Gleam (The Plated Prisoner 3)

So I’ll give her this time to sulk. To lick her wounds in peace, away from curious eyes. I’ll separate myself so she can process things at her own pace. She’ll come around, though—she always does.

In the meantime, I don’t particularly care to see the reminder of my lapse in control on her bruised face. I’ll let her be for now. Let her settle. Enough gold has been bestowed on Ranhold to staunch talk, and I’ve plenty of other things to see to before the ball.

First and foremost, Commander Rip will need to be dealt with. Rankling aggravation stews in my gut every time I even think about him touching her, about what might have occurred between them while they traveled together, out of my reach.

My guards and staff know better than to touch her, so I’ll simply have to make sure the army commander and Ravinger know better as well.

My finger taps against my thigh in vexation.

I need to have a better grip on these strings that are trying to loosen. Auren, the commander, Malina, Niven. Two entire damn kingdoms that need constant attention.

I knew moving forward to push my influence into Fifth would be a challenge. Yet it’s a challenge I relish in overcoming, and I will overcome it. I’ll accept nothing less.

But this constant pressure is growing. Every time another thread is strewn in my lap, it takes incredible planning to keep it from tangling everything else. If only these threads wouldn’t be so difficult to weave.

My fists loosen and tighten, flex and relax, again and again.

A groaning creak of the sculptor’s ladder draws my eye, and my gaze lands on the man as he steps down to pick up the hammer he’d dropped. His face is angled toward me, giving me the perfect view of him.

Deep-seated hate brims at the sight of him. It happens every time, and yet, I still come out here.

I cock my head, fists tingling. I’ve spent weeks watching him, this man with my dead father’s face. A father I abhor to this day, even though he’s nothing but ashes now, body left to burn in a scorched desert.

At first, I watched the sculptor because I enjoyed feeling like my father was here, simpering around me, laboring beneath my eye. But perhaps I’ve been missing the real purpose. Perhaps the gods left him here for me to ease my lack of control when I feel it fraying. To remind me that I overcame him, and I can overcome anything and anyone else.

Perhaps the gods gave him my father’s face so I can make use of it.

My fists relax as he reaches up to dust off the iced slab. His hood falls back, revealing his bald head lined with prominent wrinkles, the deep ridges shaped like frowns. His white beard is yellowed against the snowy background, his eyes slightly more tilted. His are clear and brown, while my father’s eyes were always bloodshot with the veins of alcohol brewing beneath hooded lids.

The sculptor seems to feel my attention on him, because he turns his head, meeting my gaze for a moment before he defers, head bowing. The only time my father ever bowed was when he was kneeling over me to beat me with his belt or a jug of ale he drained dry.

Sometimes, I regret leaving him to burn in our hovel. It was too quick a death for him. But maybe I can amend that now. It seems I’ve been given a chance to wreak authority over another without it messing up any of my plans. I’ve been given the perfect person to indulge in for punishment.

Dark delight fits into the recesses of my chest as I lift a hand, signaling to my head guard. Always attentive, he immediately sees the gesture and hurries over, stopping just outside the gazebo. “Sire?”

“That man there,” I say, tipping my head. “Bring him to the dungeon.”

I can see I’ve caught him off guard, but he’s well trained, so he recovers quickly. “Yes, Your Majesty. It will be done.”

Turning, he signals to one of the other guards, and together, the two of them stalk straight toward the aged sculptor.

At first, the old man frowns at their approach, confusion pleating his brow. Saying nothing, my guards each grab one of his arms, and his body lurches in surprise before he drops his chisel

and hammer to the ground. The other sculptors all freeze in shock, watching with wide eyes as my guards start to drag him away.

His hoarse shouts clap in the air with peaked desperation, bald head whipping left and right. “What are you doing? Where are you taking me? I-I haven’t done anything!” he cries, his twig-like legs and scrabbling feet making drag marks through the snow.

Uneasiness passes through the courtyard, but no one questions me. No one tries to stop it.

Head craning, the man’s wild eyes lock onto me. “Please, Your Majesty! There’s been a mistake! Please, help me!”

My chest puffs in gratification as I imagine that it’s my father being dragged away, that it’s his voice begging.

A garroted cry rises up his throat. “I’m guilty of nothing!”

You look like him, I say in silent reply. Your guilt lies right there in your face.

His bent, arthritic hands grapple at the guards’ uniforms, but he’s far too frail to really put up much of a fight. With one last shout torn into the air, they drag him around the side of the castle where they’ll take him to a discreet entrance into the dungeons.