Chapter 47
Elara
Afew weeks passed, marked by the slow but steady crystallizing of the trees.
After the wedding reception, Felix and Silas—healed by Elara—had dragged Lord Stormrider to the dungeon, imprisoning him in the very cell he’d furnished for Elara.
As much as Caelan had wanted his father dead, Elara was grateful that he remained alive, awaiting his trial.
Thanks to the servants and soldiers on their side, along with Sera’s illusion magic, none of the wedding guests knew what had transpired that night. As far as the court was concerned, Elara and Caelan spent a blissful evening dancing the night away, celebrating their love.
The following morning, the city had buzzed with the shocking news: Lord Stormrider had been arrested for high treason.
The official decree highlighted Elara’s discovery of an illegal stockpile of artifices—weapons intended for a coup.
In one week, she would preside over his trial in full regalia, beneath the vaulted ceilings of the great hall, showing the whole of Serendith who she would be as their new queen.
Her palms started sweating at the thought of planning funerals soon too.
She had already announced that the king and queen had succumbed to their new mysterious illness, paving the way for today’s celebration.
She squared her shoulders, breathing through the weight in her chest. There will be time for grief. Later, she reminded herself.
Lysandra hopped up onto the king’s—Elara’s—desk, almost knocking over a bottle of indigo ink.
“Hey!” Elara scolded the feline, then shook her head, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. She reached out to stroke her familiar’s silky fur. “We’ve got a big day ahead of us, don’t we?”
Lysandra looked up at her, green eyes shimmering. I found this. She opened her mouth, and out plopped a glowing moonstone the size of a robin’s egg. It’s from her. Wear it today. Make your ancestors proud.
Elara palmed the gift from the shrouded lady, the gem warm against her skin. “Thank you,” she whispered.
The throne room doors groaned open, revealing the silent crowd, hundreds strong.
As Elara stepped through the threshold, her gown billowed around her, whispering against the marble floor.
Her skirts were a cascade of tulle and silk feathers, each of them white as the snow that fell outside the giant arched windows.
Raven hair cascaded down her back in soft curls.
It hung simply, with no adornments save for the thin golden circlet with a singular moonstone—her ancestor’s gift—that hovered just above her brow.
Her eyes found Caelan, who was waiting with the eldest magi atop the dais, in front of two thrones.
His charming smile was warm and genuine, the skin around his eyes crinkling.
He’d dressed for the occasion in his family colors—deep cobalt blue and sea gray—but despite the quality of the fabric, the plain-cut attire symbolized deference to Elara.
While they would both be crowned sovereigns this day, the court knew Elara Evensong was the true ruler of Serendith.
After her long promenade, she reached for Caelan, grasping his hand as he guided her up onto the dais.
“You’re shaking,” he whispered, lacing his fingers through hers.
“Only because I know what these crowns cost us,” Elara replied.
“I’m here. You can do this.” Caelan squeezed her hand.
They stood side by side, facing the magi.
He lifted a simple silver crown for Caelan and began the rite.
Caelan kneeled. The weight of the crown flattened his wild golden curls, taming them.
Elara knew the weight was heavier for him, the sacrifice he was making for her—to rule by her side when he wanted nothing more than to flee the stifling palace for the open sea.
He caught her eye, and she was thankful that there was no resentment in his gaze, only fierce devotion, and her heart swelled.
Then it was her turn. The magi lifted a bejeweled golden crown far more ornate than Caelan’s and turned to her, waiting. Instead of kneeling, she turned and settled into her father’s throne, smoothing her skirts on her lap with steady hands.
“Your Majesty,” the magi whispered, confused. “It is customary—”
“I am not a customary queen,” she said, voice like steel cloaked in silk.
A ripple of gasps moved through the chamber.
Caelan stood taller before her, saying nothing, but pride burned in his eyes like firelight.
To his credit, the magi recovered quickly, pivoting and hurrying over to the side of her throne, placing the heavy crown on Elara’s head. The crown did not eclipse her circlet, but embraced it, its gilded arcs hovering like guardians above the stone at her brow.
Elara remembered the first time she’d sat here—a toddler bouncing on her father’s knee while her mother cradled a giggling Thalia in her arms beside them.
A flower crown she’d crafted from weeds and daisies with fingers sticky from honey buns had rested on her tangled hair.
I wish you were all here to see this. A bittersweet ache and a knot of anxiety twisted in her gut as a mix of emotions warred within her.
“All hail Elara Druidborne Evensong, queen of Serendith!” the magi declared.
At the title she’d requested of the magi, the audience broke their silence, murmurs rippling out amongst the gathered nobles and merchants.
“Druidborne? Impossible.”
“I’ve heard rumors about the Evensongs—”
“They haven’t had an essence affinity in ages—now she’s claiming to be descended from druids?”
In the front row, Sera smirked, her arms folded across her chest. Elara had shared what had happened when she’d been in the Veil—how she had met a druid ancestor who’d resurrected her.
The soft roar of the crowd almost engulfed the second announcement. “All hail Caelan Stormrider, king of Serendith!”
Caelan sat beside her. Elara reached over and placed her hand atop his, resting on the arm of the second throne. She then grasped his hand and held both their hands aloft in a sign of unity. Caelan’s eyes widened in amusement. After a moment, he threw his head back in delighted laughter.
“I love you,” he said.
She squeezed his hand. “Then rule with me. And never let me forget who I am.”
The crowd erupted into applause, but Elara barely heard it. Her gaze drifted to the towering stained glass windows, their kaleidoscope of color blinding in the morning light. Beneath them, surrounded by stone and shadow, Lord Stormrider waited.
Her hand tightened around Caelan’s. She didn’t deserve his joy. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
Let them celebrate. Let the court believe this day marked a fresh start.
But before dawn, she would set aside her crown and descend into the darkness. Not as a ruler. Not as a sovereign.
But as a sister.
And she would do what only one reborn under the Cygnet Moon could do.