Venture to Uncertainty (#1)

15 | The Disguise of Uncertainty

There was a dark tint to the night, throwing heavy shadows across the street. Archer's collar was uncomfortably tight, but he avoided tugging at it. He glanced over at Lyra, who gently placed her hand on his arm as though she could sense his lack of ease.

"You'll be fine, Minnow," she said softly.

He wasn't sure he liked how obviously his nerves came off to her, so he stayed quiet as they approached the grand building. The long, narrow windows and golden arches were an indisputably impressive feat of architecture. As they approached, he shook off his shivers and racing pulse.

"No, not yet," Lyra whispered to him as he reached into his pocket for the invitation.

Archer withdrew his hand, knowing she was right and frustrated at himself for not realizing how jumpy it would've looked. He couldn't quite get over how obviously out-of-place he looked in this setting. Lyra, with her small, easily overlooked frame and northern features, looked nothing more than her part: the unsuspecting wife of a wealthy man who worked for the King.

But Archer? He'd never noticed how little he blended into crowds. One good look at the colour of his skin and the set of his eyes, and one may suspect Myrian as Silta had.

He'd never known self-consciousness, but now he was painfully aware of everything—the fact that his fingers bore the callouses of a man who fished for a living, not the smooth pads of a socialite. The scars from his lures, the broadness of his shoulders that seemed to scream, I don't belong among these stumpy, overly well-fed men.

As they ascended the steps, he felt the now-familiar spike of pain in his leg. He hadn't mentioned it to anyone, hoping it wouldn't disrupt the plan, but he could already feel the muscle screaming for rest.

They don't see the details, not until they've seen the whole. Her words were haunting the corners of his mind, bragging about how much truth they held. No one would suspect a thing if he gave them no reason to.

"Invitation?"

Archer glanced at the man in the door as though he hadn't noticed him. He reached into his jacket pocket and handed over the piece of paper. The man stared at it for a moment, decided it was real and handed it back.

"That's the hard part done," Lyra breathed as they stepped inside.

The doorway opened up to a long, open hallway. They walked down it for what felt like an eternity before the ceiling suddenly soared skyward and the walls melted away into the biggest room Archer had ever seen. Each window had a stunning collection of stained glass, each railing made of polished gold and each chandelier worth the entire island of Orphano in gold.

"He's a bastard, through and through," Lyra mumbled, "but by the angels, does he make some beautiful things."

Archer bit the inside of his lip to stop his laughter. He was nervous, and that's why he found it so funny. Or maybe it really was just funny—after all, Silta was by far the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, and the King had a hand in making her, too.

"We should stay a few minutes," Lyra said, ignorant to his laughter. "Throw suspicion."

He tore his gaze from the expansive room and the dozens of suave, self-assured king's workers. Silk, suits, crystals, diamonds—it was beautiful, but it was tasteless, so far from the captain's quarters of the Avourienne he'd admired.

"Clever," Archer replied, offering her his hand. "Shall we?"

She narrowed her eyes at his hand, then took it anyway. "You dance, do you?"

"No," he said, leading her to the space where the other couples were. "But I learn quickly."

He turned around to face her, and she placed a ghostlike hand on his shoulder. He glanced at the other men, mimicking their placement. Not hard at all, with the exception of that burning pain in the back of his thigh.