Izoven: Inferno

Chapter 3

Preparations for the trip to the House of Wind were of utmost importance in the following week. From wardrobe fittings to etiquette classes to history training . . . Emery hardly had space to think of anything that wasn't related to Izoven or Prince Cyril—soon to be King of the Chasian Kingdom.

"Also known as the Kingdom of Wind, Kingdom of Wisdom," Emery listed off the top of her head, "and Kingdom of the Pretentious."

After she'd thoroughly asked what the point of all the excessive lessons and fittings were, she was told that all the members of the House had to appear financially stable. They had to be informed on all political and social events regarding the realm.

In Lila's words, "If those assholes catch a whiff of weakness, they'll exploit it."

She supposed she understood what all the fuss was about. This gate re-opening was no small event; it meant that Cyril could begin procedures to take the throne.

He'd been locked out of Izoven since he was a small child because of Vareus. Now, he was twenty-six. He had come of age, and, according to the House of Wind representative—Sir Anis Boyer—he had received ample preparation to be an excellent king.

However . . . Emery had yet to hear one nice thing about the House of Wind or its members. Her peers had arrived at the general consensus that they were all greedy ass-hats. Still, she just couldn't believe they were all bad. Thinking in black and white made people ignorant. Many people had judged the fireborn and thought them all evil, yet here they were trying to make amends.

At the very least, Prince Cyril seemed cordial and pleasant in the letter.

Though she supposed tone and intent were easily disguised in writing. For all she knew, those niceties and compliments were all sarcastic.

"Prince Cyril . . ." Emery yawned as she brought a pot full of water over a lit fire burner. She stretched her arms up before letting out a groan. Two loud hoots drove her to stare out the kitchen window. Shattered moonlight seeped into the kitchen; a tall pine cast odd shadows over the dinner table.

Emery sighed and stared at her wristwatch for the fifth time that night.

1:57am . . . and counting . . .

They had to be at the airport by eight, but she didn't feel one bit sleepy. Her last hope for a good night's rest was a hot cup of chamomile, but the water couldn't hurry up and boil.

Her mind inevitably returned to her studies, thinking on dates, names, and traditions until her head pounded. "Sir Anis Boyer, Madame Esther, Henriette Bauer, Marios Delleas, and . . ." Emery whispered, closing her eyes to focus. "Crap, I'm missing one."

The gatekeeper repeated the names once more, lifting a finger for each member of the Council of the House of Wind. "Anis, Esther, Henriette, Marios, and . . . What the heck? I know this." She landed a slap against her forehead before brushing back some unruly strands of hair.

"Caval Prado," a voice offered the answer. Emery whipped around toward the hallway, eyes wide and heart fast.

"Mave," she let out in relief. The woman's long robe rustled against the hardwood as she walked toward the small kitchen table and pulled out a wonky, uneven chair.

"Caval Prado," she repeated, "the fifth member of the Council—a narcissist. Thinks he can woo anyone over with a quick wink and a grin. Don't play along with his flirting or you'll never hear the end of it."

"Speaking from experience?" Emery took the seat across from her.

Mave's eyes rolled to the back of her head. "It's been decades, and the man can't wrap his head around the words: 'not interested'."