“Like the rumor of me stealing Midas’s magic,” I muse.
“Indeed.”
“These political schemes are exhausting.”
“They can be,” he says. “But being a king was the only way I could ensure protection of Deadwell, and taking over Fifth Kingdom wasn’t viable at the time. Plus, I hate the cold.”
I snort.
“Shall we?” he asks, holding out his arm.
I grab the new elbow-length gloves from the foot of the bed and pull them on before I slip my hand into the crook of his arm.
Together, we leave his rooms, my free hand skimming the curved railing as we begin our descent to the bottom floor. The flat soles of my shoes pad silently across the tile as we go across the entryway and head for the back of the castle, the space tightening into a corridor. Dark wood wainscoting stretches halfway up the walls, each one carved into a perfectly symmetrical square and clasped with leafy wallpaper above it.
Slade leads me past the iron wall piece at my left, the metal formed into a twisted tree, its roots stretched down as if disappearing into the paneled wood.
“Sire.” The guard standing watch at a doorway nods at Slade as we approach.
“Has the ambassador from Third come down yet?”
The guard shakes his head. “Not yet, Your Majesty. He’s still in his rooms.”
“Good.”
The door is swiftly opened for us, and the dining room holds the same wainscoting, though the wallpaper in here is deep green, spliced by tall, pointed windows. My eyes immediately lift to the wooden chandelier hanging in the center of the room. It stretches at least ten feet across, looking like the crown of a tree was cut off and flipped upside-down. A polished stump is suspended from the ceiling, its branches perched out like the perfect canopy. Every inch of the wood has been smoothed, long since stripped of its leaves and bark, leaving the raw wood beneath with its rings and knots. Hanging from the branches are little lanterns no bigger than my hand, at least four dozen of them hanging at different lengths, casting warm light on the table below.
Seated at the dining table are three people whose voices dim at our arrival, but then when their heads lift and they see who’s come in, chairs are pushed out, smiles spreading over their faces.
“You’re back,” a deep baritone voice greets.
Slade grins as a man stands up to meet us. He has dark brown skin and rich sepia eyes that are crinkled at the sides with his smile. There’s a dusting of silver strands in his shortly shorn hair, and he’s wearing a similar outfit to Slade.
“Good to see you, Warken.”
The man claps Slade on the shoulder. “You too. We’d started to think you finally decided to duck out and hang up your crown for good.”
“Don’t tempt me,” Slade replies with a grin. “You know you’d all do a far better job than me.”
“For politics, yes, but your threat of rot is effective,” a feminine voice says.
The woman who was sitting next to Warken strides over, the warm undertones of her dark complexion glowing beautifully in the lantern light, her ruby red dress cinched over her full-figured body and swishing at her feet. The tresses of her hair are coils of curls that brush against her shoulders, silver and black blended together.
“We heard you already decided to sneak off into the city before you’d even come to say hello,” she says with affectionate reprimand, just before she gives Slade a hug.
“Wanted to drag it out a little bit longer,” he replies.
The third person from the table comes over too, but this woman is much younger, her face the spitting image of the older woman, though perfectly smoothed with youth, the apples of her cheeks filled with a vibrant bronzed glow. She’s curvaceous and beautiful, with the same kind of warmth about her as the other woman.
“It’s about time,” she teases as she comes up, just as her umber eyes flick to me with curiosity.
Slade turns back to face me. “Everyone, this is Auren, as I told you in my letters. Auren, this is Warken and Isalee Streah, and their daughter, Barley. Warken and Isalee are my Premiers. They’re always in charge of the kingdom while I’m away. They act as the sole guardians of Fourth and ensure everything is taken care of in my absence…and in my presence,” he adds with a smirk. “They’re far better rulers than I am. I may sit on the throne, but they do all the leg work.”
“Only because he hates it,” Warken says with a chuckle. “Doesn’t have the knack for politics and proper procedures. That’s where we come in.”