10. Chapter 9
Chapter 9
B aev'kalath may be cold and unwelcoming, but this bed is anything but. The covers hold me in a snug embrace, and the warmth enveloping my skin is so comforting I never want to wake. I roll over, still wrapped in a blissful haze, only to realize my cheek isn’t resting on the pillow, but against something firm.
My brow furrows, though my eyes remain closed, and I lazily reach out, my hand exploring the smooth lines beside me—the ridges of a toned abdomen, the hard plane of a chest, the sharp angle of a jaw. My eyes snap open, and there he is—Daed, watching me with a crooked grin tugging at his lips.
“Good morning, wife. Do you know how loudly your stomach is growling? Very unladylike.”
I recoil slower than I would have liked. “What are you doing here?”
Daed tips his chin towards the balcony. “It’s dawn. Your maids will arrive soon, and how will they believe we spent the night together if they do not find us in bed?”
I glance over my shoulder and although my body feels the dawn, I see the sky is dark and dreary as always. I turn back to Daed and narrow my eyes on him.
“You came through the secret door?”
He nods, stretching his arm and putting his hand behind his head on the pillow.
I glimpse his bare chest. “Why don’t you have a shirt on?”
“I never sleep with a shirt on,” he replies. “And being half naked is more convincing.” He inspects my nightgown. “Maybe you should take your clothes off, too.”
A breath hitches in my throat, but he does not remain straight faced for long, throwing back his head and laughing. I clutch the bed covers and pull them up to my neck.
“To make this truly believable, maybe I should look unsatisfied and disappointed?” I say.
My sharp words cut through Daed’s laugh like a blade, and he falls silent, but before I can enjoy watching the color drain from his face, the doors fly open. Solena enters first, followed by the other maids, and when they raise their heads to greet me, I almost hear the collective thud of their jaws hitting the floor.
“Your Highnesses,” Solena gasps, dropping her chin. “I am sorry to interrupt. I did not think…”
“Think what?” Daed snaps, bolting upright and narrowing his eyes on Solena. “That you would find a husband and wife in the same bed? We are fortunate your only duty is washing soiled sheets and emptying chamber pots, if that is the caliber of your thinking.”
Solena shrinks, her chin tucking in tighter to her chest, and I can’t help but stifle a grin. Daed throws away the bed covers and lunges to his feet, taking a long, black robe with silver embroidery from the end of the bed and swinging it around him, but not before I catch a glance of his muscular legs and sculpted hips. He strides towards the maids and lurches over them.
“Take good care of your princess,” he instructs. “Be gentler with her than I was.”
Daed exits the room with a smug swagger, but not before flicking his hand to release an arrow of smoke. The dark wisps coil on the bed beside me, swirling for a heartbeat before dissolving, leaving behind a silver tray piled high with shiny red apples. My eyes widen, and my stomach clenches in response, already imagining their sweet, crisp bite.
The moment the doors shut, a silence falls over the room. It’s the first time I’ve seen the maids at a loss for words, unable even to exchange their usual whispers. Whether or not it’s all a ruse, I decide to play along. If it spares me from their teasing and rude remarks, then it’s a game worth playing.
I grab an apple from the tray, sinking my teeth into its crisp flesh with a satisfying crunch. Chewing, I glance at Solena and, with my mouth still full, say, “I’m ready for my bath.”
She blinks away her thoughts, which I hope are unpleasant. “Yes, Your Highness. Right away.”
The maids hurry to their tasks, drawing my bath and sprinkling herbs and flower petals over the water. They guide me, and I step in without hesitation, unashamed as I stand bare before them. Daed’s reprimand has sparked a surge of confidence, one I’m eager to claim. I’m so satisfied with their discomfort, I push aside the creeping dizziness, the way my limbs feel weaker than the day before. Even as they lift me from the tub and seat me before the dressing table, I pretend not to notice the pallor of my skin, or how my hair and eyes have lost their usual luster since arriving in Baev’kalath.
They comb my hair, weaving it into a long braid that cascades down my back. As they layer face powder and rouge on my skin, I can’t shake the feeling that they, too, are aware of my fading color. Next, they lead me to the wardrobe, and today, in a surprising turn of mood, I permit them to lace me into a corset, and I indulge in two more apples while they fuss with the strings. As they deliberate over which dress to choose, I take joy in solving their dilemma myself.
“Only green,” I say firmly. “I will only wear green dresses from now on.”
The maids nod, brushing past anything black or crimson until they pull out a stunning gown of emerald green. Its simplicity, free of lace and beading, feels just right for the day. As they slide it over me, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and am taken aback by how comfortable this all begins to feel.
When their tasks are complete, Solena claps her hands to dismiss them, leaving her and I alone in the room, but for the first time the idea does not fill me with dread.
She gestures to the dressing table. “Would you mind sitting, Your Highness, so I can redress your wound?”
I catch a glimpse of my hand, momentarily distracted by a shimmer of happiness, only to realize the blood seeping through the bandage hasn’t stopped. With a nod, I wander to the dressing table and take a seat. Solena fetches a bowl of warm water and fresh bandages, then pulls up a stool to sit beside me. As she unwinds the bandage, each layer brings a fresh wave of pain, and I wince. Solena notices, her gaze curious, but when the last layer falls away, I see her throat bob with a swallow of concern.
“What is it?” I ask, peering down at the wound myself.
The cut across my palm remains open, as raw and bloody as if it had just been inflicted.
Solena shakes her head in disbelief. “I don’t understand. Even a human should heal faster than this.” She rises. “I’ll brew more limmeth tea.”
I quickly shake my head, and she hesitates, slowly resuming her seat. “That didn’t help the first time,” I say, my voice firm. “I’d rather not have to swallow it again.”
Solena says as she scrutinizes the wound. “What could cause this?”
I don’t tell her that I think Baev’kalath is poisoning me. I can’t let anyone know that this nightmare world, with its lack of sun and soil where nothing can thrive, is the reason I can’t heal. I’ve always been one with life and the power of nature, and this place disrupts my very essence. If the Mordorin discover I am vulnerable, they’ll see me as weak enough to control.
“I have no idea,” I reply. “Please, dress the wound and you may go.”
Solena studies me for a moment, and I can’t shake the feeling that she sees right through me. But she says nothing, focusing instead on cleaning the deep cut, navigating the raw flesh and washing away the blood. Be it a little gentler than the first time. Once she binds it firmly, she tidies up and stands before me with her head bowed.
“Will that be all?” she asks.
“Yes. I will have no need for you until the evening.”
Solena nods, then leaves the room in silence, and though I reveled in the maid’s displeasure, the satisfying feeling is fleeting. I realize it will take me longer to be as comfortable being unkind as they are. I wander to my vine and it is a small blessing that no leaves have fallen today, though her coloring is just as somber as mine.
I trail a finger down her smooth skin. “Will you not speak to me, friend?”
She doesn’t reply, and her silence sends a pang of ache through my chest. Though I’ve only been here a few days, the absence of the earth and the voices of the Souls makes me feel utterly isolated. Their whispers are usually a constant presence, a comforting hum in the back of my mind. My chest tightens. My spirit, my health, and now my connection to what I treasure the most.
Baev’kalath continues to take from me .
Now that I’m dressed, my stomach so overly full of apples that my corset presses uncomfortably against me, I find myself at a loss for how to spend the rest of the day. The thought of climbing imaginary stairs to rooms that don’t exist and encountering floating hands again doesn’t appeal to me. I’m still unsure if that was real or just another trick played by this meddling fortress. But if I linger here too long, will I invite the attention of the haunting apparition whose cryptic whispers seem laced with ill intent?
When there’s a knock at the doors and Arax enters, I’m pleased for the distraction.
“Your Highness. The king and queen wish to inform you that after forgiving your behavior last night, you are now permitted to eat,” he decrees.
My eyes subtly glance at the silver tray on the bed, but thankfully I have eaten the evidence.
“Will the king and queen be there?” I ask with a scowl.
Arax shakes his head. “The king and queen are late to rise. But food has been prepared for you in the dining hall.”
The offer is suddenly enticing. This room and its four walls are suffocating, and if I do not have to endure the king and queen, I will gladly eat a second breakfast.
“Very well,” I say, doing my best to focus through the sickness that clings to me like a heavy fog.
Arax bows before turning on his heels and guiding me through the hushed halls toward the dining room. As we pass by the tall arches, I catch a glimpse of the sky, perpetually gray, with sheets of rain cascading down, drumming against the fortress in a steady rhythm.
As I walk behind him, my gaze roams over Arax's armor—the sturdy pauldrons resting on his shoulders, the plated vambraces encasing his forearms, and the chain mail that shields his hands. His long, flowing cloak with silver runes etched along its edges is the same gray of the clouds that veil the sunlight. When he turns a corner and the wind catches the fabric, I catch a glimpse of the webbed harnesses across his back and the rune tattoos that mark where his wings would burst forth.
Again, I am reminded that this was not the armor he wore when I first met him.
“The Mordorin armor,” I start, my thoughts finding a voice. “Are there different kinds?”
“Yes,” he replies in a low grumble.
“What kind is yours?” I ask, even though his tone is not inviting of more questions.
“This is the armor of a Blade. Worn by the brothers and sisters of the Ebon Flight.”
I tilt my head to the side. “Yes. I see. But it is not what you wore on the ship. What armor was that?”
He comes to such a sudden stop I almost crash into the back of him. “Why do you want to know?”
I take a deep breath. “Because I am bored beyond belief and with each day that passes, I fear I am losing little pieces of my mind with it. If I don’t have a normal conversation soon, I’ll scream.”
I see the hint of a grin in the corner of Arax’s mouth, but it is a promise he does not fulfill.
“Very well. The armor I wore on the ship is a Reaper’s armor. They are the elite of the Ebon Flight, and serve as lieutenants in battle.”
I think over his words. “And why do you no longer wear that armor? It sounds far more important.”
Arax looks straight ahead, and I watch his shoulders rise and fall with a heavy breath. “It is.”
“So why do you not wear it?”
Arax is silent for what feels like an age, and I feel myself falling in line with his steady strike until at last he speaks. “Because I allowed you to save me.”
My heart thumps hard in my chest, and I swallow a lump in my throat. “You did not allow me to do anything. You were dying. What I did was my decision and mine alone.”
“That’s not how the king sees it,” Arax replies, a hint of bitterness in his voice. “To him, I would have died a warrior’s death. Instead, I escaped my fate like a coward. So now, I’m deemed unworthy of serving my House as a Reaper. I serve only as a Blade.” He glances back at me, his expression hardening. “And a bodyguard to the one I allowed to dishonor me.”
My chest tightens. “I was trying to save you.”
“It makes no difference,” he replies as we approach the doors of the dining hall. He grips the handle and pulls a door open for me. “I will wait here.”
I drop my chin, fidgeting with my fingers to avoid his gaze. In his own way, Arax has shown me moments of unexpected decency in Baev’kalath, reminding me of Keeper Tovar with his steady presence. It’s a stark contrast to the heartlessness I faced on the ship and the contempt of every other member of his House I’ve encountered. If it weren’t for this, I might find some satisfaction in his downfall, as I did with Solena and the maids. But knowing what I do about the Mordorin and the reverence they hold for their warriors, this must be the ultimate punishment—being deemed a lesser warrior in their eyes.
“Arax. I…”
He shakes his head with a firmness that leaves no room for argument, his gaze fixed straight ahead. “There’s nothing more to discuss. Now, please—just eat.”
I glance up at him from beneath my brow, but he stands as still as a statue. Biting my lip, I walk past him, feeling the coldness radiating from him as it pushes me away. I wander slowly into the dining room, which feels smaller in the daylight, stripped of the flickering candles and shadowy corners that once held sinister royals glaring from the far end of the table.
The breakfast feast sprawled out before me is a vibrant array of fruits, assorted cheeses, and freshly baked bread—such a stark contrast to the meager handful of berries and nuts I’m used to. I start cautiously, picking at the tiny morsels. After all, I’ve practically eaten an entire apple tree. But with each delicious bite, my appetite surges. With no one watching, I soon find myself shoving fist-sized portions into my mouth. I’m unsure of how much time passes, but only when my belly strains against the tightness of my corset do I finally pull back, and as I do, a burp erupts from me like thunder, startling me into silence.
A cough floats in from the doorway, and I spin around to see Arax watching me curiously.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” I ask.
His lips are a straight line. “Nothing, Princess. Have you finished, or are you just coming up for air?”
“I’m finished… for now.” I rub my swelling belly through my corset. “But I think a walk is in order.”
Arax bows. “Very well. The rain has eased. We may be able to venture outside.”
The thought sends a thrill through me. No rain. Could it be possible that the sun might peek through today? The warmth on my skin could be just what I need to start feeling like myself again. Not to mention being outside might offer some safety. After all, all my nightmares have come to life within these stone walls.
“Yes. Let us go,” I say eagerly.
He turns and leads me down the hall, past the stoic line of guards, ducking in and out of the shadows as we walk by the arches that look out across the vast balconies to the Untold Sea. He’s right. I can not hear the rain. Just the crash of the waves as they hit the rocks and the hollow whistle of the wind rolling over the endless ocean. But as we approach the largest balcony that overlooks the courtyard, I hear something else. Steel striking steel and voices raised in fury.
“What is that?” I ask nervously, recalling the last time I heard something from the courtyard was when I watched a Fae lose his head.
But Arax’s lack of concern is almost comforting. “The Flight is taking advantage of the weather and sparring.”
His response has me even more curious.
“May I watch?”
He nods. “But remain silent.”
I walk closely beside him as the clang of steel against steel fills the air, the noise so loud it stings my ears. When we reach the railing at the edge of the balcony, I rest my hands on the weathered stone, still damp even though the rain has finally stopped. I doubt anything is ever truly dry in this place.
Peering over the edge, I’m awestruck by the sight of hundreds of Mordorin warriors below. Few are clad in full armor; most wear only leather trousers and tunics, some men standing bare-chested, their rune-inscribed skin glistening in the rare rays of sunlight that break through the clouds. My gaze drifts to the women among them, their hair tightly braided against their scalps, their muscular bodies moving with a strength and agility that stirs a quiet envy within me.
The Blades practice in formations, wielding swords, polearms or even their strapped fists, their shouts mingling with the rhythmic thud of boots on stone. When I look up, some of the Mordorin soar through the air, their movements fluid as they spar, while others hone their skills in void walking, disappearing and reappearing in an instant. Blood splatters across the courtyard as they grunt and roar, showing no mercy to one another, and it would be easy to confuse this so-called sparring with a vicious battle, the atmosphere so thick with the thrill of combat.
As I watch, I do not doubt for one second they are masters in the art of warfare, and deserve their reputation as the fiercest warriors in all the Sundered Kingdoms. Among the throng, I spot four Mordorin wearing the shrouded helm I now recognize as belonging to a Reaper. They stand watchful and resolute at the edge of the sparring ring, their presence commanding respect. Then, suddenly, a Blade makes what must be a grave mistake. In an instant, a Reaper void walks across the courtyard, reappearing behind the Blade before delivering a brutal beating that leaves him crumpled in a bloody heap. At the same time, his brethren carry on as if nothing happened.
My throat tightens, but Arax’s shiftless expression confirms what I assume. This is common.
“Is that part of a Reaper’s duty?” I ask with a hint of disdain in my voice. “Beating your own men?”
“Better by us than the enemy. Here they will learn, so that on the battlefield they do not die.”
I turn to look at him, but his face stares straight ahead. “And how many have you beaten?”
“Not nearly enough,” he grumbles, his voice rough like gravel. “If I’d prepared them better, perhaps fewer would have fallen in the Betrayer’s Battle.”
Who are these creatures that see pain and suffering as a rite of passage? Whose only joy comes from battle and violence and cruelty? Humans could never have defeated the Mordorin in the Betrayers’ Battle. We do not know the depths of their depravity.
Arax’s expression remains stone cold, but I sense the torment simmering beneath the surface.
“It sounds like a heavy burden to be a Reaper,” I say, and my words finally coax the faintest flicker of emotion from him.
“It is a great honor,” he replies defiantly, his jaw clenched. “But one that comes with great sacrifice. A sacrifice of the flesh. A sacrifice of the spirit. A sacrifice of the heart. You may never take a mate, and your line ends with you. You swear an oath to serve and to kill until your last breath.”
“You have no children?” I ask. “No wife?”
He sneers, his expression hardening into a fierce scowl, but I once again notice the red ribbon he twists around his finger. “I’m done with your endless questions,” he snaps. “I’ll speak of it no more.”
Suddenly, I recognize something familiar in Arax—sacrifice.
It’s a word both of us know intimately, though it steals far more from us than anyone could ever understand. When Keeper Tovar told me I would leave The Grove to marry the prince, I didn’t utter a word of protest. It was my duty. But that doesn’t mean my heart didn’t shatter that day, or that I didn’t, for once, wish I wasn’t the Jewel of the Tenders.
I imagine for a Mordorin, a warrior born from a line of fierceness and strength, it must be unbearable to know his legacy ends with him. The unwavering loyalty to your people, weighed down by the quiet ache of your own desires, is a burden no one sees. But I see that same heaviness resting on Arax’s shoulders now.
A raucous from the courtyard pulls my attention, a chant rising from the crowd— Rook. Rook. Rook .
I glance over the railing, and in the heart of the chaos, there he is. The wicked crown prince of the Mordorin Fae. His leather trousers cling to his powerful legs, and a black harness crisscrosses his chest, each strap taut against the sweat-slicked ridges of his muscles. Runes pulse across every inch of his skin, shifting with each graceful, predatory step he takes toward his opponent.
Daed sweeps back his damp hair, bending low with a wicked grin, storm clouds brewing within his eyes, and a slow, simmering heat coils deep in my belly, spreading down my thighs. I force myself to focus, painfully aware of Arax standing just feet away. Thank the Souls he can’t sense the unraveling inside me.
Rook. Rook. Rook . The Mordorin continue to chant.
“What does that mean?” I ask Arax, my voice escaping as a breathless gasp.
“Smoke,” Arax replies, his voice hushed, as though the word itself carries weight. “He says on the battlefield, royal titles hold no meaning. Out there, we are all the same. So when he fights, we call him Rook .”