The Triton

Chapter 17: Vivien

Beyond the bedroom drew scoping archways of white and gold, softly lit in warm light. Each step echoed within the interiors. There were dozens who traversed the halls alongside us, distinctly clad in identical outfits, mirroring the white and golds of the halls. Hair was tied up, cuffs pressed to perfection, buttons perfectly fashioned and wrinkles were nonexistent. Each held themselves like stone, movements short and sharp, their eyes low and focused.

They all looked. Almost everyone snuck furtive glances our way, at Rosann, at me. I was suddenly glad for the veil the cloak offered, for somehow stolen glances felt worse than open stares would've. I felt their gazes on my back long after I'd passed, though no words reached my pointed ears. In their strong gazes was something that resembled hope, or faith. In me.

A weight settled between my shoulderblades, even a deep exhale couldn't push it from its new perch. It twisted my stomach in its strength.

Worse yet, as we passed every single one of them turned, bowing their head slightly, addressing Rosann next to me with the same revered whisper.

"Stormlord."

The foreign word followed us down the halls, from one bowed head to the next.

Rosann smiled, bowing his head slightly in return, practiced and warm. He did not falter, though he greeted each in kind, all by name.

I leaned over. "Stormlord?" I asked quietly.

"Eleanora's chosen general. The army's leader." He paused, catching something in my eyes, before continuing as if he knew exactly my thoughts. "There is no place I can better serve your mother in this current moment than being by your side, Your Highness."

I nodded. A slice of guilt cut into my chest, but I ignored it. New place, new rules, rules I would have to get used to.

"I feel like I'm already failing," I whispered.

There was a hint of something behind his words, almost...amusement, as he replied, "You are doing excellently, Your Highness."

Soon enough, he pushed through a door, revealing a large, spacious square room. I was hit with a thick scent of polished wood and leather, mingling with the faint aroma of incense that wafted through much of the palace's spaces.

Towering pillars of marble lined the perimeter and intricately carved archways framing the entrance. Above, stained glass windows bathed the room in a kaleidoscope of colors, revealing the ocean's depths beyond, glass that was somehow strong enough to hold off the pressure of the miles of water above us.

In the center of the room stood the focal point—a grand dueling platform crafted from rich mahogany, its surface blemished yet smooth, a large mat covering its top. Rows of intricately embroidered tapestries lined the walls, depicting scenes of Mera and other merfolk warriors, watching.

Along one wall stretched a series of weapon racks, each holding an array of finely crafted swords and daggers. Their blades gleamed in the soft light, edges honed in startlingly perfect lines and curves.

A series of mirrors lined the walls, reflecting me and my eyes, my amethyst eyes. I blinked hard, and looked away. I took off the cloak, tossing it towards the corner.

"What is this place?" I wondered aloud.

"A training room, Your Highness," he said dryly, though his eyes hinted once more at a lightness underneath slightly. Funny. "Your mother and I train here together quite often."

"She's a warrior?"

"She is the warrior." Rosann hung his formal coat on a hook by the wall, adjusting his remaining leathers slightly. "And soon, you will follow in her footsteps."