The Consort Seat | The Ashborn Crown Ch. 7
Kaelric expected to drag his son back into line before Council began. What he found instead was the horrifying realization the Heiress of Ember Flame claimed the lad, shifting the political landscape.
Kaelric did not knock. He never knocked in his own palace.
The door to the bedroom in Tharion’s apartment flew open with a sharp crack against the wall, the force of it echoing through the sitting room as Kaelric stormed inside, eyes blazing with authority and fists clenched.
“Tharion.” The rest of the sentence died in his throat.
Sunlight spilled across rumpled sheets and tangled blankets.
Velara lay half sprawled across Tharion’s chest, bare skin against bare skin, one leg draped over his hip with lazy ownership, her head resting against his, her hair fanned across his shoulder. Tharion’s lips were pressed lazily to his wife’s neck, his eyes half-closed. Velara slept on, utterly unbothered, breathing slow and deep. The room smelled faintly of perfume, and the unmistakable aftermath of a long night. The evidence of which was all around. Clothes were discarded without ceremony, left where they’d landed. Uniform jacket slung over a chair. Gown pooled near the foot of the bed. Shoes abandoned wherever they’d landed. The only concession to order was the jewelry. It had been neatly placed on the bedside table, arranged with deliberate care.
Kaelric froze, blinking once, then twice. His fists dropped slightly as he attempted to process the scene before him. Every prepared accusation obliterated on impact.
Tharion felt the pause before he heard him. He lifted his head slowly, blinking once, then twice, eyes focusing as realization dawned. His hand stilled on Velara’s back, but he did not move her. Did not sit up. Did not scramble for cover.
Instead, he regarded his father with calm, sleep-heavy eyes and said, mildly, “Good morning, Father.”
Kaelric’s focus flicked between the couple and the chaos surrounding them. “You! What? This?!” He waved vaguely at the bed, the blankets, and the clothes as he took deep breaths.
Kaelric’s fury collapsed inward. Slowly. Dangerously. “You,” he said at last, voice very quiet, very controlled, “were ordered to remain in the suite. With that family.”
Tharion inclined his head slightly. “I did try.”
“You were ordered to keep them contained.”
Tharion smile, just barely. “I believe I did try to do that as well.”
Silence stretched. Somewhere deep in the palace, a bell chimed the hour.
Kaelric stared at them and finally, painfully, understood that whatever authority he thought he still held over this situation had evaporated the moment Velara Brenwick… No, Velara Veyrakh-Dareyae had chosen his son. And judging by the evidence in that bed, she had chosen very thoroughly.
Kaelric turned sharply on his heel exiting the bedroom. “Get dressed. Both of you.”
A suitcase waited by the door. Her parents must have had it delivered sometime during the night. Kaelric stood frozen, torn between outrage and the creeping realization he had no idea how to proceed.
The silence Kaelric left behind pressed in on Tharion. For a moment nothing moved except the slow rise and fall of Velara’s chest.
Then, Tharion exhaled. He carefully eased himself from beneath Velara, moving with a slowness that spoke of reluctance and restraint. Velara stirred, shifting closer, her fingers tightening against Tharion.
“Velara,” he murmured. “We should…”
She made a small sound of protest and nestled closer. He closed his eyes, a flicker of conflict crossing his features. Then he carefully shifted her weight off him, sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He moved to the closet and selected a clean uniform, taking it into the bathroom with him. He emerged a couple minutes later, buttoning his coat.
Velara was now sitting primly on the bed, her legs dangling over the side. The very image of a princess, except she wore no clothing and her hair was tangled from the night before.
“My father is in the living room. He wants to talk to us immediately.”
“My parents sent a suitcase. Bring it to me.”
Tharion handed Velara his discarded shirt to put on before he opened the door.
“Tharion,” Kaelric began, impatient to lecture the young couple. Then he stopped. “Where’s Velara?”
Tharion saw the suitcase and grabbed it and returned to the bedroom, calling over his shoulder, “She’ll dress quickly and be out in a moment.”
Velara took the case and opened it on the bed. She chose a black pantsuit and ember silk blouse, along with the appropriate undergarments. Then pulled out a small case.
“I’m going to wait in the living room with my father.”
Velara smirked at him as she sauntered into the bathroom.
Tharion heard the shower running and watched as the minutes ticked by. Fifteen. Twenty. Kaelric’s fingers tapped impatiently against the arm of his chair, his expression darkening each passing moment. Tharion kept glancing nervously between his father and the closed bedroom door. Finally, it shut off. Another forty-five minutes passed, silence stretching palpably between father and son, before Velara stepped out of the bedroom. Her high heels clicked on the hardwood floor. Her hair perfectly styled. Makeup flawless. Jewelry on point. And every inch of her unapologetic bearing screamed that she was her father’s daughter.
“Thank you for inviting us for breakfast, High Warden.” Velara tilted her head slightly and looked expectantly at Kaelric, who remained seated. “I suppose we should get going if we want to have time to eat before Council starts.”
Kaelric did not rise. His gaze lifted slowly, settling on Velara. She stood before him, perfectly composed.
“A generous assumption, My Lady,” he said at last. His voice was even, measured. “But, I did not come for breakfast.”
He paused, his eyes flicked briefly from Tharion to Velara.
“I came because my son failed to remain where he was ordered to be. Failed to follow the orders I had given him.” He leaned back slightly in his chair, fingers steepling. “And I don’t appreciate you assuming my intent. Nor of being kept waiting. Especially when we are on a tight schedule such as this morning. A schedule of which you are not in a position to determine.”
His gaze held hers, steady. “However, since you are here now, we will proceed.”
The corner of his jaw tightened, betraying the barely contained fury. “Sit. Both of you.”
Not a request.
“I’ll remain standing.”
Kaelric closed his eyes, breathing deeply as his face cycled through a dozen shades of red, trying to keep control of himself before he inadvertently slipped into his dragon form in the small sitting room. Tharion shot up and crossed the room, placing himself bodily between his father and wife to protect her. He slowly moved her backward toward the door and into the hallway, his unblinking eyes never leaving his father’s form or the doorway of his apartment until they turned the corner into the public area of the palace.
The corridors leading to the Council chamber were already alive with movement. Escorts, aides, and delegates moved with quiet urgency, carrying documents, tablets, and laptops. Tharion walked at Velara’s side, his posture formal and expression carefully neutral. Her fingers lightly brushed against his.
As they approached the chamber itself, Tharion started toward the stairs leading to the gallery above the main floor where spectators could observe the proceedings. Velara’s hand caught his, stopping him just as his foot landed on the first step.
“No,” she said firmly, tugging him through the door that opened directly to the floor of the Council chamber. “You’re sitting with me.”
She slid into the Ember Flame High Warden seat. “Sit, Tharion.” Her eyebrows lifted slightly. Expectantly. He took the seat beside her. The consort’s seat.
“Father wanted me here this year,” she murmured softly. “He’s decided to act only as Flight Lord for this Council. Ember Flame needs a High Warden.” She glanced at him. “And I want you beside me.”
Tharion’s chest tightened. He’d never been trained for being seated amongst the High Wardens during Council. His position, twelfth in line for the Crimson Scale High Warden Seat rendered him practically invisible. For him to have occupied a seat on the Council floor would have meant that some extraordinary disaster had befallen not only his father, but also his older brothers and his nephews.
Across from him, his eldest brother, Corvian, sat in the seat designated for Crimson Scale’s heir. Edric took his place on the other side of Velara, facing the silk-draped chair where the Crimson Scale Warden Consort had sat when she was alive. Everyone at the table was busy logging onto the laptops or tablets set before them as dragons in jeans and various short sleeved knit shirts in the colors of their Courts checked audio and visual recording equipment.
Kaelric slid into his seat just as Veyrakh stood to declare this meeting of the Council of the Thirteen Courts in Session, not meeting anyone’s eyes as the lingering echo of the previous evening and that morning gnawed at him.
