Violet Made of Thorns (Violet Made of Thorns #1)(10)
The prince’s steps slow a few paces away as I meet his gaze, aimed at me like the tip of a knife when I utter his name. Was he this handsome before? The palace’s fairies must have done something—accented his brow, tweaked his freckled nose, maybe. He doesn’t look doomed. He otherwise looks exactly as he did yesterday: infuriating.
His attention flicks toward Dante. “Anyone can steal you away once I’m gone, is that it? She’ll corrupt you, you know.”
“I can corrupt myself just fine, thank you.” Dante coasts above any apparent tension with a grin. “Besides, integrity only matters if people care about integrity. A good leader is better a clever liar than honorable and useless.”
“Are you calling me useless?”
“And honorable.”
The corner of Cyrus’s mouth quirks upward. Dante goes forward to clap him on the shoulder, and they grip arms in greeting, knocking fists, snapping their fingers in a secret gesture too quick to see. Gods, I feel like I’m intruding.
Then the prince pivots to me. “After traveling to Balica and Verdant and seeing their perfectly mannered Seers, I have to wonder how I got stuck with you.”
“Sorry, should I have been prostrating myself while you insulted me?” I scoff. “You started it.”
“It was a warning. I could have said worse. I won’t do it again. But if you’d like to remain Seer, you should start behaving accordingly.”
I mock a curtsy. “Earn my respect and I’ll treat you with respect.”
In one swift step, Cyrus closes in on me with hardly an ear for Dante, who murmurs, “I should go.” I rock forward as if in dance, heart racing. I’ve missed this—these arguments where we circle like fencers, trading beats and feints. He used to claim that dealing with me was a waste of time, but he could never resist trying to humble me.
“You’re clever,” Cyrus murmurs, “but arrogant. And you’ll discover that people only listen to you because you have a king who supports you, which won’t stay true for much longer.” A single lock of his smoothed hair falls out of place as he dips his head, his gaze shadowed beneath long lashes. “You don’t have a single selfless thought in that blessed mind of yours, and I will never oblige myself to someone like that. Be proud, because pride is all you have.”
My blood hums. If he wants to put me in my place, I’ll put him in his. I strip off my gloves and tuck them into my sleeve. “Maybe I should take a better look at your threads.” He hasn’t let me read them since my first year here. “If you’re so confident you can make your way without me, I should see nothing but success in your future.”
I reach for his fists, clenched at his side, and Cyrus flinches as my fingers brush the peaks of his knuckles. Was that fear—or shame? He knows I could reach for his memories; I wonder what he has to hide.
“Violet.” Dante tugs me back by the shoulder. He steps between us, hazel eyes narrowing. He lets me go to press Cyrus back as well, who jerks away from him.
“Let her do it,” Cyrus snaps.
“There are people in the gardens.”
Cyrus exhales sharply between his teeth, as if suddenly aware of the ugliness of our scene. There’s no one close enough to eavesdrop, but the story is clear to anyone who may be watching: the prince is unable to control his Seer, who, not a half hour ago, gleefully humiliated him in front of his courtiers.
“You wouldn’t be here without me,” I say. “Never forget that, Princey.”
With a shake of his head, Cyrus buries a hand in his hair as if wringing out the last of his frustration. “I’ve never forgotten.” A dry chuckle cuts through his words like a garrote. He doesn’t give me another glance before his back is turned. “I’ll see you at a better time, Dante.”
I watch until he’s surrounded by his guards and his boots are clicking on the marble path.
Behind me, Dante grumbles, “Could you maybe not put me in that position?”
“I wouldn’t be offended if you chose Cyrus over me. He clearly needs the support.”
“There is no choosing, Violet. You’re not fruit at the market. It doesn’t work like that. I care for you both.”
I shrug, biting my tongue. I can’t glimpse into my own future, but I know I’ll always be on the fringes, laughing from afar. I’m too strange to fit in the court, too ambitious to be happy among common folk. I’m glad to have this much of Dante’s friendship already. Most people would tell me I should be grateful that I’m blessed with the Sight, grateful that I’m here at all—I’m never supposed to feel anything but grateful.
Dante understands, even if he doesn’t like it. He knows how precarious it is being an outsider.
A decade ago, his mother, the Head of Hypsi, led the skirmish that would halt Auveny’s progress into the Fairywood. As the Balican state adjacent to Auveny, Hypsi has long borne the brunt of dealing with border disputes. The Head believed that threats that wounded were the only kind that were heeded, and she wasn’t wrong.
When news of the skirmish arrived in the capital, Auveny threatened to send more soldiers south. To avoid outright war, the Republic of Balica and King Emilius negotiated: unsanctioned burnings would stop, but the Head of Hypsi would be removed from her position. If Cyrus hadn’t fought tooth and nail for Dante, who was staying in the Sun Capital at the time, he’d have been expelled from the Sun Capital, too.