Death Bound (The Soulsworn Chronicles #1)

Chapter 31

Chapter Thirty-One

The banquet hall was a stunning display of Emberfall’s wealth and power. Long tables draped in crimson and gold stretched beneath towering chandeliers that bathed the room in a warm, glittering light. Golden candelabras gleamed from the center of each table, while delicate arrangements of freshly picked flowers added a soft touch of elegance. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meats, spiced wine, and honeyed pastries—a feast fit for royalty.

But the mood around the table was far from welcoming.

I had been seated at the head, a position designated to me. Lady Vivienne had led me to the seat with a giggle, her fingers lightly grazing my arm. “The guest of honor, of course,” she had purred, her sparkling hazel eyes watching me with amusement. “Do take your place where everyone can admire you.”

Now, as I sat in that uncomfortable seat, the eyes of the other wives bore into me. Their gazes were indecipherable, but I could sense the currents of irritation and calculation.

“Such a grand entrance for a princess,” Vivienne mused as she settled into her own seat beside me. Her lips curved into a teasing smile, though her eyes were far more rapacious than playful. “I suppose it’s fitting. After all, you’re not just any bride.”

The tension in the room thickened. It was Lyra’s gaze that burned the hottest, her eyes sharp as knives from her seat at the far end of the table. She hadn’t said a word, but her presence was unmistakable—tense, simmering with barely controlled anger.

“Leave her be, Vivienne,” came the soft voice of Maris, who sat a little further down the table. “There’s no need to tease her. It’s all a bit shocking, I’m sure.”

Maris radiated a warmth and gentleness that stood in stark contrast to the others. Her tone was soothing, almost motherly, and I couldn’t help but feel a pang of gratitude for her kindness. She glanced around the table, her eyes lingering for a moment on Isolde, who sat beside her, silent and watchful.

Isolde’s dark eyes flickered with curiosity as they settled on me, and there was something calculating behind her quiet demeanor. Maris’s hand brushed Isolde’s under the table—just for a moment, barely noticeable to anyone not paying attention—but the touch was there, tender and intimate.

Vivienne, of course, noticed nothing. She leaned closer to me, her tone dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Oh, but darling, we’re all curious. Tell us—what is it like to be the king’s newest fascination? Surely you must feel quite… special.”

Before I could respond, Therynne spoke up, her attention still mostly on the thick tome she had brought to the table. “I doubt it’s all that fascinating, Vivienne,” she said, her tone matter-of-fact, her fingers tracing the words on the page in front of her. “In fact, I’ve been researching the patterns of royal marriages, and statistically speaking, the attention of a king tends to diminish after the third wife. It’s nothing personal, just a trend.”

There was a moment of silence as Therynne’s words settled over the table. Vivienne raised an eyebrow, a small laugh escaping her lips. “Well, thank you, Therynne, for that… enlightening analysis.” She rolled her eyes, but there was no real bite behind it. Therynne’s scholarly ramblings were as much a part of the dynamic between them as anything else, and Vivienne seemed more amused than annoyed.

Maris offered Therynne a small smile, the kind that spoke of fondness. “You’re always full of knowledge, Therynne. But perhaps it’s best if we let the princess settle in before shocking her with statistics.”

Therynne blinked, tilting her head slightly as if considering this. “Ah, yes. Of course. That’s… logical.” She tapped her fingers rhythmically on the book, her mind already wandering back to the pages in front of her.

Across the table, Isolde remained quiet, her eyes still on me, studying. “You don’t seem like someone who enjoys being in the spotlight,” she said finally, her voice soft but piercing. There was no accusation, no malice—just quiet observation.

I met her gaze, unsure how to respond. She was right, of course. I had never wanted to be the center of attention, not like this. But here I was, thrust into the role of princess and bride, with all eyes on me, each wife measuring and calculating in their own way.

“I don’t,” I admitted.

Isolde’s lips curved ever so slightly. “Then I imagine this banquet must feel more like a trap than a celebration.”

I wasn’t sure whether Isolde meant it as a warning or an observation, but the truth in her statement settled over me like a cloak.

Vivienne’s laugh broke the tension, light and airy. “Oh, darling, you’ll get used to it. Being the center of attention is a wife’s job, after all.” She leaned in again, her lips curling into a smile. “Though I wouldn’t count on it lasting too long. The king does have a habit of… getting bored.”

Lyra’s goblet slammed down on the table with a loud clink, the sound reverberating through the room. The conversation came to an abrupt halt, and all eyes turned to her. She hadn’t spoken much, but now, her eyes burned with something far fiercer than irritation. Her hands, clenched into fists on the table, trembled slightly as she spoke.

“Some of us,” she began, “don’t have to wonder what it’s like to keep the king’s attention.”

The implication was clear. Lyra didn’t care about the political alliances or the shifting dynamics among the wives. She loved King Ciaran—fiercely, possessively—and she wasn’t going to let anyone forget that.

I stared back at her, refusing to look away. Her anger, her jealousy—it was a fire that burned just beneath the surface, waiting to consume anyone who threatened what she considered hers.

But I wouldn’t let her see my fear.

Not here, not now.

Beside me, Vivienne gave a small shrug, her tone breezy as she picked up her wine glass again. “Well, isn’t that lovely for you, Lyra?”

Slowly, Lyra rose from her seat, the soft clink of her armor-like jewelry the only sound cutting through the silence.

“That’s my seat, seven,” Lyra said, her gaze flicking to the head of the table where I sat. “I’ve always sat beside King Ciaran. I always will. “

I met her gaze, feeling the weight of the eyes around the table, the barely concealed amusement from some of the wives and the quiet curiosity from others. Lyra was staking her claim, reminding me—and everyone else—exactly who held the king’s favor.

But I had no intention of playing her game. I wasn’t interested in sitting next to King Ciaran, not tonight. Not ever, if I could help it. So I smiled, calm and measured, and rose from the chair.

“It suits me just fine not to sit by him,” I said, my voice steady, but with enough coolness to match hers. I stepped away from the head of the table, moving gracefully as I left the spot Lyra had marked as hers.

Her eyes followed me as I walked. She may have claimed her place beside the king, but I had refused to engage, and somehow that felt like its own victory.

I moved toward Therynne, who sat further down the table, engrossed in her tome, oblivious to the drama unfolding. She looked up briefly as I approached, her eyes flicking to the empty seat beside her.

“May I?” I asked, gesturing to the chair.

Therynne blinked behind her glasses, as if it took her a moment to register my question. “Of course,” she said absentmindedly, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose before returning to her book.

I took my seat, the tension at the head of the table fading as I settled into the quiet space next to Therynne. The hum of conversation resumed, but my stomach twisted with unease. I hadn’t eaten all day, and the scent of roasted meats and spiced bread was breathtaking.

“I’m starving,” I muttered under my breath, more to myself than anyone in particular.

Therynne perked up immediately, a spark of enthusiasm lighting in her eyes. “Oh, the food here is fascinating,” she said, her tone suddenly animated, her fingers tapping excitedly on the table as she prepared to launch into one of her detailed explanations.

I blinked, taken slightly off guard by the sudden turn in her demeanor.

“Fascinating?” I asked, unsure what exactly she meant.

“Yes!” Therynne nodded, her glasses slipping slightly as she leaned forward. “The agricultural practices of Emberfall are quite advanced. They’ve developed intricate systems of irrigation to maximize crop yield despite the climate. You see, the proximity to the sea provides an interesting challenge when it comes to the salinity of the soil, but through selective breeding of crops and innovative fertilization techniques, they’ve managed to increase the food supply exponentially.”

I stared at her, my hunger momentarily forgotten as she rattled off facts with the kind of fervor usually reserved for warriors recounting battle victories.

“I—uh…” I stammered, trying to keep up with the barrage of information. My stomach growled loudly, interrupting her stream of thought, and Therynne paused, her eyes flicking to my plate with sudden realization.

“Oh, right. You’re starving.” She blinked, pushing her glasses up again. “Well, in that case, you should eat. The lamb is supposed to be excellent. The marinade is particularly interesting—it uses an extract from sea grasses that grows near the cliffs. It’s supposed to balance the richness of the meat.”

I couldn’t help but smile at the sheer enthusiasm in her tone. Thank you,” I said, reaching for the nearest platter of lamb, more than ready to finally eat.

As I took a bite, the rich, savory flavors of the meat melted on my tongue, and I let out a small sigh of satisfaction. Therynne was right—the food was incredible.

Beside me, she had already turned back to her book, her mind likely a thousand miles away, absorbed once more in whatever scholarly research had captured her attention.

The moment the grand doors to the banquet hall swung open, a hush fell over the room. The conversations and the quiet tension—all of it dissipated as King Ciaran entered. His golden armor gleamed under the chandelier’s light, casting reflections across the walls like shards of sunlight. His broad shoulders and commanding presence filled the room as he moved, and every eye turned to him with varying degrees of expectation and desire.

His eyes swept across the table, his gaze searching, calculating. The king’s arrival was like the drop of a stone into still water—ripples of unease and anticipation spread through the gathered wives. As his eyes passed over the seat next to him, where Lyra now sat—her posture rigid, eager for his attention—there was a brief flicker of displeasure on his face. The faintest frown creased his brow.

Then his gaze moved, scanning the table until it landed on me, seated far down from him, almost hidden amongst the other wives.

For a split second, I could swear his lip twitched, as if he were suppressing a smile. But just as quickly, his expression hardened, the flicker of amusement gone. As soon as King Ciaran settled into his chair, the tension in the room shifted, thickened.

Vivienne was the first to move, her sensual grace unmistakable as she leaned forward, her flowing chestnut hair falling over her shoulders in a deliberate display. “My king,” she purred, lifting a goblet of wine toward him. “You must be exhausted after such a long day. Allow me to ease your burden.”

She lingered close, letting her dress slip down her shoulder slightly, the movement almost imperceptible but clearly intentional.

King Ciaran took the goblet from her, but his response was cool, almost dismissive. “Thank you, Vivienne,” he said, his tone flat. His eyes pitched back toward me for the briefest of moments before returning to the wine.

Lyra bristled at Vivienne’s move, her eyes narrowing as she shifted in her seat. But Lyra wouldn’t be outdone—not by Vivienne and certainly not by me.

“My love,” she said, her voice lower, more intimate as she leaned closer to him, placing her hand lightly on his forearm. “You’ve worked so hard today. Perhaps you’d like a massage later? I’d be more than happy to oblige.”

The king’s jaw tightened slightly, though he said nothing. His eyes glanced at her briefly, acknowledging her offer with a nod.

The next person to cut through the tension was Maris, gentle and considerate, though without the biting edge the others carried. “Your Majesty,” she began, her tone soft and sincere, “I’ve prepared a new tonic for you. I know your back pain has been troubling you recently, and I thought this might help.”

She lifted a small vial toward him, her fingers steady, her eyes warm but without any of the flirtation or desperation that tainted the others’ words. Maris had a healer’s heart—thoughtful, kind. Her gesture was practical, a simple act of care rather than an attempt to win favor.

King Ciaran took the vial from her, his expression softening just slightly. “Thank you, Maris,” he said, his tone more genuine this time. “You’re always thoughtful.”

King Ciaran leaned back slightly, his gaze sweeping the table once more before landing on Therynne, who sat next to me, engrossed in her book even at the banquet. “Therynne,” he said, “how is your research progressing?”

Therynne’s head snapped up, her glasses slightly askew as she blinked in surprise. For a moment, it was as if she had forgotten where she was, but then her eyes lit up with excitement. “Oh! Yes, Your Majesty! My research on bloodlines and the inheritance of magic is coming along quite well. In fact, I’ve begun cataloging the dominant traits of different noble families across the kingdoms.”

She launched into her explanation with enthusiasm, her fingers tapping on the table as she spoke. King Ciaran listened patiently, though his eyes occasionally drifted toward me. The brief flashes of interest seemed almost involuntary, as though he was struggling to keep his attention from wandering.

Just as Therynne was about to continue, Isolde spoke quietly. “Your Majesty, I’ve heard whispers of new tensions along the eastern borders. Do you think it’s wise to expand our alliances before we’ve solidified the ones we currently hold?”

The king’s eyes pitched toward her, and for a moment, the room held its breath.

“Strategic expansion is necessary for our survival, Isolde,” he replied, his tone measured. “We cannot afford to wait.”

Isolde nodded, her dark eyes glinting with something unreadable. “Of course, Your Majesty.”

The conversation fell into a lull, the tension between the wives simmering, but King Ciaran’s attention shifted back to me once more. His brow furrowed slightly, almost as if he were… disappointed. Disappointed that I had chosen to sit so far from him.

But I wasn’t here to play into the game of vying for his favor, not like the others. I had no desire to sit beside him, no desire to pretend.

Just as the conversation dipped, the doors swung open once more. All eyes turned as Selene swept into the room, her long, golden hair tightly braided and her eyes glowing with quiet intensity. The priestess moved with a practiced grace, her white robes flowing behind her like sunlit mist.

She was late, and the tension in her posture made it clear that she was vexed about it.

“My apologies,” she announced, her voice soft yet commanding enough to silence the low murmurs of conversation at the table. “I was praying for our king’s safety and the continued blessing of the sun god.”

There was a hushed reverence to her tone, as though her prayers should have been expected—no, required—before any gathering involving the king could commence.

She moved to take the seat beside me, her eyes sweeping over the table with disapproval as she realized the feast had already begun. Her lips pressed into a thin line, and a shadow of irritation passed over her usually serene face.

“Would anyone like for me to pray over this feast?” she asked, though the offer was more of a demand.

I glanced around the table, noticing the barely concealed eye rolls from the other wives. But Selene’s gaze settled on the spread of food laid out before us, untouched by her prayers. Her scowl deepened, and she folded her hands in her lap. “I see you’ve all started without me,” she said.

“We didn’t want the food to get cold,” Vivienne chimed in sweetly, her tone all too innocent. She leaned forward, her fingers brushing against the stem of her wine glass. “But please, dear Selene, don’t let us stop you from blessing what remains.”

Selene’s eyes narrowed, though she said nothing in response. Instead, she turned her attention to King Ciaran, her expression softening as she addressed him directly. “My king, I offer my continued prayers for your safety. May the sun god protect you in all things.”

King Ciaran gave her a brief nod, though his attention was clearly elsewhere, still lingering on the interactions at the table—particularly on me, as though trying to gauge my reactions to the subtle jabs being thrown around like weapons.

I bit the inside of my cheek, unsure whether to laugh or shrink under the burden of the tension in the room.

“How is the food, Princess?” he asked me. He watched me closely, waiting for my response as if this simple question held more importance than it should.

“It’s… good,” I replied. “Much better than the food on the ship. And certainly better than the Crypt. I used to hunt rats for A?—”

I stopped myself abruptly, my heart pounding in my chest as I realized what I had almost said. The words had nearly slipped out before I could catch them.

King Ciaran raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening ever so slightly. “For whom?”

I froze, my pulse quickening. For a split second, the truth hung on the tip of my tongue—the truth about who I really was, where I had really been.

I cleared my throat, forcing a smile as I quickly corrected myself. “For a… meal,” I said, hoping the vague reference would be enough to divert suspicion.

The king’s eyes flickered with amusement, as though he could sense the lie beneath my words, but he didn’t press the matter. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, his fingers lightly tracing the rim of his goblet as he regarded me with a look that sent a shiver down my spine.

“Tell me,” he said, his eyes glinting with mischief, “how does the crypt of Icespire compare to Emberfall’s banquet halls? Surely the northern dead aren’t this well-fed.”

My heart raced, but I forced a laugh, playing along, trying to keep the anxiety from showing.

“Well, let’s just say the food in the crypt wasn’t nearly as good as this,” I replied. “But then, I imagine the dead don’t have much of an appetite.”

His smirk widened, his amusement palpable, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that he was watching me too closely, that he was waiting for me to slip.

“You have a sharp tongue, Princess,” he said, his voice low and laced with something I couldn’t quite name. “I like that.”

The tension between us crackled, thick and electric, and for a moment, it felt like the entire room had fallen away. I could feel the other wives’ eyes on us, their annoyance simmering just beneath the surface, but King Ciaran didn’t seem to care. His attention was solely on me, and that realization made my pulse race.

Vivienne rose from her seat with the grace of a swan gliding across a still lake. “Your Majesty,” she murmured, her voice like honeyed silk, carrying just the right amount of reverence and allure. “I have prepared something special for you, a new piece that I hope will please your ears and your heart.”

Vivienne moved to the center of the room, her gown shimmering like molten gold, catching the light with every step. She lifted her hands gracefully, and with a soft whisper of her magic—aetherweaving—the air around her began to hum. The instruments, positioned carefully by the servants, responded to her will. They rose into the air, animated by invisible threads of power that only Vivienne could command.

The music began, a melody that seemed to float on the very essence of the ether. It was haunting and ethereal, notes plucked from the air itself, each one resonating with a purity that sent shivers down my spine. Vivienne’s aetherweaving was a sight to behold, her magic allowing her to manipulate objects with nothing more than a thought, creating a performance that was both visually stunning and audibly enchanting.

As the music filled the room, Vivienne began to dance. Her movements were fluid and sensuous, her body swaying in perfect harmony with the melody. She twirled, and the violins soared; she dipped, and the harps murmured a low, seductive note. It was as if she were conducting an entire orchestra with the mere flick of her wrist, her magic weaving the music and the dance into one seamless performance.

The other wives watched her with thinly veiled scorn, their expressions a mixture of annoyance and begrudging admiration. But I… I was mesmerized . I had never seen anything so beautiful, so alive with energy and grace. Vivienne moved as if the music were a part of her, each step a note, each gesture a chord.

As I watched her, the sight tugged at something deep within me, pulling me back to another time, another place. The grand, opulent hall blurred, and I was transported back to the crypts, to the nights when Princess Aeliana and I would dance in our tiny, cold room. The stone walls had always felt too close, too confining, but in those moments, when we danced, we were free.

“ Elara, come on!” Aeliana would say, her laughter ringing out like music, her eyes bright with the mischief of a shared secret. She would grab my hands, pulling me up from where I’d been huddled under a threadbare blanket, trying to stave off the cold. I’d protest at first, too tired, too worn out from the day’s work of tending to the dead. But Aeliana’s smile was impossible to resist, her warmth an irresistible balm in the freezing darkness.

“ We’re at a grand ball ,” she’d declare, her voice light and full of make-believe. She’d twirl around the tiny room, her threadbare gown billowing out as she pretended it was made of the finest silk. “The music is playing just for us.”

And then, despite everything, despite the bleakness that surrounded us, I would laugh. I would take her hands, and we would spin around the room, our feet light against the cold stone, our breath visible in the frigid air. The walls of the crypt would melt away, replaced by grand halls and sparkling chandeliers, the world we created with our imagination more real than the one we lived in.

For those few moments, we weren’t just the exiled princess and her handmaiden, living in the shadows of the dead. We were more—alive, vibrant, full of hope and dreams that seemed just out of reach.

But the memory was a reminder of all that had been lost. Aeliana, with her fierce spirit and kind heart, was gone. The crypt, which had once been our world, our sanctuary, was now nothing but ashes and ruins.

And here I was, sitting in a grand hall, surrounded by strangers, watching a woman I barely knew dance with a grace that Aeliana had always dreamed of possessing.

The warmth of Aeliana’s laughter echoed in my ears, a haunting reminder of the life I had lost, the life I was now pretending to live in her place.

As I wiped away a stray tear, trying to compose myself, I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. King Ciaran’s gaze was fixed on me, his eyes narrowed slightly as he watched me with an intensity that sent a shiver down my spine.

For a moment, the music and the dance faded into the background, and it was just the two of us—me, caught in the grip of a memory that was both painful and precious, and him, studying me as if trying to unravel the mystery of who I really was.

He didn’t look away, even when our eyes met. I was embarrassed to be caught in such a vulnerable moment.

But I didn’t look away either.

There was a part of me, a small, stubborn part, that wanted him to see the depth of my grief, the weight of the loss I carried with me every day.

Vivienne’s performance reached its crescendo, the instruments rising to a fever pitch under her command. She spun faster, her gown flaring out around her, the light catching the gold thread and making her look like she was aflame. The music swelled, and then, with a final, deliberate gesture, she brought it all to a close. The instruments descended gently back to their stands, the last notes fading into a haunting echo that left the room in breathless silence.

Without thinking, I stood, the force of my admiration too strong to contain. I clapped, the sound breaking the stillness like a stone shattering the surface of a pond.

The other wives turned their gazes on me, their eyes narrowing with barely concealed contempt. Lady Lyra sneered. “How… charming. It seems seven is quite easily impressed.”

I ignored the biting remark, too caught up in the awe of what I had just witnessed.

King Ciaran, who had been watching Vivienne with polite interest throughout her performance, cleared his throat, drawing the attention back to him.

“Well done, Vivienne,” he said, his voice measured. “I’d like you to perform more often.”

Vivienne’s eyes widened slightly, the shock evident in her gaze before she quickly masked it with a deep bow. “Thank you, Your Majesty,” she replied, her voice trembling with pride. “It would be my honor. I shall perform for you every night, if it pleases you.”

The king nodded, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corners of his lips before his expression returned to its usual stern demeanor. As Vivienne retook her seat, the room buzzed with the silent tension of a victory won and a battle still brewing.

Ciaran’s gaze remained on me for a moment longer before he returned his attention to the rest of the table. I could feel the eyes of the other wives on me, their jealousy and disdain palpable. But I could feel Aeliana with me.

Dance, Elara.

Dance.