The Raven and the Dove

by Kaitlyn Davis

  The idea had been circulating in his brain ever since he’d conceived this plan, and it had been weighing more and more heavily these past few days. Watching Coralee now, Xander felt like a villain instead of the hero his people needed him to be.

  We needed a win, he told himself.

  We needed a match.

  Taetanos needed a victory.

  My god, my people, they needed this.

  The excuses sounded emptier than they had been the day before. But maybe that was just because his eyes had found hers again, and for the first time he realized his future and his people’s futures weren’t the only ones that mattered.

  A cheer filled the atrium.

  Xander blinked, realizing the king had finished his speech. The matching ceremony had officially begun.

  Pay attention now.

  Don’t embarrass yourself or your house.

  Not so close to the end.

  The matches had been set the night before, through notes and messages passed back and forth between the royal families, but nothing was final until it was stated before the gods. Even the slightest error could ruin everything. There was no rule forcing Coralee to agree to the offer he would bestow, and maybe that was why his heart had behaved like a wild, untamable beast in his chest all morning. Part of him didn’t believe he was worthy, not when it was Rafe who had truly won her. Part of him expected her to say no.

  Xander squeezed the wood beneath his left palm. In the folds of the clay hand on his right, his fingers curled tight, invisible but somehow so real he could feel them shake, so real his arm softly trembled.

  The trial committee signaled to the dove prince, the male victor and winner of the first choice of mate. He stood from his throne and flew to the center of the atrium. After landing softly on the tile floor, he faced his people and bowed deeply, ashy wings fanning from side to side. Then he stood and lifted his hands to the back of his head to gently remove the mask, revealing his face to the crowd.

  “I am Luka Aethionus, born of the god Aethios, Crown Prince of the House of Peace, and by my god’s favor, I have picked my mate, chosen for her speed and her stealth, for her grace and her charm, for the shrewd mind she displayed and the strong heart we all witnessed.”

  The prince jumped, pumping his wings as he soared determinedly toward the House of Paradise, to no one’s surprise. Xander had spent the night discussing the matches with his mother, and they’d guessed the mate the dove prince would pick. Still, relief trickled through him when Luka flew in the opposite direction of the House of Wisdom. Xander would be next for the men, and his princess would be waiting.

  The dove knelt before his chosen mate. “Iris Mnesmeus, born of the god Mnesme, Princess of the House of Paradise, will you have me?”

  The whole room grew still.

  Hardly a moment passed before she stood and removed her mask, amethyst gown fluid in the sun as she took the hand he offered. “I will.”

  The princess turned, kissing her parents on the cheek and embracing her two brothers before she followed her mate back to his dais and settled onto the open throne by his side, no longer a member of the House of Paradise but now the future queen of the House of Peace. Their hands were tightly clasped. Without masks, their faces displayed wide smiles full of hope and the slightest bit of fear. The doves cheered when he leaned down to press a soft kiss to the back of her hand. The sound was like a tiding of things to come, a promise that their house would continue to be a place of happiness, of light and air just like their god.

  Again, the room grew quiet. The trial committee gestured to the female victor, who had won second choice of mate.

  The princess of the House of Peace stood.

  Xander had hardly noticed her before, but now he found he couldn’t look away. There was something captivating about her, as though her energy were magnetic, forcing every gaze in the room to pay attention. And they did. The atrium was so silent he heard the scuffing of her silk slippers on the floor as she landed in the center of the room, heard the swish of fabric as the lace folds of her silvery dress settled around her. When she curtsied, her ivory wings ruffled in the sun, brighter than the diamonds woven into her tightly braided hair. As she stood, nimble fingers undid the knots of her mask, revealing her beauty to the room. Plump lips. Defined cheekbones. A rounded nose. And upturned eyes that were slightly big for her face, yet somehow only deepened her allure, especially with the impish way they sparkled, as though she were in on a joke no one else seemed to know.

  The room hummed with the sound of a hundred people remembering to breathe, as if they had forgotten to do so at the sight of her. Xander's chest burned for lack of air and he drew in a surprised gulp.

  “I am Lyana Aethionus, born of the god Aethios, Princess of the House of Peace,” she said, voice loud and confident, a woman perfectly assured in her person and her decisions, not at all afraid—not at all like Xander, who couldn’t push the doubts from his mind. “And by my god’s favor, I have picked my mate, chosen because we are all small players in a much bigger game, and this was the only move I wished to make.”

  Xander frowned. That sounds just like something Rafe would say.

  He watched the princess rise into the air, a murmur of whispers growing to a dull roar as she turned toward her chosen mate—as she turned toward him.

  Xander jolted, sitting up.

  He looked to the left, where the hummingbird prince had already started to stand, gaping at his match in confusion before swiveling toward Xander, hatred simmering in the shadows of his mask.

  Then Xander turned right, toward Coralee, his princess, his match, his mate. Her brown eyes were wide. Her mouth parted slightly beneath the feathers hiding the rest of her face. Those honey wings so alive just moments before were tucked close to her back, unsure.

  Xander's gaze darted to the committee members who stood, staring in shocked silence. But no protests spilled from their lips. The princess was within her rights. They would not stop her. She’d won this choice. She’d earned it. And if it wasn’t meant to be, the gods themselves would have to intervene.

  They didn’t.

  Lyana soared closer, no doubt as to her destination. Then she was there, landing on the dais a few feet in front of his throne and curtsying before him, seemingly unaware of the chaos left in her wake. Her attention remained on the floor, as though the confident person he had seen only moments before had been a ruse, and now she was laid bare, vulnerable, afraid that a raven of all people would say no to a dove.

  Will I?

  Xander swallowed. His gaze flicked to the owl princess again, mind spinning with dreams of parchment and firelight, and days of understanding that turned into nights of exploring that turned into years of love. He looked at the dove and the dream vanished. Their future was uncharted, a blank slate he couldn’t read. She was beautiful, and she was bold. She was different from any match he’d ever imagined.

  She’s the daughter of Aethios, the crown prince in the back of his mind whispered, bringing Xander back to reality, reminding him that his heart wasn’t what mattered in this equation. His people were. She’s the queen my god deserves.

  “Lysander Taetanus, born of the god Taetanos, Crown Prince of the House of Whispers,” the dove princess murmured, words as smooth as velvet, as though she’d said his name many times before. “Will you have me?”

  Xander reached back, arms moving as though the gods commanded them, since his mind was blank with shock and confusion. But his body acted with assurance, and his hand of clay pressed the mask to the side of his face, holding it in place as the fingers of his left hand fumbled with the special knot Rafe had tied, miraculously tugging it loose despite the way they trembled. That was where the miracle ended.

  The mask dropped to the floor.

  It smacked with an ugly thud against the wood base of the dais, landing on its side before spilling over the edge. A loud clang filled the silent atrium as it hit the tile floor ten feet below and shattered upon impact.


  The princess watched it fall, then looked up—and froze. Her wide eyes widened even farther. Her luscious lips dropped open a centimeter. That sparkle in her eyes became one of panic. And he knew why.

  Xander knew.

  She’d expected Rafe.

  She’d expected a warrior and got this instead.

  But they’d come too far to turn back now, so Xander slipped from his throne and dropped to one knee as he lifted her hand to his lips. She flinched almost imperceptibly at his touch, but Xander felt the tremor pass beneath her skin.

  “Lyana Aethionus,” Xander stated, voice flat, the best he could manage when it felt as though the ground had opened and was swallowing him whole, “born of Aethios, but now Taetanos’s queen. I will have you as my mate.”

  28

  Lyana

  What have I done?

  What have I done?

  The rest of the matching ceremony passed in the blink of an eye. She couldn’t have described a single moment had her life depended on it. No, Lyana couldn’t focus on anything except for her brother’s concerned gaze, her mother’s pointed stare, Damien’s seething wrath, her own mate’s chilling silence, and the question playing on a loop in the back of her mind.

  What have I done?

  Because the moment she looked at those lavender eyes, and at that face so strikingly similar to the one she’d expected yet so outrageously different, a chill had crept into her bones, deeper than anything she’d ever felt in her frozen tundra of a homeland.

  Who was this imposter by her side?

  Where was Lysander?

  Where was her mate?

  What have I done?

  Lyana was numb as the courtship trials drew to a close. Her father spoke the traditional parting words, but her ears had stopped working, as though she’d dropped beneath the surface of her bath and all she could hear were muffled voices sifting through water, dull and far away. Everything was fuzzy. Everything was blurred. As she followed the ravens down the hall and out of the palace, a white speck in a mass of black, her thoughts were nothing but a silent buzzing, as though the panic were so overwhelming her body had simply shut down to avoid it.

  The world came into sharp focus the second she stepped into their guest quarters. The second she saw him standing in the foyer, arms crossed, a foot resting against the wall, the picture of ease. The second her gaze landed on those clear eyes.

  Lyana’s vision turned red.

  Before she knew what she was doing, she crossed the length of the room and slapped his cheek as hard as she could, leaving a brilliant rosy mark on his pale skin. He clenched his jaw, refusing to look away, taking the full brunt of her glare but giving nothing in return. His expression was a study in control, not revealing a single emotion, as though he were made of stone.

  Lyana hit him again—just because.

  “Why weren’t you there?” she yelled, because her other option was a wailing that would sound far too vulnerable, far too hurt. Anger was much easier to manage. “Who are you? No, who are you?”

  She flipped around, turning toward the man who had been at the ceremony. He was frozen in the doorway, crestfallen. A small woman nudged his shoulder, pushing him into the room. Then she closed the door behind them, locking the guards outside, leaving the five of them alone, including the queen.

  “Someone tell me what’s going on, now,” Lyana commanded.

  “I am Lysander Taetanus,” the man by the doorway said, taking a step closer as his onyx wings drooped low to the ground and his shoulders seemed to follow, hunched and uncertain. “I’m the real Lysander Taetanus.”

  “But…” Lyana's voice trailed off as her eyes moved back and forth between the two Lysanders, nearly identical. Same jet-black hair. Same ivory skin. Same obsidian feathers. Same height. Similar builds, though one was clearly more muscular and one a little more slender. They were nearly twins.

  Except for their eyes, she realized.

  Her Lysander had slightly hooded eyes with irises the color of the sky on a perfect sunny day, daring her to explore the hidden depths beneath. But this new Lysander had slightly downturned eyes the color of lavender, honest and endearing, with no secrets lurking inside. And they matched the set on the queen’s face, which were a darker color but the same oval shape, with the same arched brows, the only feature on either man's face that looked like her at all.

  Lyana stepped back as the air left her. Her wings beat, keeping her upright as she swayed, off balance.

  “I don’t understand,” she murmured, trying to find her voice but losing it just as quickly. Her fingers trembled as her heart began to pound. A dizzying swarm of nerves fluttered deep in her stomach, shooting down her legs and up her arms, invading her mind, until she was light-headed yet grounded by her confusion.

  The real Lysander lifted his arm, drawing her attention away from the nameless young man who had yet to move from the spot where she’d found him. He tugged on the end of each finger on his left hand, pulling off a polished leather glove, revealing smooth skin. Then he lifted his right hand and paused for a moment before he said, “I’m the Crown Prince of the House of Whispers. The man you met during the trials is my half brother. He took my place because, well— Because I— Because when I got my wings— Because—”

  The prince broke off abruptly. The muscles in his right arm trembled. He released a heavy breath and in the same moment, wrenched the glove from his hand. The sound of threads ripping filled the small room.

  Lyana gasped and stepped back, this time involuntarily.

  For a second, she thought he’d ripped his fingers clean off and a spike of terror shot through her. But then the shock cleared, and she realized there was no blood, no gore, no mess, just smooth skin where a hand should have been. A deformity that had been there long before he’d ever laid eyes on her or her homeland.

  Lyana glanced up.

  The pain was written clearly across his face, in every groove of his forehead, in the way the muscle of his cheek spasmed, in the way he’d squeezed his eyes shut and angled his head toward the floor as though that would make him feel less exposed.

  Lyana lifted her own hand, stretching it toward him, letting her fingers hover in the air. A warm wave of sympathy coursed through her, not because of the injury, but because of the raw ache emanating from him. The healer in her yearned to comfort him. The princess in her instantly understood why he’d done what he’d done. But the woman in her still reeled from the wounds he’d inflicted on her with his deception.

  “I’m sorry to have tricked you, Lyana Aethionus,” the real Lysander whispered, voice raspy. “But I would still very much like to be your mate, if you’ll have me.”

  At the word mate, her arm recoiled, dropping away from the prince. Her head turned, even as she tried to force it not to, and her attention landed on the stranger still leaning against the wall, the stranger who knew her darkest secret, the stranger in whose keeping she’d placed her wildest dreams—to live a life where she didn’t have to hide, a life with a mate who understood a part of her that no one else in the world ever could. Deep in her chest, that golden spark flared to life and sprinkled down her arms. Her magic. And the memory of her fingertips pressed against his skin, aglow in the firelight as his power rose to meet it, flared in her mind—a moment more intimate than any she’d experienced before. A moment that now brought a rotten, sour taste to her lips.

  Lyana glanced at the floor, then turned to her mate.

  “I’ll be in my rooms. No one is to enter except for my friend, who will be traveling with us to the House of Whispers come morning. Please, do not disturb me until my family arrives to bid their goodbyes. I would like to see them one more time before we leave.”

  Her voice was iron.

  Sharp as a dagger.

  She didn’t wait to see if the tone struck true. She just snapped her wings and raced to the first rooms she could find, not caring whose they were, because now they were hers. The crystal wall gifted her with the perfect
view of the palace she had until now called home. Lyana stared at it from the edge of the bed, unblinking. Her eyes burned, but the pain was a necessary distraction. She sat like that until the door opened and a familiar face slipped inside. Only then did she finally give in to the torrent of feeling crashing through her. Only then did she collapse and let the tears stream over her face. Because she knew Cassi’s steadfast arms were there to catch her.

  29

  Rafe

  The moment the princess disappeared, Xander threw the clay-filled glove at the wall as hard as he could. A loud splat echoed across the silence, then a thud as it dropped to the floor by his brother's feet.

  Rafe stared at the mess, thinking, How do I fix this? What do I do? But the truth was he hadn’t breathed since she stepped through the door, and all he felt was the briefest flash of relief now that she was out of sight once more.

  He’d known this was going to happen.

  The moment he realized she’d won second pick and he third, he’d known. He’d hoped and prayed to all the gods that it wouldn’t. But fate was fickle, and the gods were cruel just as often as they were kind.

  Destiny’s dagger had struck him in the heart the second her eyes landed on his, so lost and hurt and confused, but it wasn’t until she left that the dagger twisted, bringing a fresh round of pain now that he had nothing to distract him from his brother.

  Xander was crushed.

  Rafe set aside his own panic and kicked off the wall, trying to put a grin to his lips even as nausea continued to coil in his stomach. “That was a bit dramatic, don’t you think?”

  Head snapping up at this, Xander fumed. “She has every right to react however she pleases after what we did to her.”