Usurper of flames

Chapter 5: Me and the Devil

Chapter 5: Me and the Devil

I'm jolted awake by a series of loud, insistent knocks on my door, each one rattling through the stillness of the morning. For a moment, I lie there, groggy and disoriented, blinking against the dim light filtering in. The rapping comes again, louder this time, and with a groan, I pull myself up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.

"Did I wake you?" she asks, though her tone is more matter-of-fact than apologetic.

I gather myself quickly, straightening my robe. "I suppose it's not often the queen does her own knocking," I reply, trying to keep my tone neutral.

Her mouth quirks in a hint of a smile, though it doesn't reach her eyes. "Well," she says, her voice smooth, "sometimes, if you want something done  it's best to ensure it's done properly."

There's a beat of silence, and she lets her gaze travel over the room behind me, noting the disarray of hastily discarded clothing, the unmade bed. She returns her attention to me, unimpressed yet intrigued.

Rani stands in my doorway, arms crossed, her gaze as sharp as ever. "You requested an audience with me," she says, voice laced with irritation. "Quickly—get dressed. It had better be important; I have a busy day ahead."

I blink, still shaken from the abrupt wake-up, and nod stiffly, pushing down the instinct to snap back. The weight of the moment sinks in as I move to grab a shirt, feeling her impatient gaze on my back. She's here in my quarters, expecting me to be ready on her schedule, as if I'm just another one of her advisors waiting at her beck and call. But this meeting was my request, my chance to show her I'm more than just a relic of the former royal family.

As I pull the shirt over my head, I glance at her, trying to gauge her mood, but her expression is unreadable. She waits, arms folded, her foot tapping softly against the stone floor.

"I'll be quick," I say, buttoning my shirt with practised precision, hoping it conveys a confidence I barely feel. "I didn't think you'd actually come in person."

"Surprised?" she replies, her lips curving into the faintest hint of a smirk. "I don't waste time, Arlo. Not on formalities, and certainly not on you if you don't make this worth my while."

Her words sting, but I bite back a retort, reminding myself of why I requested this meeting in the first place. If I'm going to survive under her rule, I need to learn to navigate her world—and maybe, one day, reclaim my place within it.

"Shall we, then?" she asks, her tone impatient as I finish dressing.

She strides into the room with purpose, her eyes sweeping over the place as if she's assessing every corner, every piece of furniture. She glances my way. "Which way to the drawing room?" she asks, her voice clipped but calm.

For a moment, I'm at a loss, distracted by her appearance. She's wrapped in some sort of unfamiliar cloth—a flowing, draped cloth that wraps around her, shimmering in deep, jewel-like hues. The fabric clings at her waist and spills over one shoulder, leaving the other bare in a way that seems almost defiant, regal yet effortless. I realise, almost absurdly, that it's my first time seeing anything like it. The strange garment is intricately woven, marked with delicate patterns I can't place, each thread catching the light as she moves. It's nothing like the layered, heavy robes I'm used to. It feels foreign, almost ethereal—like armour woven from silk and fire instead of metal.

She notices my hesitation, her eyebrow lifting in mild impatience. I snap myself back to the present, nodding toward the corridor. "This way," I say, gesturing to her forward.

The thought crosses my mind as we walk, her pace brisk, unyielding. Me and the devil, walking side by side. She looks out of place here, a foreign queen in a realm of ice.