Chapter 7: Feast
The silence of Ron’s private chambers had been a fragile, temporary thing. It shattered the moment they descended into the roar of the banquet hall.
Leila’s senses were assaulted. A hundred overlapping scents—roasted meats dripping with fat, foreign spices that stung her nose, heavy florals, sweat, and a thick, cloying musk. Sound crashed against her like a physical wave: the clatter of plates, the din of shouted conversation, the deliberate, soaring notes of lutes and pipes from a minstrels’ gallery. And the light. Gods, the light. A thousand candles flared in wrought-iron chandeliers, their flames reflecting off polished obsidian tables, off gold plate, off the gemstones adorning every throat and wrist in the room.
Ron’s hand on the small of her back was the only anchor. He’d draped her in a gown of winter-blue silk, its fabric whispering against her skin like a promise. It was simpler than the outrageous creations she’d glimpsed on others, but it fit her perfectly, clinging to her curves before falling in a clean line. Her hair, brushed to a snowy sheen, was unadorned. She felt like a single breath of mountain air in a room that was choking on its own heat.
“Breathe, Leila,” Ron murmured into her ear as they paused at the top of a short dais. “They are just noise.”
But they were looking. Every noble, every commander, every perfumed courtier. Their eyes were hungry, calculating. They noted her place at his side, not trailing behind. They noted the lack of chains, the lack of the practiced, seductive posture of the other women.
The concubines were arranged at a long table to the left of the dais, a garden of exotic, dangerous flowers. Lyra sat at its center, a statue of crimson silk and cool disdain. She sipped wine, her eyes following Ron with a possessive longing she didn’t bother to hide. When they flicked to Leila, they were flat and dead, like stones at the bottom of a river.
Ron’s high table was a massive slab of carved black wood. Only a handful of seats were there: for his warlords, for Torvin, and for himself. There was no second chair beside his.
A servant rushed forward, pulling out the heavy, throne-like chair for the king. Ron ignored it. He sat, and before anyone could react, his hands were on Leila’s waist. He lifted her as if she weighed nothing and settled her onto his lap, her side pressed against the hard plate of his chest, her legs draped over one of his.
A ripple went through the hall. A caught breath. The music stuttered for half a beat before recovering.
Leila froze, a rabbit in a snare. She could feel the solid warmth of him beneath her, the implicit claim of it. From the concubines’ table, a sharp, collective intake of breath was audible even over the noise. Lyra’s knuckles were white around her goblet.
“Relax,” Ron said, his voice a low vibration against her back. He reached around her, filled a golden cup with deep red wine from a pitcher, and took a long drink. “You’re where you belong.”
Torvin, taking his seat to Ron’s right, rubbed a hand over his close-cropped beard. “Subtle as a warhammer, Sire.”
“Hammers get the point across,” Ron said, not looking at him. His attention was on the platter a servant laid before them: slices of some strange, gleaming meat, piled next to figs and strange, glazed vegetables. He speared a piece with a dagger point and held it up. “Taste this. Dragon flank. You’ll never have anything like it.”
Hesitantly, Leila leaned forward and took the morsel from the blade with her teeth. The flavor was immense, smoky and rich, complex with spices that danced on her tongue. Her eyes widened. It was incredible.
A slow smile spread on Ron’s face, a real one, reaching his eyes. “Good?”
She nodded, chewing, momentarily forgetting the hundreds of eyes. “It’s… powerful.”
“Like the beast it came from.” He ate a piece himself, then gestured for more wine. The feast swirled on around them, a cacophony of celebration. Lords came to offer toasts, their words florid, their eyes constantly darting to the girl curled in the king’s lap. Ron acknowledged them with a nod, a grunt, never letting go of Leila, one arm a firm band around her waist.
As the night deepened and the wine flowed, her initial terror began to melt under the warmth of his body and the certainty of his hold. An instinct, old and deep, purred to the surface. A desire to provide. To please.
When a servant brought a bowl of fat, sugar-dusted berries, she didn’t think. She plucked a perfect, dark one from the stem, turned slightly in his lap, and pressed it to his lips.
Ron went utterly still. The handful of commanders at the table fell silent. This was beyond seating. This was an intimacy none had ever witnessed. The king took his pleasures, publicly and privately, but he was never served, never fed. He was the one who consumed.
For a heartbeat, his dark eyes bored into hers, searching. Then his lips parted. He took the berry, his tongue brushing her fingertips. He held her gaze as he chewed, swallowed.
“Again,” he said, the word rough.
A flush of warmth, completely separate from the hall’s heat, spread through Leila. She fed him another. Then a piece of cheese. He’d sip wine, then lower the cup, waiting for her next offering. His hand on her waist slipped under the edge of her silken gown, his calloused fingers splaying against the bare skin of her hip, a possessive, grounding touch.
The message was carved in stone for the entire realm to see.
At the concubines’ table, the illusion of merriment had evaporated. Lyra watched, her face a pale, beautiful mask. The man next to her, a foppish lord with oiled hair, leaned in. “A novel trick, the wild girl playing caretaker. He always did enjoy breaking in new creatures. The novelty will wear thin.”
Lyra’s smile was a razor cut. “Oh, I’m sure it will. But one must worry about… accidents in the meantime. The castle is so large. A wild thing, unused to spice or wine or… company… could easily take a misstep.” She lifted her own goblet, her eyes locking on Leila across the smoky room. “To the king’s… new pet,” she said, loud enough for her table to hear. “May her claws be trimmed before she scratches someone.”
The women around her laughed, a sound like shattering crystal.
Back on the dais, Leila heard none of it. She was lost in the rhythm of the feast, in the heady power of his acceptance. She lifted a cup of the spiced wine to his lips. He drank, his eyes never leaving hers.
Commander Torvin watched the exchange, then his gaze swept the room, lingering on Lyra’s table. He saw the poison in their smiles, the sharp, planning looks. He leaned closer to Ron, his voice a gravelly undertone. “The viper’s nest is stirring, Sire. You’ve poked it with a very attractive stick.”
Ron finished the wine Leila offered, his hand tightening on her hip. He finally looked away from her, his eyes scanning the hall until they found Lyra. The temperature in the vast space seemed to drop several degrees.
“Let them stir,” Ron said, his voice carrying a quiet, deadly finality. “The first one to strike loses her head. The message will be understood.”
He turned back to Leila, his expression shifting, becoming something quieter, more intense. He plucked a grape from the bowl, but instead of eating it, he held it to her lips. “Your turn.”
She obeyed, her lips closing around the fruit, her tongue touching his fingers again. The taste was sweet, but the look in his eyes was darker, more consuming. The feast, the noise, the hatred, it all faded into a blur. There was only the weight of his attention, the hard muscle of his thighs beneath her, and the slow-burning promise in his touch.
The celebration raged around the dais, a whirlwind of sound and light. But in the eye of the storm, on the king’s lap, there was only a strange, fragile peace—a bond forged from dragon meat and winter berries, sealed with wine and a silent, ruthless vow of protection. It was a peace, Leila sensed in a sudden, chilling clarity, that was built on a foundation of imminent violence. And she was at its center.