Dradge was the youngest to make general in over a generation, but to look at him, Lyara wasn’t sure anyone would even know. He belonged where he stood, owned the space like few men could, his jaw set and his eyes gentle yet stern. This is where he wanted to be, and the world welcomed that reality with open arms.
She chewed on her inner lip as she glanced between the balcony above and her canvas. No one noticed her here, and she didn’t mind. She wasn’t made for the spotlight; long ago she’d accepted that, and realized she might prefer the shadows anyway. As long as she left some mark behind. It didn’t have to bare her name or her face, just her brushstrokes.
Her father had traded in a favor with his friend in charge of the guard to get her this position, a seat on the outer wall surrounding the castle Avtalyon—the best vantage point for watching the King’s platform jutting out from the castle’s main tower. The crowd below her filled the courtyard and she spared them a glance and a grin.
Who’s short now, huh?
The castle Avtalyon itself was a haphazard collection of walls and towers dotting the steep ridge of the mountain beside the bay. It was unsymmetrical in an almost artistic display of recklessness, a testimony in stone to the volatile ambition of her forebears. On most other occasions she would have been distracted by that—how gorgeous would those ramparts look in an oil painting, the soft sun rising behind?—but today her eyes never wandered far from Dradge’s face.
He stood tall and proud, flanked by a few of his best men, but beside him they seemed small. His uniform was stiff and clean—it looked a bit out of place on his broad shoulders, but that might just be because she knew how little he cared about that sort of showmanship. He’d been courting her seven months now, but after today her parents—maybe even her neighbors—would welcome an open betrothal.
In any case, she was ready to accept whenever he plucked up the courage to ask.
It was a terrifying thing, to realize she’d abandon everything and tie her life to his at a moment’s notice if that’s what it took, but it was exhilarating, too. Was there really anything wrong with wanting to be sure her world was wide enough to hold him in it?
The doors of the tower swung open and King Hilderic, draped in deep blue robes, stepped into the sunlight. Many gasped, then the crowd gave a brief cheer before hushing to a near silence. While it didn’t feel so long ago, the King had aged considerably since Lyara had attempted to paint his portrait. Grey dominated his once brown hair and beard, and his round eyes sat a bit too closed as he stepped to the balcony and surveyed his people.
She couldn’t decide if he watched his subjects in disdain, or if he was simply half asleep.
The King turned to Dradge, who, along with his men, saluted. Lyara hurriedly sketched the scene—she’d already arranged the background, but needed to add the figures. She placed Dradge and the King in more prominence than reality did, shrinking the railing into the foreground and the other soldiers into the background. She didn’t change their heights, though. Dradge was a head and a half taller and Hilderic would have to accept that.
The King murmured something and Dradge nodded dutifully. Hilderic then lifted a hand, sunlight flashing in the color of his jeweled rings, and an attendant emerged from the tower carrying a folded crimson cloak. The King unfurled it, then Dradge sank on one knee for Hilderic to drape the cloak over his shoulders and clasp it beneath his chin.
Lyara flipped to the next page in her drawing pad and hurriedly sketched the scene—she’d have to add the background afterwards. In an official sense, her father commissioned these pieces, but if one turned out well she’d save it and present it as a gift to the King to mark her and Dradge’s intent to wed.
An obnoxiously coy move, but that was the way a general kept his King’s favor. Dradge wouldn’t think about that sort of thing; he needed her—he was too honest to play at Edras’s silly games.
Hilderic placed his palm on Dradge’s head, whispering something more she couldn’t hear, then held out his hand. Dradge hesitated. The crowd didn’t notice—Hilderic didn’t notice—but she recognized the look in those green eyes. It was anger.
She turned to a new page, her last sketch half-done, and eked out an approximation of that face. The style was too free and sloppy for Edras folk to appreciate, but she wanted this for herself anyway. While no gift for a King, it was what her muse feasted on: passion, raw and unfiltered and—preferably—dangerous.
Dradge kissed his King’s ring, then rose to his feet and saluted again, his expression an appropriate mask of military discipline. Hilderic nodded to him, then stepped toward the balcony railing and offered a limp wave to his people below.
“My friends,” his voice echoed through the courtyard, thanks to the inherent acoustics of the construction, but he sounded… soft. Weak. “I know many of you are concerned about rumors filtering in from towns along the border. I tell you, fear not. Brave men and women live among you and rise to your King’s call. This,”—he motioned to Dradge—“is but one such man. I promised you peace and prosperity, and by the gods above and below I swear it again.”
The people clapped, a few raising a cheer. It sounded forced, but she might just be projecting her own sentiments. Lyara stared at the King, a grin creeping across her face. She turned to the next page and poured her soul into that sketch. Hilderic, standing there back hunched, Dradge looming at his shoulder, hands clasped behind him—looking more a King than the real one could ever dream to be.
She’d paint this one. That dangerous energy churned in her heart, and she thought one day she might even frame and display it.
With her brushstrokes an artist could lie in a thousand ways, but true masterpieces always captured the truth.