5. Chapter 4
Chapter 4
T he cold and wet had turned my fingers to prunes long before I stepped foot in the bath. Now they are so shriveled, I look more like a mummified crone than a princess. But the warm water has soothed my blisters, and I didn’t realize how much feeling I had lost in my toes until I wriggle them on the fluffy rug.
I pick up the heavy black robe hanging on the edge of the tub and swirl it around my shoulders, pulling my arms through the long hanging sleeves and knotting the silver cord at my waist. I could easily crawl into bed now. Fall into a deep sleep and pray this was all a nightmare I would wake from. But the chorus of voices from the bedchamber makes me think the night is not yet over.
I take cautious steps towards the door, unsure of what might be on the other side. I stare at the gilded handle. Surely there can’t be anything worse than a sea monster awaiting me. I shrug off my nerves and open the door, and a cluster of cackling Fae maids immediately falls silent. It is hard not to notice they are all beautiful with their sparkling eyes, striking features and pointed ears peaking through their braided dark hair. They quickly shuffle their feet and form a line, then bow before me.
“Good evening, my lady,” they say in unison.
“Good evening,” I reply, a nervous croak in my voice.
One maid steps forward, her nose slightly sharper, her face slightly prettier if that was possible, and raises her head. “My name is Solena. If you require anything, you need only summon me.”
Though she offers her service, disdain drips from her clipped words, and her eyes scan me as if I don’t belong here. I choose to ignore it.
“What would I require?” I ask instead.
Solena clasps her hands. “Anything. Draw a bath. Prepare you for bed. Brush your hair.”
I frown. “Are these things people usually need help with?”
“Yes. Usually.”
“And it takes five of you to brush my hair?”
Solena’s lips are a straight line. “If that is what you require, my lady. Now, are you ready to be dressed?”
“Dressed?” I query.
The line of maids part revealing a dark, crimson gown laying across the bed, the bodice encrusted with black pearls, with layers and layers of black lace beneath the luxurious silk fabric. I’ve never seen a dress so shamelessly joyless and decadent, and certainly not something worn to bed.
“You want me to wear that? Now?” I ask.
“Yes, my lady,” Solena replies.
Abruptly the maids pounce and pull at my robe with their nimble fingers, but when I shriek, they stumble backwards.
“You know, I’m quite tired of strangers undressing me tonight,” I snap, tightening the cord around my waist. “And I am far too exhausted to put on that ridiculous dress. The hour is late and I wish to go to bed.”
“Queen Lanneth commands we dress you,” Solena says firmly. “So dress you, we shall. Otherwise…”
“Otherwise what?” I taunt. “What worse things could you Fae possibly have in store for me?”
“Otherwise, the queen has instructed some Blades of the Ebon Flight to dress you instead,” Solena replies sharply. “Outside. While the others watch.”
My jaw clenches. “You wouldn’t dare.”
Solena bows. “I dare nothing, my lady. These are the orders of Queen Lanneth.”
An ire swells in the pit of my stomach as I grind my teeth. I yank the cord away from my waist and my robe falls open before I shrug it to the ground. “Fine. But be quick about it.”
The maids set to their task, stuffing me into a dress which seems far too small and tying the corset so tight you would think breathing was of no importance. The bodice feels hard as steel against my chest, cinching my waist tight and pushing my breasts up and out while the satin clings to every curve of my hips and thighs. Huge, puffy sleeves erupt like wings from my shoulders, and layers of heavy lace flare out at the back, leaving a long, snaking train behind me. With the dress on, the maids attack my face and hair next and it is not until the powdering and combing ceases and they at last give me room to breathe that I behold what a monstrosity they have made me.
Is the reflection in the mirror truly me?
Amara Tyne, Jewel of the Tenders, Guardian of the Grove.
I walk through the forest barefoot in flowing green robes sewn by my hand, with my brown hair long and matted down my back. Now I am imprisoned in a death shroud—prepared, painted, and presented for the Mordorin gaze, a spectacle meant to please their wicked prince.
I struggle to find myself beneath the heavy, glittering black eye makeup and luminescent face powder. My lips painted deep red, almost black, to match the gown, and my wild waves of hair tamed and slicked back into a severe bun.
Solena opens a green velvet box on the dresser, and I’m practically blinded by the glinting jeweled combs and headpieces inside. The precious gems hold such great value they could feed a village for an entire season. It is far too much wealth to be held by one person, and even worse, just for their hair. Solena takes a set of ruby combs that could buy a mountain of grain and places them on either side of my coiffed hair.
Now I can barely stand to look at myself.
“Maybe we should have braided her hair,” a maid remarks to another. “The prince favors a braid.”
“You would know,” is the reply, and the women giggle behind their hands.
“Perhaps we should loosen the corset,” whispers another. “Our prince can be impatient.”
The maids laugh again, twittering like little birds. I look at Solena behind me, reflected in the mirror. She does not engage with them, her eyes set solely on fidgeting with the last few details of my hair, but she could not hide that smirk even in pitch black darkness.
They speak so freely about the prince with no regard for my presence. It is clear they want me to hear their bragging. To make me feel embarrassed, helpless and alone.
I will not allow it.
I slam my hands on the dresser and push myself to my feet, my scowl silencing them.
“You are no longer needed,” I say tersely. “Leave. Now.”
The maids bow and hasten from the room. Solena is last, bowing before taking a gilded handle in each hand and smoothly closing the doors behind her. But even when they are gone, I can hear their cackles in the hall.
Is this true? Does the Mordorin prince make bedmates of his servants in this awful place?
I knew I was to be the bride of a fiend and a murderer. Of course, he is a lecherous scoundrel as well.
Perhaps it is just this ridiculous corset, but suddenly I cannot breathe.
Why am I wearing this hideous gown?
Why have they dressed me up in the middle of the night?
I hate it here. I want to go home. Far away from these cruel creatures and the horrid fate they have in store for me. But there would be no home if not for this bargain. Mine is a sacrifice that keeps The Grove safe.
I muster my resolve and push such selfish thoughts from my mind, closing my eyes tight and hoping my prayers ascended the gloom of Baev’kalath.
“Souls. Please give me the courage to survive this so my people might live. Please give me hope.”
“There is no hope here,” a voice replies from the shadows. “Only sorrow. Only pain.”
I spin on my heels, the weight of the dress putting a stumble to my step. I look into the darkened corner of the room, but no matter how hard I try, I can not make out the figure that stands there, its shape loose and wavering like smoke. The voice I recognize. It is the same voice from the throne room that screamed at me to run. Deep and consuming and haunted by great sadness.
“Who are you?” I demand, desperately clutching the dresser, my knuckles white. “Show yourself.”
“I am the curse of this place. The bones that rattle beneath the rock,” the voice replies. “I told you to run. Why did you not run?”
The smoke expands, slithering across the room and blackening the walls.
“I thought I imagined you. That my mind was playing tricks on me.”
“Tricks would be a blessing,” the voice says, its presence spreading through the bedchamber and casting impossible shadows across the floor that seem to reach for me. “ For Baev’kalath is a place of horrors, and the dark prince is a cursed thing.”
Soon, the shadows are at my feet and smoky tendrils slither up my gown, twisting around my waist and rushing over my chest before encircling my throat.
“Why did you come?” the voice scorns, but there is a woeful pleading in its words. “Do you wish for death? Or did you bring it with you?”
“I had no choice.” I gulp as the ice-cold tendrils tighten like a vise.
The voice whispers. “Now neither do I.”
The tendrils tighten again, and my breaths sharpen in my throat as I choke.
“Do not fall in love with the cursed prince. It will be your doom!”
Suddenly, the doors of the bedchamber fly open and the smoke retreats to the darkened corner from where it appeared.
“Amara Tyne,” Arax says, cradling his helm under his arm. “It is time.”
I stagger against the dresser, gasping for breath.
His silver eyebrows furrow with concern. “Girl. Are you alright?”
I pause to collect my thoughts, straightening my back as I banish the lingering shadows of my imagination. I can’t share what I didn’t truly see with Arax; he already thinks I’m mad. Yet the words echo in my mind, leaving a chill creeping down my spine.
“Time for what?” I stammer.
“For your wedding,” he replies, his tone as gruff as ever.
The words reverberate in my mind, simple yet elusive, slipping through my grasp like water. I can’t make sense of them, no matter how hard I try.
“Wedding? Now?” I shake my head vehemently. “No. This is ridiculous. I have only just arrived. You cannot expect me to marry a man I have never met in the middle of the night?”
Arax stands stalwart. “This is the command of your king and queen.”
I plant my feet like roots in the earth. “I said no, Arax.”
He exhales, his dull eyes staring solemnly at me. “You did me a kindness by saving my life on the ship. Please do not make me drag you kicking and screaming to your own wedding.”
“You wouldn’t,” I mutter under my breath.
Arax’s face hardens. “I am a Blade of the Ebon Flight. I have done far worse.”
I may not know this warrior of the Mordorin well, but I do not doubt he will carry out his king’s orders and I would rather meet my fate on my own two feet than over his shoulder.
I lift my dress above my shoes and march past Arax, my mood sour and my thoughts dark as I spit curses under my breath. Never have I regretted my gift of healing until now.
What fleeting madness made me forget that all Mordorin are cruel?
None deserve mercy or pity, for they would offer neither in return. I should have let Arax succumb to the Stormwyrm’s poison or perish on the edge of his kinsmen’s swords. If only I could take it back—I would do so in a heartbeat and be happier for it.
I storm into the torch lit hall and take in the long, empty passages either side of me. It all looks the same, dark and miserable, with an endless chorus of rain falling upon rock. Arax closes the bedchamber doors and turns to me, then nods his head to the left.
“Follow me. This way.”
He walks ahead, and I reluctantly follow, conveying my anger in every one of my thundering steps. My anger masks the fear twisting in my belly like a barrel of slippery eels. I knew this moment would come. The conditions of the bargain between The Mordorin and The Tenders were very clear. A union forged in marriage between our people. I’m not sure how I imagined it would happen, but not once did I predict a midnight wedding dressed in a blood red gown as lightning tore apart the black sky above.
I can hear my heart pounding in my ears as Arax guides me deeper into the castle, away from the vast balconies and terraces that only those with wings can reach. We come to an abrupt stop in a massive, empty antechamber bathed in dim candlelight, the flickering flames casting dancing shadows along the intricately carved stone walls.
I recognize the banners and the two giant doors before us and remember the breathtaking stained glass window that lies behind them. My stomach twists at the thought of what lies beyond those doors—my wedding. The very idea sends a fresh wave of anxiety coursing through me.
Arax looks at me over his shoulder. “Are you ready?”
I tighten my fists at my sides. “Does it matter?”
Arax turns his face forward and pulls on his helm. His armor scrapes against the door handles when he grasps them, and when the doors open, the weight of my dread crashes down upon me like a landslide.
A sharp silence cuts through the thrum of voices as the room of hundreds takes me in with their gaze. The last time I was here, only the king and queen stood before me. Now, strangers gawk without the decency to hide their sneers—some in armor, some in crisp linens, and others in gowns as dark and suffocating as mine. Fae are so different from The Tenders: pale and splendid, more beautiful than any creature has a right to be. But there is not an ounce of warmth or joy among them.
They are just empty, lovely shells.
The crowd parts, creating a narrow aisle that stretches ominously between where I stand and the thrones at the opposite end of the room. The king and queen sit regally, their expressions unreadable, while before them stands a figure cloaked in black.
Even from this distance, his towering height and broad shoulders command attention, the casual clasp of his hands hinting at a confidence that borders on arrogance. As I take a step forward, the moonlight streaming through the window slices across his face, but the shadows cling to him like a veil, concealing his features from my view. A chill dances down my spine, an unsettling premonition creeping in—the knowledge that whatever lies behind those shadows will change me forever.
Arax steps aside, and without him to shield me, I am laid bare for the Mordorin court to ogle, and they do. I can barely breath beneath the weight of their stares and whispers slither through the heavy silence. It all feels like hands around my throat, starving me for air and the ground turns unsteady beneath me.
“Human weakling,” someone mutters from the assembly. “She is far too fragile to be a Mordorin bride. Look. She can barely stand. She is not worthy.”
I swallow hard as the words stab like daggers into my back. Here I stand, outnumbered by the remnants of a dwindled house, and they dare to call me weak and fragile? Unworthy?
Old gods be damned. I refuse to let anyone—man, monster, or faerie—cast judgment upon me.
I take a deep breath, pull back my shoulders, and fix my gaze down this forsaken aisle, focusing on the man in black who awaits me at the other end.
With each renewed step, my shoes clap rhythmically against the stone, echoing the tension that crackles in the air. The wicked prince of Baev’kalath grows closer. I hate him, I truly do, yet a part of me is curious about what he hides in the shadows. Surely, he must be beautiful—after all, all Fae are. But then I remember the malice that seeps from him, the ugliness that overshadows any beauty he might possess.
The Fae I witnessed him murder lingers in my mind, a reminder of the monster he truly is.
Before I know it, I have reached the end of the aisle and find myself under the gaze of King Kaelus and Queen Lanneth. The queen smiles, and the memory of her undressing me fills me with disgust, a wave of nausea rising in my stomach.
The prince stands silent beside me, towering above, my head barely reaching his shoulder. His thick, muscled arms strain against the seams of his black coat. Shadows conceal his face as he stares straight ahead, but between my stolen glances, I catch glimpses of his smooth, razor-sharp jawline framed by loose black waves that curtain his eyes. My gaze follows the hard contours of his rugged features, and when I finally find his mouth—a perfectly sculpted, sensuous bow—I momentarily forget where I am.
Queen Lanneth stands. “Forgive the suddenness of all this,” she says. “But this union is most urgent. For both our people.”
I am too preoccupied to speak, my eyes constantly darting back and forth at my silent groom who seems to refuse to acknowledge me.
An elder Fae with slicked-back silver hair and a wiry gray beard approaches, his ebony robes adorned with a large solitary eye stitched in shimmering silver thread. As the queen takes her seat upon the throne, the elder addresses the prince and me, his empty white eyes reflecting the queen’s unsettling gaze. I fight the urge to stare at those disconcerting eyes, but whenever I look away, that familiar ripple in the air pulls me back to him—just as it had enveloped the queen when we first met.
I don’t know what it is or what causes it to happen, but I know it’s something unnatural, something I’ve never seen before now. Frustrated, I shift my gaze to the prince, who stands like a statue, his indifference only fueling my anger. Why do I care if he acknowledges me?
The elder speaks. “Behold House Mordorin. Disciples of the Ebon Blade. High Fae of the Storm and the Sea. On this night, beneath the Pale Eye, our favored prince takes a bride.”
The court cheer and the armored warriors among them pound their fists once against their chests in unison.
“This human, Amara Tyne, Jewel of the Tenders, stands before us beneath the Pale Eye and swears to all who witness that she shall serve her Fae masters and graciously submit to her Fae husband, now and forever.”
My head flings back and the words spill from my mouth before I can catch them. “I do not!”
The court gasps, and I can see the flash of rage in Queen Lanneth’s eyes. The elder’s lip twitches, and his deathly white gaze reflects my anxious self back at me. I hadn’t meant to speak; I had resigned myself to my fate. Everything I do is for The Grove. A pang strikes my chest, realizing in that moment, my heart had screamed its silent truth. The elder turns to King Kaelus, who glares and releases a guttural growl from his throne, leaning onto his knee.
“Your people swore an oath,” he mutters angrily, loud enough for only me to hear, as if to spare himself embarrassment. “You in exchange for our protection from The Legion. You are in Baev’kalath now, girl, and Jewel or not, I will throw you into the sea to drown if you dare defy me. But not before I withdraw all my warriors from The Grove and let your precious forest burn. You are ours now. Do you understand?”
The king’s words sting, his pleasant demeanor evaporated, and once again I’m reminded of how quickly The Mordorin become callous. My eyes well, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s struck a chord.
“Yes. I understand.”
He grits his teeth and leans back in his throne. “Proceed, Archdruid Theros.”
The Archdruid shifts his gaze to the groom, and it dawns on me that these are the only words he intends to direct toward me. My consent holds no value in this ceremony; I am merely a pawn in a game played by those with far greater power.
“Favored Prince of the Mordorin. Son of Kaelus. Heir to the Sundered Kingdoms. Commander of the Ebon Flight. Beneath the Pale Eye, will you take this human as your bride, to use her as you will, to breed her so that the blood of the High Fae may prosper, until such time as she is spent.”
I can hardly fathom the words I'm hearing. I am not a person in this arrangement. I am reduced to a vessel meant to please the prince and bear his heirs until I draw my last breath. Stealing another glance at the silent man beside me, I find myself curious about his reaction to our wedding vows, wondering if he feels even a fraction of the weight of this twisted union.
That is when he speaks for the first time.
“I do,” he replies, in a tone that rumbles deep as the black sea.
“Give me your hands,” the Archdruid demands as he draws a jeweled dagger from his sleeve.
The groom’s hands are adorned with intricate rune tattoos that snake around his sinewy forearm as he rolls up his sleeve, offering his hand, palm up. The Archdruid’s sneer makes it clear that he expects me to do the same. I swallow hard, steeling myself as I pull back the lace cuffs of my gown and hold out my hand. In one swift motion, he slashes our palms, the cut deep enough to send blood streaming freely onto the floor. I bite down on my lip, fighting the urge to cry out.
I would rather die than show fear or weakness in front of this assembly—or in front of him.
I glance up at the Archdruid, then gasp when I see an inverted crescent burnt into his forehead, but I am sure it was not there before. My heart thumps and I close my eyes tightly before looking once more. This time, the mark is gone. I ignore the figment of my imagination.
“By the joining of blood, she is yours,” The Archdruid declares, his voice reverberating through the chamber like an incantation. The words hang heavy in the air, a promise woven into the fabric of the ceremony. Each syllable feels like a spell, binding me to a fate I never chose. I can feel the weight of the eyes upon us, the spectators leaning forward in anticipation, as if they are witnesses to a great and terrible moment in history. The mingling of our blood signifies not just an alliance, but an irrevocable claim over my very being. I shudder, realizing that this simple act transforms me from an unwilling participant into a possession.
Suddenly, the statue beside me comes to life, seizing my hand in a rough grip and forcing our palms together. A sharp wince escapes me as my wound collides with his, and our blood merges, seeping between our laced fingers like two rivers converging, pooling at our feet.
Finally, he turns his gaze to me.
Moonlight streams through the window, casting a rich glow upon his skin, while his ebony waves of hair fall back, revealing piercing gray eyes that seem to hold the very essence of the storm. They radiate light, a vivid hue that transcends mere color, glowing with an intensity as bright as the moon on a starless night. Yet, there’s a haunting darkness beneath the surface—bottomless, fathomless, eternal. The longer I hold his gaze, the more I feel myself sinking, falling helplessly into the abyss of his eyes. Fear grips me, yet my instinct isn’t to flee. It’s to remain here, ensnared by his gaze, waiting for the darkness to consume me.
He leans closer, tall and broad and diabolically muscled, a looming presence that casts a shadow over me, pinning me to the ground. I can feel his breath against my neck, a tangible weight that deepens my sense of helplessness..
“She is mine,” he declares, the words resonating with a finality that sends shivers down my spine.