War Storm (Red Queen) - Victoria Aveyard Page 0,139

and airy, with vaulted ceilings painted blue and white, almost like clouds. The windows look out on the Bay, and a sunnier day than it should be. The ocean breeze blows the last of the smoke away.

It looks like the king is doing his best to fill the place with his usual mess, despite only having been here a few hours. He sits at a desk haphazardly dragged to the center of the room, angled away from a bed I refuse to even glance at. Papers and books pile around him. One in particular lies open, the text inside handwritten in a tight, looping scrawl.

When I finally get the courage to look at him, Tiberias is already standing. He has a fist raised and flaming, his entire body coiled like a snake, ready to spring.

His eyes rove over me, hand still ablaze even though I’m not a threat. After a long moment, he brushes away the fire, letting it flicker and die.

“You got here in a hurry,” Tiberias blurts out, almost breathless.

It takes us both off guard, and he looks away, easing back into his desk chair. He puts his back to me and quickly shuts the book with one hand. It spits dust. The cover is worn, a faded gold, with no writing on it and a broken binding. He shoves it away, tucking it into a drawer with little regard.

Then he pretends to busy himself with some reports. He even bends over them with a very obvious squint. I smirk to myself and take a step toward him.

Turn around.

Another step into the room. The air seems to vibrate on my skin.

“After the . . . ” I stumble. There’s no easy way to say it. “After, I had to see for myself,” I reply, watching the side of his mouth lift. His eyes don’t move, burning a hole into the page in front of him.

“And?”

Shrugging, I rest my hands on my hips. “You’re fine. I shouldn’t have bothered.”

At the desk, he barks out a harsh but genuine laugh. Tiberias leans backward, putting an arm over his chair, twisting to look at me fully. In the daylight, his bronze eyes gleam like molten metal. They run over me, snagging on the exposed cuts and bruises. His gaze feels like fingers. “What about you?” he asks, his voice lower.

I hesitate a little. My own injuries seem small compared to what he suffered, and to the memory of Kilorn choking on his own blood. “Nothing that can’t be mended.”

He purses his lips. “That’s not what I asked.”

“Nothing to compare, I mean,” I tell him, circling to the front of his desk. He moves with me, tracking like a hunter. It feels similar to a dance or a pursuit. “Not all of us can say we almost died today.”

“Oh, that,” he mutters, and runs a hand through his hair. The short locks stand on end, mussing an otherwise kingly appearance. “Everything went to plan.”

I scowl, showing my teeth. “Funny, I don’t remember fighting a killer nymph in the middle of the ocean being part of the plan.”

He adjusts in his chair, uncomfortable. Slowly, he starts discarding his armor, revealing the thin, tight shirt and trimmer form beneath. It’s a dare, but I hold my ground. Each piece hits the floor with a resounding clatter. “We needed the ships. We needed the harbor.”

I keep circling, and he keeps tossing pieces of armor away. He unfastens his gauntlets with his teeth, never taking his eyes off me.

“And we needed you to go toe-to-toe with her? Who had the advantage there, Tiberias?”

The king smirks against red steel.

“I’m still alive.”

“That isn’t funny.” Something tightens in my chest. I run a finger down the adorned edge of his desk, swiping at the dusty surface. My skin comes away gray, leached of warmth. Like it was when I masqueraded as a Silver, suffering through painted-on makeup just to keep breathing. “We almost lost Kilorn today.”

Tiberias’s smirk drops instantly, wiped away, and he forgets the armor for a moment. Darkness clouds his eyes, dulling their gleam. “I thought New Town fell easily. They didn’t expect—” He cuts himself off, clenching his teeth. I look away as his gaze lands on me. I don’t want to see his pity. “What happened?”

My breath feels ragged in my throat. It feels too close to relive, the danger still near. “Silver guards,” I mumble. “A telky. Tossed him down a stairwell. Tore up his insides.” The words hitch as the memory reigns. My