Ivan carefully set Freya down, and she found herself standing in the tense space between the two towering males, each glaring at the other.
"I know you are accustomed to my father, but whether you work for the covenant or not, I am your king now," Roarke asserted, his voice carrying a commanding edge.
"I am well aware," Ivan replied coolly. His stance was rigid, a clear sign of his internal conflict. "I just don't want to be put in a position where I have to defend myself."
Against the covenant, Freya thought. If Alvar and Ivan failed to protect her, they would indeed face repercussions from the covenant.
"You are my kin, Ivan, so you are under my protection," Roarke said, turning his gaze briefly towards Freya. "It is suspicious already that they put two dragons at your guard, as if daring me to fail."
She hadn't considered this until now. Roarke, as their king, had a duty to protect them, which meant he couldn't afford carelessness with her. Was the covenant indeed testing him? It wouldn't surprise her if they were. Everyone had their own bias.
He looked back at Ivan and then Alvar, who had just joined them. "You can be assured I won't put you at risk," he reassured them.
Roarke seemed to care for his kin. That was something she took note of, and that could bode well for him in the Rite.
Turning back to Freya, Roarke commanded, "Since you walk, follow me." He then strode ahead, indicating for her to come along.
"Where are we going?" she asked, curious if this was leading to another test.
"Wherever I take you," Roarke replied.
"You know I don't have to follow your orders. You are not my king," she stated.
He halted and turned to face her, his intense gaze meeting hers squarely.
"I only agreed to the test because I am here to understand more about you, but I will not comply with every demand. I could walk away from here... unless," she added thoughtfully, "you become my king, which can only happen if you win the Rite. So, it would be best not to keep breaking my wrists since your fate is partially in my hands."
He chuckled at that. "That is exactly the point, Chastity. If I break your wrists, you won't have hands to hold my fate," he said, stepping closer. His voice lowered to a menacing whisper, "I will break them so badly, you won't be able to hold your own fate, Freya."
She glared back at him, not taking one step back. Then he smiled slowly and said, "Only if we don't get along, of course." He added.
Freya remained unfazed by his threats; she had expected as much. He continued to hold her gaze, and after a moment of charged silence, he suggested, "You might agree to a bath now. A cold one, and a change of attire."
Acknowledging the practicality of his offer, Freya gave a slight nod. She was slick with sweat, her dress clinging to her skin, and her fair complexion likely burned under the harsh sun. The prospect of a cold bath was suddenly the most appealing suggestion Roarke could have made.
Back at the palace, two women escorted Freya to a large bathing chamber, offering her a bath. It was her second in just one day, which was quite unusual for her, as back home she typically bathed once or twice a week.
The chamber resembled the earlier one, though it was less crowded with servants this time. She reluctantly shed her clothes and stepped into the cold pool, sighing at the immediate relief it brought to her sun-scorched skin.
Despite the refreshing coolness, her discomfort with the presence of servants and the expansiveness of the chamber hastened her bath. She quickly washed and emerged from the water, eager to be done.
The servants then enveloped her in a soft, creamy white fabric, draping it elegantly over one shoulder while leaving the other bare, in the style typical of dragons. They cinched it at her waist with a belt. Her black hair was still damp, but the heat lingering from earlier promised a quick dry.
After running a comb through her hair, the women led her to a dinner with Roarke. When she arrived at the large dining hall, he was seated at a round dining table, reclining in a sturdy chair, with two female servants fanning him from either side.
As she approached, Roarke's gaze followed her every step, his gaze traveling up her body as she neared. He dismissed the fan-bearing servants with a casual wave of his hand and then gestured for her to join him at the table.
"The sun must have been harsh on you," he commented as she took her seat across from him.
"Not as harsh as your warrior was on my wrists."
The servants began laying out the table, and the aroma of grilled meat and chicken filled the air. The table was laden with a variety of dishes: there were bowls of vibrant, fresh salads, platters of exotic fruits, and steaming bread alongside the enticing main course.
"You were holding back," he observed.
"I am not here to kill one of your people," she responded.
"You might come to need to kill a few during your time here. Wouldn't it be wise, then, to know how to properly wield your weapon?" Roarke countered.
Observing him more closely now when he was dry, she noticed his hair wasn't as dark as it first appeared. It was a chestnut brown, with sun-kissed golden highlights that shimmered subtly. His white vest, contrasting with his tanned skin, emphasized the muscular build of his arms and chest.
"I have two dragon guards; I should be alright," she replied.
He nodded, picking up his cutlery, and she followed suit, though her wrists ached with the effort, grimacing as she made an attempt to cut the meat.
"Do you have a wife?" she inquired, trying to cover her struggle with a conversation.
"A wife?" He sounded surprised. "We don't do wives here."
"Do you have a mate then?" she corrected herself, remembering the local terminology.
"No," he answered simply.
"Why not?" she pressed, struggling again with her meal.
He watched her for a moment, then reached over and took her plate from her. "Give it to me," he said, and feeling a touch embarrassed, she handed him her cutlery. As he efficiently cut the meat for her, he casually mentioned, "I haven't found anyone I want to mate with yet."
"You know, you would increase your chances if you had a mate and an heir," she pointed out, seizing the opportunity to discuss his political stature.
He looked up, a playful smirk crossing his face. "Do you have anyone in mind?"
"It should be someone your people love and respect. Someone who would be cherished as a queen," she suggested.
He handed back her plate, now with the meat neatly chopped. "Thank you," she said, appreciating his help.
"It takes time to find such a person," he admitted."But why are you advising me on this?"
"It is part of my duty to ensure all ascendants are in their best form to compete, and being married and having an heir could elevate your image," she explained, then took a bite of her food, chewing thoughtfully.
"Of course," he muttered, suddenly focusing on his meal as if her words had dampened his spirits.
"Do you have brothers?" she ventured further.
"No."
"Sisters?"
He paused, then said with a hint of irritation, "You ask many questions."
"I am here to get to know you," she reminded him with a smile.
He shook his head, a wry smile playing on his lips. "I already know how this goes. Whether you get to know me or not won't matter in the end. You will choose to help the man who gets inside your head, or your heart, or under your skirts," he said, his tone tinged with bitterness.
She sighed inwardly. It wasn't an unreasonable assumption—that healers might be biased. But they were selected for this task precisely because they were believed to be more resistant to such temptations, a gift from the goddess Scythe. Nevertheless, highlords had warned her: she wasn't immune to temptation.
"You think me that easy?" She asked. Did she appear easy to him?
He leaned back in his hair. "How old are you?" He asked.
"Twenty-three," she replied.
"Then yes," he said without hesitation.
A flame of irritation went through her. "I am not any young woman. I have Scythe's gift. I am a healer" she said.
He scoffed. "Your goddess would shed her own skirts if she met the demon Lord."
Her hold on her knife tightened. "Don't speak of her like that!" She said, almost between clenched teeth.
His eyes twinkled. "She would lick his horns," he added, looking her straight in the eyes.
"Well, if you think me that easy..."
No! No, no, no! Her mind screamed. She should not challenge him on this. She bit her lip.
"Go on?" He raised a brow.
"Nothing!" She bit out.
He chuckled, a sound of genuine amusement. "I believe you were about to challenge me."
"I was not," she said, regaining her composure. "But I doubt discouraging me and being pessimistic will help your case much."
Before he could say anything, she heard urgent steps from behind and turned to find Alvar there. "I need to take Freya with me," he said. "It is urgent."