My father used to tell tales about the royal palace. The gold edgings and carvings, crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceilings, elegant ballrooms constantly filled with dancers and musicians. I used to imagine the palace to be a wondrous, exotic place to visit and a mystery to all. Those with only a few coppers in the clutches of a tight fist could never walk through the gates that lead to the Raven Queen's perch.

After my father's stories, I had dreams about what the palace would be like. The endless diamond and crystal necklaces, wide gowns swishing around the hips of young courtiers, and the clattering of teacups in private residences—shared by a prince and a princess. The luxuries of Rivian's palace originated years ago, long before I was born and long before the land twisted itself into the full moon's shape.

Generations of royals called this palace their home for their entire lives, and I expected more.

The halls aren't crafted of diamond, neither are the floors. The marble is slick and clean, brown and muddled in deeper parts of the corridors, but underwhelming all the same. I expected the walls to be clean white, portraits of past royals looming over every corner. Again, I'm disappointed to discover that this palace is as ordinary as any other.

If my father were here today, walking into Cloak Terravale's chambers, he'd stop in his tracks. Not in awe at the ruby red, velvet curtains draped over a long wall of arched windows looking out to the courtyard, or the long bench underneath them. Cushions and pillows scatter the ledge, as well as books. Their pages spill open onto the floor, spines bent and cracked.

My father would stop and stare at the broken bottles littering every surface. The desk, that cushioned ledge under the windows, the sofas, the low table, even the bed. Outside those large, hidden transoms, the sun can't shine on the rest of the carnage that took place in here at one point or another. And the smell...I don't have to force myself to sniff to taste what lingers. Even a tavern in the slums doesn't have a cloud of stale ale lingering in the air. At least not this strong.

Tunics, trousers, wool socks, doublets—every item of clothing hasn't been returned to the armoire in the corner of the room, placed crookedly against the cutout of a faded tapestry. The clothes are strewn over the sofas in front of the fireplace and mostly covering the rumpled sheets and black duvet on the four-poster bed. Sheer drapes hang over the posts and swim down to the mattress after someone tugged on them.

This room is a mess. My body doesn't know where to move or where to go, the only considerably clean place is the desk shoved against the wall and covered in more paperwork than I've seen in a library. No organization whatsoever.

I step carefully around the broken bottles on the floor and pull back the dusty curtains, coughing when a puff slithers up my nose and clogs my throat. The light shining into the room reveals a door I hadn't seen before, open and leading to a separate dining room.

The long, oak table meant to seat twenty or so guests is completely empty. Not a centerpiece, porcelain plate, or silver fork waits to see use or attention. Even the chairs are shoved in tight against the table, so much that I wonder when the last time someone pulled one out.

Cloak Terravale is a mess in more ways than one. And his lack of company proves to extend farther than the door from the hallway but stops at the bed.

His bathing chamber, connected to the dining area, is as cluttered and misused as the rest of his chambers. I shut the door before searching what doesn't belong to me and I return to his desk, easing myself down in the cushioned chair. Everything is quiet. The guards outside the door don't utter a word, and I can do nothing other than shove his paperwork aside to make room for a small clutter of my own. If I'm to take notes, I require a solid surface.

The minutes turn into an hour. I've organized his desk, cleaned up the intact bottles around the room, and folded the stray clothes on his bed to place back in his armoire. Maybe I should leave. Even if the guards ordered me to stay inside, the queen's word holds sway. And if I'm underneath her orders—

Muffled voices sound from the other side of the door. I recognize the deeper and most unsettling voice to be the gadigator, followed by the fladline. They speak fast, their words mingling together as one, but a rough voice shuts up their attempts.

The door swings open, nearly hitting the corner of the desk if not for me having shoved it back a few feet when I spotted the chip on the left edge.

To my great disappointment, the prince is not alone. Attached to his lips and being backed into the room by Cloak Terravale himself, is a woman. Her low-cut gown reveals little to be desired, and rapid movements have Cloak's shirt tugged off in a second.

The guards tried to warn him that the room isn't empty.

For a moment, I don't know what to do. For my first time laying eyes on Cloak Terravale, leader of the Panjandrum Corps and a known murderer of thousands of Luminaries, I'm not doing so well. This is the beast destined to end my life, right here and now.

Years working to hunt and kill have left him with a bulky, wide frame. He doesn't stand taller than Gustus, but his mass makes up for it. As his back is to me, my eyes immediately go to the scars covering his rough, greyish-brown skin. White lines cut through the tense muscles, all from slices against swords and knives, piercing holes from arrow tips, and claws of rabid beasts.

But the scars aren't what catches my attention. It's the white strip of buzzed hair down the middle of his scalp, disappearing to the top of his head after pointing down to the back of his broad neck. Otherwise, the short and easy to care for hairstyle is near black in the shadows of his chambers. Is that a symbol of some sort, or was he born with it? Is it possible the Void Queen got her hands on him, too? The son of the Raven Queen, foiled at the fingers of her evil sister.

From the horns curling from his temples and reaching towards the back of his head, circling like a ring around his skull, I know he's a feliram. An immortal beast possessing pointed ears, fangs, and distinctive horns to separate them from the rest. Like the remainder of his body, the horns cast into shadow the closer he leads the woman to his bed.

I have to do something. I can't sit here and wait for him to stop; the quick and fluid motions towards one focus prove he won't turn his attention for anything else. Not even an uncomfortable woman shoved into the corner of his chambers.

"Your Highness?" I frown when my voice squeaks. If I can see him the same way I see Eligius or Rylan, I won't have a problem. Even Castiel makes a case for my audacity to show authority. "Excuse me, Your Highness?"

I take one step towards them as the woman's back hits the bed and Cloak stands over her. My best bet is to run to the door and demand a release, but, as if sensing another presence in the room, the prince glances over his shoulder. Looking directly at me. His muddled brown stare looks me up and down, from head to toe, and my entire body clenches.

He knows.

His crooked, hooked nose catches a shadow as he turns to face me fully. "Your presence is unnecessary," he huffs. "I already have a woman for the night."

"No, that's not—"

"My mother needn't worry about my nightly company."

Those spat words come from full, dark lips. As he turns his head back towards the annoyed woman lying on the bed, waiting for further attention, I catch a glimmer of what makes him so frightening. A scar extends from the side of his mouth, pulling his lips, making it look like he's in on a joke I can't comprehend. That white line stops at the middle of his jaw, halfway to his right ear.

"That's not why I'm here, Your Highness," I declare before his attention turns again. Cloak's dark, thick brows furrow inward. "I'm here to help with your illness."

"I don't have an illness. I order you to leave; my attention is required elsewhere." He turns his head back towards the fladline lying on the bed and grins, winking subtly to light a fire underneath her skin. She giggles like an incompetent courtesan, and it occurs to me that she might be one. The prince's business is not my own.

I take one step closer to the bed and risk getting my eyes clawed out. "I'm sorry, Your Highness. I can do no such thing."

My statement proves to be too much for the impatient fladline. She throws her head back, rolling her neck, and sighs dramatically. Her revealing gown shows too much of what I don't want to see; the inner curve of her breasts is about to become more with every deep breath she takes to capture Cloak's attention.

Cloak huffs a sigh. He's handsome in a rough and intimidating way, but much too deadly for my tastes. "Fine," he snaps, humoring me. "Why are you here? Answer quickly, for I have little patience for these matters."

With both their attention on me, I'm weakened with a familiar sense of being overwhelmed. This is the prince of Rivian, a man that I never thought I'd meet in a situation I never thought I'd be in. All of this is larger than life itself.

"Your mother assigned this position to me," I blurt. "On the threat of death. I have no other option than to be here."

Cloak places his hands on his hips and sighs. As if the effort to carry his head becomes too much, he dangles his chin against his chest. I stare at that white strip, cut taller than the dark strands, and avoid the glare coming from the female lying on the bed. I've just ruined their night, but the Raven Queen has possibly ravished my life.

To the floor, Cloak says, "You're dismissed."

I cannot give up yet. "Please, Your Highness, I—"

"Not you." He meets my stare, mud brown eyes blazing with impatience, and turns his head slowly to the woman on the bed. Her red mouth falls open in shock when he jerks his chin towards the door and demands her to leave without another word.

She scoffs. "You can't be serious. You're letting this go, for her? For a poor servant girl?"

Disappointment threatens to tug Cloak back in. I watch his mind work through the complicated veracity I've revealed, and what his mother might be up to in terms of an ailment he didn't know about.

"If you are so inclined, you may return in a few hours. Until then, I have other matters to tend to." Again, Cloak gestures towards the door with a similar impatience that she possessed earlier. "Go on now."

Growling like a rabid beast, the woman huffs and slides herself off his bed. Her stomping steps echo throughout his quiet chambers and I choose to stare at the floor instead of the prince in front of me. But I feel his eyes on my scalp and try my best to keep from withering away and making myself feel smaller than I look.

She mutters something under her breath about me being a bitch, and leans down, gathering her jacket that I hadn't realized fell to the floor on their way in. As exhaustion threatens to swallow me whole, the door opens and slams shut a second later. I'm alone with the prince of Rivian. Yet, I can't meet his eye.

Cloak slumps onto the side of his bed and rubs at his temples. "Another night ruined," he mutters. To me, his voice rises. "What was my mother's order? What illness did she speak of?"

"She said you struggled after returning from the war. You've drowned your sorrows; she ordered me to heal you."

It seems so simple, those words. The truth to them is exactly what Cloak doesn't desire facing at a time like this. He stares at me in utter shock and I remain where I am, uncomfortably still in a room filled with empty bottles and disarray clothes. The evidence is right in front of me, but I understand people like Cloak. They'll do everything in their power to ensure denial comes first.

This is the leader of the Panjandrum Corps. He may have faced certain trials in the border wars to keep an enemy land from invading, but the horrors don't stop beyond a battlefield and a sword. Being forced to kill Luminary after Luminary can't ease the mind in any way; thrusting a sword through a magical being of Rivian does not differ from slashing the throat of an enemy soldier. Either way, they were sent to die underneath the control of a leader.

Cloak's pain continued after the war. I know that without asking. His mother sees it as what he did to halt enemies from reaching the city, but everyone else perceives his condition for the truth it possesses. There is always something more than what is visible on the surface. Deep, in the depths of his soul, Cloak faces the challenges of daily life and what he did in the past.

"Did you organize my desk?" he asks, not at all kindly. Such a harsh tone snaps me from my thoughts. I've started trying to become a healer without realizing it first.

I glance back at the stacks of paperwork and the metal tankard of quill pens. "I was waiting here for hours; I had nothing else to—"

"That is my personal property." Cloak pushes himself off the side of the bed and rushes to his desk, hunching over the stacks I so neatly arranged. "You shouldn't have done that. I had everything organized in my own way. What seems like clutter to you is not to me."

Every royal that faces me seems to ask for an answer without speaking the order outright. So when Cloak looks down upon me, rage lighting a fire in his red-rimmed eyes, I have nothing other to say than, "I'm sorry."

Theo wasn't lying when he said Cloak would be difficult to deal with. I expected something of the sort, but to have him angered by something so simple...this trial won't be as easy to jump through as I thought. Two weeks is all I have this first time around. If I can convince Cloak that I am not the enemy here, he might deem himself healed before that happens. Then, I can go home and get back to a life I've tried to avoid for so long.

With a scoff, Cloak pushes past me and grabs a half-full bottle from the night table next to his large bed. The clear liquid sloshes around on the inside, and he tips it back, guzzling the alcohol in the way a normal beast drinks water after a long day in the heat.

I grimace. If I stop him from drinking, he may bite.

He points the open cap of the bottle at me, his face tipped down. "We're going to pay a visit to the Raven Queen."

"No," I retort immediately. "No, I don't think that's a smart idea to make at a time like this. That is private ground and an ordinary citizen shouldn't cross a place like that."

Cloak sets the bottle down on the night table. "Come, it'll be fun. Besides, who else will show you the wonders of this palace?" Before I can step away, he grabs onto my hand and tugs me towards the door, nearly severing my arm from the rest of my body.

From the sarcasm and utter hatred in his voice, I know Cloak has no intention of revealing any luxuries. If I'm thinking clearly, my best wager is to come face to face with the stone courtyard outside when he throws me on my ass and slams the door.