Heart of Ash (The Dark Arcane Series: Book 1)

Chapter Three

His eyes were solid gold, small chips of burnished metal plucked from an expensive ornament and shoved into his sockets. A brown, mildly confused face framed them, though it was quickly turning to curiosity.

She had a lone sadistic urge to see how they would flicker and fade if he stopped breathing. Would it be like blowing out a candle or snuffing it out with her fingers?

His short coiled black hair showed more skilled craftsmanship than the usual longer hair she was used to seeing, a neater line at his forehead and down to his ears.

Interesting.

The identity of the man began to slowly solidify, like sharpening the outline of a shadow, and she considered searching for and stealing his valuables. However, it was then she took in his attire.

The loose white shirt was plain enough, but it was more the lack of details that made her stop. No tears, no stains, no random little threads hanging loose—all of which were present on her own clothes. But as he shifted, she saw the small insignia on the collar, a tree with roots curved upwards to meet the hanging branches, in a perfect circle. Even from this distance, she knew the pale stitching was impeccable.

His vest was dark blue, shiny and soft-looking—southern made satin—with equally shiny gold buttons down his front. Money, money and more money.

Her eyes snagged on the tailcoat threw across the back of the chair he was sat on, perfect black and lined with more satin. Everything screamed money, entitlement and power.

Ashyn had begun to reach an awful conclusion. But even the way he sat reinforced her thoughts; upright, straight, like a invisible thread pulled his head up. And it didn't seem to be because he was uncomfortable or polite; he didn't even seem to know he was doing it. That was a posture ingrained from birth, one that came with a heavy crown to wear. Specifically, the crown of the Prince Darius, son of the bloody emperor.

He gave the smooth beginnings of a smile.

She stared at the son of the man who murdered her family, his throat so vulnerable.

If there was a way to capture a storm, to harness its chaotic havocking movements, and to bend it into a form that could be entrapped with skin, then Ashyn was that form.

If she had been prepared, forewarned, she might have chosen to take advantage of this unexpected meeting and his unprotectedness. Alas, she was not, and she would come to regret her decision in the coming days. 

She whirled round fast enough to whip her hair into her face, muttering a poisonous flurry of curses, and practically flew across the floor in a stream of black to reach the window she had just come through.

Isla was wrong, luck was not on her side tonight.

If Meredith knew she had seen the prince, let alone accidentally, she would be deafened for a week. By the great mothers above, she could have happily lived without ever having seen his fucking face.

Did he see hers? No, it didn't matter if he did; it wasn't like she had rebel soldier written across her forehead. But the unusual scar through her brow on the other hand...

Even if he thought something was suspicious about her—he looked alone. No guards, no squires, no Elites. Which meant she had a head start; he'd never catch her.