin. Especially when Cernunnos has showed such promise. His magical signature is strong—that is why he was still considered heir even in his position—“
“I promise you that Cernunnos' achievements have been greatly exaggerated in an attempt to offset his reputation,” Morin snaps.
I swear I hear Sitri let out the softest of snorts but when I look over he’s still exuding boredom though something in his eyes looks a little more on guard.
“What are the motives? There’s no reaso--”
