I had heard his name, and all the horror stories surrounding him, but seeing him in the flesh was different. The narratives had not mentioned the sheer gravity of his presence.
He was taller than I expected. Broader.
His shoulders were squared beneath the dark fall of his coat, the fabric pulled taut across the dangerous breadth of his muscle. Along his forearms, where the sleeves had shifted back, ancient script curled over his skin in dark, winding lines that seemed to pulse with a life of their own.
The crowd quieted the moment he lifted his head, the collective breath of the market catching in a thousand throats as his gaze—cold as a mountain glacier—swept over us.
His eyes moved through the gathered bodies like a slow-burning flame, passing over merchants and soldiers alike, sliding across faces that immediately lowered.
I had stopped breathing the moment his eyes honed in on the wooden cart I was ducked behind.
Was he looking at me? Or beyond me?
One quick look over my shoulder showcased a completely vacant area.
I turned back to face him, meeting his unnerving eyes.
They were pale. Not the bright blue of summer skies or warm water, but something much colder.
What could he possibly be seeing?
I was a shadow in a city of sun; there was no reason for a king of the dark to see me.
I stayed rooted to the spot, trapped by his gaze. The chaos of the square bled away, silenced by the thunder of my own heart echoing in my ears.
Did he see my lack of bond just by looking at me?
I should have lowered my eyes—been the one to break eye contact. Everyone else had looked away, so why was something in me resisting the instinct?
I knew what those hands were capable of. I had heard the rumors of men stripped of rank and title under his command. Of the unbound escorted to the chambers without appeal. Of lives redirected with nothing more than his approval.
Those were the hands that signed orders.
The hands that decided who was worthy of protection and who was not.
And they were steady at his sides.
Something flickered in the depths of his. Something like interest.
My grip tightened on the wicker handle of my basket until the reeds creaked in protest.
Lookaway, I internally shouted.
But for some strange reason, I could not.
His head tilted just before his face hardened.
An elbow jutted into my ribs, jarring me from the trance and nearly sending my remaining berries spilling onto the cobblestones.
I staggered forward as the reek of cheap ale fills my nostrils. I whipped around with a glare, coming chest to chest with the hulking brute who had been tracking me through the stalls earlier.
His sweat covered tunic pressed against my clean one, and I swallowed down a gag as his yellowed grin stretched wide.
“Lost, little bird?” he slurred, reaching out to clamp a calloused hand on my arm. “Solstice approaches. Looking for a warm nest to bind to?”
His beady eyes raked over me, causing my stomach to churn.
This was the true horror of being unbound: the entitlement that festered in the corners of Haelen, the way men looked at unchosen women as if we were fruit left too long on the vine.