A Court of Shadow and Blood

Karma

Ronan sat on the marble steps of the spiral staircase with his head in his hands. The estate was well-heated, but the warmth hadn't stopped a shiver from spidering down his spine. A day had passed since his arrival at the High Lord's estate. The early morning sun glowed orange through the arched windows of the foyer. After disappearing the day prior with Azriel, The High Lord had returned home, paying no attention to Ronan, but the spymaster was nowhere to be found.

Rhysand didn't so much as glance in Ronan's direction as he entered the grand entry doors that morning, fresh light illuminating his striking features. Ronan immediately noted his square, determined posture and bowed his head in acknowledgment. He was somewhat thankful for the small mercy of the High Lord's cold demeanor offered. At least he didn't have to engage with him, to play the seasoned courtier. Ronan kept his eyes averted as the High Lord turned a corner and disappeared down a sunlit hall.

Finally alone, Ronan released a tense breath, dragging his restless, trembling hands through his hair. He remained in the set of clothes he'd borrowed from the High Lord days earlier and had slept poorly. His mind was clouded with so many different scenarios of right and wrong, he no longer felt confident in his ability to differentiate between them. It was so comfortable to let someone choose for him; to yield to any fate. Had Azriel arrived to interrogate him at that moment, Ronan was sure he would have elicited any answer he wanted.

A searing jolt struck Ronan's torso, sending a sharp pain through his abdomen. What was wrong with him? Ronan shoved away fantasies of surrender as a feverish chill snaked up the back of his neck. He had made promises, and was a man of his word. Come hell or high water, he would see them through.

Ronan stood, straightened the cuffs on his jacket, and strode towards the Great Hall. He wouldn't submit to Azriel, not yet. It was much more his style to barter with the High Lord instead.

The Great Hall was vast. Having only attended the estate once in his life, Ronan was only acquainted with two areas; the guest wings and the recreational hall—where he'd drank in the image of Astra pursing her lips together in acute frustration. He adored the reactions he pulled from her.

Ronan knew why he preferred to engage with the High Lord over the spymaster. Both were terrifying, in their own way, but to Ronan, Rhysand was a familiar strategist, a clever conversationalist who bartered in mental duels, just as Ronan did. They were worthy opponents. He also knew Rhysand's office was located through the ornate double doors off the foyer. Ronan glanced towards them, wondering why the High Lord left for the Great Hall instead.

Ronan proceeded down the hall, checking door after door, his adrenaline rising each time he gripped the cool bronze door knobs. Rhysand was nowhere to be found. There were no echoing footsteps—besides his own—or any indication of a door opening or closing. For a moment, Ronan wondered if he'd seen Rhysand in the estate at all, or if he was so sleep-deprived that he'd hallucinated their interactions.

No. The mental games begin now.

The High Lord was well known throughout Prythian by many names. Death Incarnate; Night Triumphant. Rhysand was feared. As a child, Ronan's mother taught him to build his mental shields. As second-in-command to His Darkness—as she called him—Amren provided Ronan with firsthand accounts of Rhysand's vengeance. Ronan swiftly learned to defend himself from daemati and other magic, as his mother's training methods were nearly as ruthless as the High Lord's.

Ronan had heard tales, in passing, about his mother's identity before she was Made. A being of fire and light. But those whispers may as well have been tall tales to Ronan; Amren was not keen on sharing her history. She remained a mystery to him, often choosing to stay at the Night Court for months rather than returning home to Ronan and his father. She loved Varian fiercely; Ronan knew that. His father reciprocated his love by respecting her independent spirit. It was true that Amren wasn't always present, but Varian was not solely responsible for Ronan's rise through the ranks in the Summer Court army and eventual elevation to Captain of the Guard. His mother had trained him, helped him fight to earn titles he hadn't been given by birthright. No one was more disappointed than Amren by Ronan's choice to relinquish those titles. But even she could not deny that her unruly spirit—another gift she'd passed to him—had inspired him to make that decision in the first place.