Gleam (The Plated Prisoner 3)

I hum thoughtfully. “Where are the others?”

“Already back at camp. We received the hawks for updates back at Fourth.”

“All is well?” I ask.

“Yep.”

I roll my eyes in amusement. “Always so loquacious, Os.”

“Low what?”

My lips twitch. “Nothing.”

By the time we make it down to the ground floor, I’m feeling more in control, though my moody power is still brimming and volatile. I thought I was going to have to expel some magic right there in the library. I let my anger surge so much that my forms shifted back and forth, which hasn’t happened in years. It took everything to hold it back, but even then, I thought I was going to lose it. Until Auren touched me.

One touch, and she brought my magic to heel. I could practically taste her sunlit aura as it swept against mine. It’s a good thing no one else can see it but me, because people would’ve figured her out a long time ago. But distance and my own damn anger has my power stretching and slinking, like it wants to crawl out from beneath my skin and rot this whole damn castle.

I let out a controlled breath to get a handle on it, just as Osrik says, “You need to get rid of some of that.”

He and the others know better than anybody what can happen when I don’t use my power and I let it build up too much. “Later.”

The two of us stride across the great hall, ignoring the guards propped up like posts along the walls. I’ll feel better once I’m outside, away from this damn castle and Midas’s guards who watch us entirely too closely. Yet just as we round a corner, we come across the last person in the world who I want to see right now.

Midas.

Beside me, Osrik makes the barest of grunts, loud enough only for me to hear. I’ve had a long time to decipher his wordless noises, and this one is basically the equivalent of calling Midas a fuckhead.

I more than agree with his assessment.

Upon spotting us, the Golden King stops on his way into the ballroom, and I barely hold in a glower. The prick looks as pompous as always, with pure golden threads on his tunic, little extra embellishments along the hem and cuffs of his sleeves that he probably stared at in the mirror while he had his hair combed.

But what really bothers me about him are his shoes.

You can tell a lot about a man based on the shoes he wears. Midas always wears a new pair. Something shiny and gaudy, with soles that make a metallic click against the tiles like he enjoys boasting that he literally walks on gold.

“Ah, Ravinger. I’m glad at this chance meeting,” he says as Osrik and I approach. His king’s guard is six men strong, but every single one of them seems unnerved by Osrik as they cast him quick glances.

Midas is strict about my Wrath’s presence. If they’re in Ranhold, they have to be accompanying me, which is why Lu’s had to sneak around to keep her eye on the prince.

“Are you?” I reply smoothly, coming to a stop in front of him. My magic tightens like a fist, wanting to punch through my skin and rot him where he stands.

Midas nods. “I’d actually like to speak with you.”

I’d actually rather chew iron nails and shit them back out, but the life of a king isn’t easy.

“Fine.”

Together, Osrik and I follow Midas inside the ballroom, and my eyes immediately narrow at the sight of the space that’s been partially gilded. Golden tapestries bracket windows nearly forty feet high. Huge pillars along the far wall with darkened veins that were once marble now gleam in metallic luster. The banquet tables are covered in gold tablecloths, and the candelabras set atop them probably weigh more than I do. A corner dais has been erected for musicians, each and every instrument and stool gilt by magic.

The rest of the room still looks like it did before, with polished white floors and stone walls encased in glass, and a plain mezzanine balcony above. But the amount of power Auren would’ve had to use in order to gold-touch everything else must’ve been exhausting. The pillars alone are an incredible feat, and it pisses me off. That Midas has her use her power like this, nearly draining herself, all to boast his own image. Because this gold does nothing. It’s not for the people to use, it’s not counted in the royal coffers. It’s just a useless, wordless brag.

There are servants all over the place, cleaning windows, polishing floors, making repairs, or bringing in countless flower arrangements. Ladders have been erected in here too, and palace workers are installing candlesticks and dusting off grand chandeliers that look like sharp icicles ready to plummet.

Midas runs a critical gaze all around, and the workers seem to stiffen under his presence, each and every one of them making a point to stay busy. He stops walking to better assess the room or maybe just to make himself feel important. “They’re readying the space for the celebratory ball,” he explains.

Osrik stands to my right as I lean against the wall. “I can see that.”

From where we just entered, a line of women file inside, and I immediately recognize some of them as Midas’s royal saddles we took from the Red Raids and brought here.