18. Chapter 17
Chapter 17
W hen I wake, Daed is gone.
The embers in the fireplace barely flicker, their warmth fading as quickly as the remnants of what could have been. The memory of him still clings to my skin, a cruel reminder of the closeness we shared, and yet I’m left to return to my room alone. Again. When I arrive, Solena is waiting outside, her face plagued with concern.
“Your Highness,” she gasps, dipping her head. “I was worried. I heard what happened. Are you alright?”
“No,” I reply, in no mood for politeness, even if today I have woken feeling the best I have for some time.
No weakness. No headaches. No nightmares.
I open the door with trepidation, unsure what it is I will find on the otherwise. Strangely, I’m not the least bit surprised to see the room has been completely scrubbed clean of the previous nights traumas.
Broken furniture replaced. Blood scrubbed clean. And thankfully—not a single decapitated head in sight.
“You look a mess,” Solena says, and I respond with a frown.
“In the nicest way,” she blurts, “Let me draw you a bath.”
With my hair matted from the rain and blood under my fingernails, I wouldn’t mind a soak. Solena runs a bath, helping me undress, Daed’s shirt on my back not going unnoticed. Once I’m done, Solena wraps me in a robe, walking beside me toward the wardrobe when my chamber doors fly open.
Frane storms in, her leather cloak snapping behind her. Before she takes another step, Arax is there, his hand clamping down on her wrist.
“Release me, Blade,” she hisses, venom dripping from each word.
Arax's grip tightens, his voice a low growl. “Who are you to barge into the princess’s chambers unannounced?”
Frane’s jaw tightens as they stare each other down, eyes locked in a silent war of rage and bitterness.
“Release me or die, coward.”
Arax steps closer, canines lengthening, his fury barely contained.
“Enough!” My voice cuts through the tension, unwilling to let another moment of violence stain these walls. “What is it, Frane?”
Arax lets go reluctantly, his gaze never leaving her as she turns to me, barely managing to hide her scorn.
“A conclave of the houses has been called. Your presence is required by the king and queen.”
The words send a chill through me, nerves prickling the back of my neck. “Where is the prince?”
“He is already present,” she replies coldly. “You must come now.”
“The princess must dress first,” Solena interjects swiftly, rescuing me from responding while anxiety coils tighter in my stomach.
Frane’s lips curl in distaste, but she bows her head. “Very well. Bring her to the throne room when she is ready.” She glares at Arax before spinning on her heel, her cloak whipping the air as she marches out.
Arax’s eyes linger on the door long after she’s gone, the tension still crackling in the air. He gives me a nod, his voice low and steady. “I’ll be outside,” he says, pulling the door gently closed behind him.
Solena wastes no time dressing me for the meeting. I was hoping for something simple today, but the gravity of the situation demands more. She suggests a black gown, one that’s as suffocatingly opulent as the tension in the room. Layers of lace and beading, cinched so tightly that I can hardly breathe.
She guides me to the dressing table, where she meticulously slicks my hair back, pulling it tight against my scalp. With deft hands, she coils it into a braided bun at my nape, each sharp twist making me wince. Solena slathers on powder, dusting my face with a fine layer, then applies a dark shadow to my eyes, blending it in the way I've come to expect. When she’s done, I may appear poised and regal, ready to face the houses, but inside, I am anything but prepared.
Solena opens the door, revealing Arax waiting for me, his head bowed and a fist pressed against his chest.
“Your Highness. Are you ready?”
The question echoes in my mind, and I silently scream. No, I am not.
But what I want holds no weight here. If I deny them, they'll drag me along anyway, and I refuse to give them that satisfaction. So I lift my chin, square my shoulders, and begin to walk. Leaving Solena behind, Arax and I stride forward, taking long, steady steps toward the throne room.
What awaits me there? Am I expected to confront Modok? Will they ask me what happened? Will I be forced to relive that moment, repeat the vile things he whispered in my ear, his hot breath burned into the memory of my skin?
Or is this where I learn my fate— where I am sent away .
Daed doesn’t know that I heard his wish to be rid of me, even as he comforted me in the dark of his room, making me believe, if only for a moment, that he truly cared. Those are not words spoken about someone you cherish.
Regardless, I feel as lost and hopeless as the day I stepped foot on the ship destined for Baev’kalath. None of this is within the realms of my control. No matter how much I tell myself that I am the master of my fate, deep down, I know the truth. I am a pawn. And these Fae—these monsters—know it too.
We stride through the corridors, and today, the bitter sting of every Mordorin glare feels sharper, cutting deeper. I try to ignore them like I usually do, but this morning their hatred is harder to brush off, forcing me to quicken my steps, drawing closer to Arax.
“Why are they all looking at me like that?” I mutter, barely audible over his shoulder.
Arax's eyes scan the Blades standing like shadows along the darkened halls, his scowl meeting theirs head-on. “The houses are restless,” he says, voice low and edged with caution. “There’s discontent among the lords, and their warriors feel it too.”
“Because of me?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
Arax grunts in affirmation.
I force myself to keep my head high, but every now and then, my chin wavers, dropping toward my chest. I thought the Mordorin’s hatred had already run deep, but clearly, their well of contempt is endless.
We reach the towering doors of the throne room, and with a grunt, Arax presses his weight into the wood, forcing them open. At the far end, Kaelus and Lanneth sit upon their thrones, their hands resting with eerie stillness on the stone arms. Surrounding them in a half-circle stand the Lords of the Untold Sea—the sons and daughters of Mordorin. Some I recognize from the banquet: Reon of Eyr’Drogul, red-eyed Sarberos of Thal’Morven, and the twins, Vashar and Vasheeth of Jor’Thalas.
But today, the room is more crowded. More faces. More Fae. All of them united in their contempt, their disdainful glares piercing straight through me. One stands out among them—a woman with dark curls twisted into an elaborate ponytail, her eyes rimmed in black makeup that streaks from the corners of her eyes and drags down to her jaw. I don’t know her name, but the jeweled daggers in her belt are unmistakable. The same as Modok’s. Relief washes over me when I see that Modok himself is not present.
As we approach every fiber of my being screams that I don’t belong here. The urge to turn and flee nearly overwhelms me, but I know that’s exactly what they’re hoping for.
Frane and a line of Reapers stand just outside the circle, their presence like a wall of shadows. This is where Arax halts, stepping aside and silently urging me forward. I freeze, unwilling to face this alone. The words nearly rise in my throat to ask him to stay, but before I can give them voice, the circle of lords parts.
Daed’s hand extends toward me.
He stands tall, draped in a sharply tailored black coat that falls to his knees, its fabric gleaming like the night reflected on a moonlit sea and beneath it, his silk shirt is undone just enough to reveal the runes etched across his collarbones.
“Wife.” His voice cuts through the tension, firm and commanding, as his hand reaches out, fingers curling slightly in a silent invitation, waiting for mine to interlace with his.
The burning gazes around us blur into the background, their weight lifting as my focus narrows to Daed. His presence, solid and unwavering, makes those I feared moments ago seem insignificant. I reach for him, and as soon as my fingers slip into his, the warmth of his touch steadies me. He tightens his grip, not forceful but reassuring, guiding me through the circle of lords without a glance at those around us. His indifference to their scrutiny makes me feel safer, like nothing can touch me while I’m at his side.
We climb the dais, Daed guides me to my throne, gesturing for me to sit with a tilt of his head. I nod, lowering myself onto the stone seat, still unsure if this will ever feel right.
“The princess has arrived,” Kaelus announces, his words almost a drawl as he leans into his fist, watching us closely. “Let us begin. This conclave of the Mordorin houses has been called to discuss the events of last night.”
“And what, exactly, happened last night?” A female voice breaks the silence, sharp and cutting. The speaker steps forward, her bone white hair falling like a cascade of moonlight down her back. Her eyes, deep and shimmering purple, fix on me.
“Lady Ilyra,” Kaelus exhales, a flicker of wariness creeping into his voice. “The life of our dear princess, Amara, was put in jeopardy... by Lord Modok.”
Before his words settle, the woman with the daggers lunges, fury in every motion. Her court reacts swiftly, restraining her before she can reach the center of the room.
“Modok did what you were all too frightened to do,” she hisses, her voice a blade. “This marriage is a disgrace, and every one of you knows it.”
I feel Daed tense beside me, his fists curling tightly at his sides. The tips of his canines glint for a brief moment, but he reins himself in, holding back the impulse to react.
“Lady Nyraxes,” Kaelus’s voice hardens, authoritative. “You’ve been granted your brother’s seat at this conclave. Respect will be shown here. Is that understood?”
Nyraxes turns, her eyes piercing through me like daggers. My chest tightens as the realization dawns—Modok’s sister. That’s why her hatred burns so fiercely.
“I understand,” she mutters, retreating stiffly to rejoin her Mor’Thravar kin, though the fire in her gaze doesn’t falter.
“We, as a conclave, must decide Modok’s fate,” Kaelus declares, his voice steady and resolute. “This kind of reckless rebellion cannot be tolerated.”
Lord Reon nods, the casualness of his strength not so different from Daed. “Eyr’Drogul stands with Baev’kalath. Modok must be made an example of. He not only threatened the life of the princess, but he laid his hands on another Fae’s wife. Both are punishable by death.”
“He obviously felt he had no choice, Lord Reon,” Sarberos interjects, his voice calm yet simmering. He steeples his fingers beneath his sharp chin, his red eyes glowing like embers. “Perhaps our noble royal family should have considered calling this conclave before deciding to marry our only prince to a human—rather than afterwards.”
“Lord Sarberos makes a good point,” one of the twins from Jor’Thalas interjects, though I can’t distinguish which is which. Her sister quickly adds to the fray. “Why must we convene to discuss Modok’s fate when this situation could have been entirely avoided if you had sought our counsel first?”
Kaelus’s jaw tightens, his frustration bubbling to the surface. “Lady Vashar and Lady Vasheeth, you forget—I am king. I am not required to seek your permission. Our announcement at the banquet was a courtesy, not an invitation for your council.”
The lords exchange displeased glances, and the tension in the air thickens to the point I can barely breathe.
Kaelus's gaze shifts to the hulking Fae lord standing silently, his hands clasped over the pommel of a great black sword, its tip resting on the stone floor.
“You are unusually silent today, Lord Horax,” Kaelus states. “What is your opinion?”
Horax looks up from his vacant stare, his lip curling in a snarl. “I don’t believe you truly want to know, Your Highness.”
“Of course I do. Speak your mind,” Kaelus snaps, his voice edged with impatience.
Horax cracks his thick neck, his expression darkening as he glances at me. “Very well. I would have done the same thing—only I would have succeeded where Modok failed.”
Before Kaelus can settle the unrest, Daed lashes out, disappearing in a swirl of twisting black smoke before reappearing directly in front of Horax. He clamps his hand around the lord’s throat, forcing Horax’s sword to clatter to the floor as he struggles against Daed’s grip. Their snarls echo in the throne room, their fanged canines bared, revealing the ferocity of their intentions.
Nyraxes throws her head back in laughter as the other lords bicker, the chamber thrumming with the chorus of snarls and taunts.
“Enough!” Kaelus booms, rising to his feet as darkness envelops the room.
The lords freeze, their voices silenced by the encroaching shadows. Only Daed remains unfazed, his grip tightening around Horax’s throat, the lord’s pale face beginning to tinge with purple.
“Release him, Daedalus,” Kaelus commands, his voice thunderous. When Daed hesitates, Kaelus’s tone turns fierce. “Now!”
Reluctantly, Daed's hand slips free, and he staggers backward, but the threat in his gaze lingers—a warning that words cannot convey. Horax rubs at the handprint indented into the flesh of his rasping throat.
“We must put an end to this infighting,” Kaelus implores, his tone charged with urgency. “Especially if the rumors hold any truth.”
He shifts his gaze toward the Reapers, and Orios steps forward, an imposing figure shrouded in the darkness of his helm. “My lords,” he begins, his voice steady and commanding. “Our scouts report that the Legion’s numbers grow by the day. A small but formidable force is stationed in the valley near The Grove, and if our reconnaissance is correct, they plan to attack within the month. But there are whispers of additional Legion bands scattered across the Sundered Kingdoms, poised to strike at a moment’s notice. If we allow this to continue unchecked, it won’t be long before they overwhelm us, even with every warrior in the Untold Sea at your command.”
My heart races in my chest. No. This cannot be. Please, Souls, do not tell me I have unwittingly married into a deception—that the Mordorin lack the strength to confront the Legion of Saints.
The lords murmur among themselves, the weight of Orios’s words settling over the chamber as he steps back into line.
“Now is not the time for reckless decisions,” Kaelus presses, his voice rising. “If we are to vanquish the Legion and obliterate their threat once and for all, we must unite against them, not turn on one another. What say you?”
I wait anxiously for their responses, the fate of The Grove teetering precariously in the hands of these bickering Fae.
Reon is the first to speak. “While I draw breath, Eyr’Drogul shall always fight for Prince Daedalus and House Mordorin.”
Daed tips his head to Reon, who responds in kind.
“Fyn’Rothar will fight. We are and always will be loyal to the King of the Sundered Kingdoms,” Ilyra adds, bowing her pale haired-head respectfully to Kaelus.
Sarberos exhales a measured breath before slowly raising his gaze to the king. “Thal’Morven abstains. We have already endured too much loss to take up arms once more.”
Kaelus grimaces, his attention flickering to Horax and the twins. Yet I anticipate their responses even before they articulate them.
“No,” the twins declare in unison. “We will not engage unless our demands are met.”
Kaelus' features harden. “And what are your demands?”
The twins and Horax exchange a knowing glance, as though they had long agreed upon their terms.
“Banish the princess, and our swords are yours,” Horax asserts, confirming their ultimatum.
Kaelus’ eyes dart nervously to Lanneth. Though he has assumed command of this conclave, he visibly quakes under her seething glare. He turns back, shaken but resolute.
“We cannot acquiesce to such terms,” he mutters.
“Then you have no warriors,” Nyraxes scoffs, her disdain palpable.
“Do you not comprehend that if we fail to stand united, the Legion will pick us off one by one?” Daed says.
“I am not afraid of humans,” Horax laughs derisively.
“You are afraid of her ,” Daed snaps, casting a pointed glance toward me as I sit silently upon the throne. “I can see it in your eyes. Why else would you seek her exile?”
Horax remains silent, but the fury etched across his face speaks volumes. Kaelus turns his gaze to Nyraxes. “Is that Mor’Thravar’s stance as well?”
With a playful twist of her curls, Nyraxes’s demeanor is unsettling, her charm concealing a predatory edge. “Mor’Thravar is undecided , my king.”
The houses gasp in disbelief, and I feel the shock ripple through the room; I had assumed Mor’Thravar would be the first to refuse us.
Kaelus chooses his words carefully. “What is it you want?”
Nyraxes fixes her narrowed eyes on him. “Release my brother immediately.”
A chill runs down my spine, memories flooding my mind of the monster who dragged me from my bed, whispering horrors that still echo in my ears. Kaelus’s hesitation draws a surge of impatience from Daed.
“Father,” he growls.
Kaelus raises a hand, silencing him. “If we release Modok, will you fight?”
“Yes,” Nyraxes replies with unnerving calm, drawing gasps from the conclave. Her lips curve into a wicked smile. “After he guts your human like a pig.”
Daed’s rage ignites, and he lunges at her. She draws her daggers, but her court quickly restrains her while Reon wraps his arms around Daed, attempting to contain the fury surging within him.
“You’re a savage, Nyraxes,” Ilyra sneers, disdain dripping from her voice.
Horax steps forward, eyes glinting with challenge. “I didn’t realize you had a soft spot for humans, Ilyra.”
Ilyra’s anger flares as Sarberos raises his hands, demanding calm. “Enough!”
Vashar and Vasheeth confront the red-eyed Lord of Thal’Morven, their voices sharp. “You speak of dwindling numbers,” one says. “As if you alone have suffered losses to the humans.” The other growls, “What makes Thal’Morven’s lives worth more than any others?”
The argument escalates, threats hanging heavy in the air while Daed and Nyraxes circle each other like wolves. The tension mounts, and suddenly, a loud crack pierces the chaos; a member of the Fyn’Rothar court collapses, blood spewing from his broken nose. The room erupts into violence, a frenzy of fists and fury.
Kaelus attempts to restore order, but his voice is lost amid the clamor. Even Lanneth stands from her throne, backing away, anger etched on her face as the lords inch closer to brutality.
My hands grip the throne, knuckles white, as I become transfixed with the chaos.
This is how Fae behave at court, and they think us the savages?
“Your Highness!”
I look up to see Arax pushing through the turmoil, determination blazing in his eyes. Rising to my feet, I reach for him as he arrives at the dais. He takes my hand, lifting me onto his hip, sword drawn, weaving through the turmoil, shoving aside anyone who gets too close.
Once we break free, Frane is waiting. “I will take the princess to her chambers,” she commands sharply. “Protect the prince, Arax.”
Arax’s expression twists with uncertainty. “It’s my duty to protect the princess.”
“Do as I command, Blade,” Frane hisses, her voice low but firm.
Arax glances at me, but my shock renders me speechless.
He nods to Frane and turns back to the raging tempest before the throne.
Frane grips my wrist tightly, her urgency palpable. “Come with me, now,” she snaps, pulling me away.
We leave the tumult behind, moving through the doors and into the corridor. Frane doesn’t look back, her fingers biting into my skin as she drags me along. I struggle to keep pace.
“Wait,” I say, breathless. “Slow down.”
She doesn’t respond, quickening her pace until we reach a balcony and when she pulls me outside, the rain hits my face like a thousand tiny daggers.
“What are we doing out here?” I ask, anxiety twisting in my gut.
Frane remains silent, her grip unyielding as she drags me toward the edge of the balcony. I struggle against her hold, planting my feet to resist her pull, but she inches me closer to the precipice.
“Do you know how long I’ve waited to become a Reaper?” she finally snaps, her gaze fixed ahead as she storms on. “I will not lose it now. I refuse to watch our great houses crumble because of a pathetic human.”
When we reach the edge, Frane pulls me close, her fingers digging into the back of my neck like iron shackles. I lash out, throwing my hands at her, but they only clang against the hard steel of her armor. My screams dissolve in the roar of the ocean crashing against the jagged rocks below.
“I’ll say you ran and slipped,” she says, her tone disturbingly calm, as if she’s rehearsed this moment a hundred times. “There will be initial unrest, but soon enough, everyone will agree it was for the best.”
With a swift motion, she thrusts me forward, and my body tips over the railing. My upper body dangles precariously as I gaze down at the tumultuous waves thrashing against the cliffs, ready to devour me.
“Daed will kill you for this,” I snarl, summoning every ounce of strength to fight against her.
“The prince is clouded by your charms,” she hisses, pushing me further over the edge. “Once you’re gone, we Mordorin will unite to fight the Legion. As one.” Her eyes gleam with a feral satisfaction. “At least it will be quick. That’s a mercy.”
In that instant, desperation fuels my instincts. As I twist, I grab her wrist, the cold metal of her armor biting into my palm. I pull with all my might, and the world tilts as Frane loses her balance. We tumble over the railing together.
Time slows as we plummet through the air, the wind howling past us, my heart thundering in my chest like a war drum. Suddenly, the runes etched on Frane’s collarbone flare to life, glowing with an otherworldly light as her wings burst from her back. With a powerful flap, she ascends, her laughter echoing in the storm, leaving me to continue my descent.
As I brace for impact, I close my eyes, whispering a silent hope that Frane was right about one thing: that it will be quick.
But instead of colliding with the jagged rocks below, I come to a jarring halt. My eyes flicker open to find Arax cradling me in his arms, his wings beating against the rain.
“Princess. Are you alright?” His voice is a low rumble, filled with concern.
Relief floods over me as I curl against his chest, trembling. With powerful strokes, he lifts us back toward the balcony, and he gently sets me down on the stone.
“This human continues to be your downfall, Arax,” Frane sneers, hovering above us like a vulture. “I once admired you. Considered you one of the greatest Reapers to ever live. How disappointing you’ve turned out to be.”
Arax wipes the rain from his brow, fury igniting in his gaze as he glances up at Frane. “Enough of this. You will tell the prince what you’ve done and face his justice.”
Frane’s smile is sharp and menacing as she draws her sword from its sheath, the blade gleaming with deadly intent. “I think not. Instead, I’ll kill you both in his name.”
With a roar that reverberates through the air, they charge at each other, the clash of their weapons ringing out like thunder. My breath catches in my throat as they collide midair, a fierce whirlwind of wings and steel.
Frane spins through the air, her movements fluid and deadly. She strikes first, her blade flashing as it narrowly misses Arax’s throat and he counters with a swift upward arc, his wings propelling him with precision. The two of them twirl through the rain, the sky becoming their battleground.
They clash again, and I can feel the heat of their anger radiating outwards.
Frane feints left and then lunges to the right, her blade finding a gap in Arax's armor, stabbing deep under his arm. “You think you can protect her?” she sneers, twisting the blade, eliciting a pained grunt from him.
Blood mixes with the rain, and my stomach drops as I see him falter mid-air, spiraling downward. He fights against the momentum, wings flaring wide as he struggles to regain control. He lands heavily on the balcony, the impact rattling the stones beneath us while Frane lands beside him, a predatory glint in her eyes.
“You’re nothing but a foolish old Fae,” she taunts, kicking Arax’s sword away, sending it clattering out of reach. Straddling him, she raises her blade, poised to deliver the final blow. My heart races, panic clawing at my insides as I watch, helpless.
But Arax’s eyes blaze with defiance, even as pain darkens his features. He shifts beneath her, channeling his energy. Suddenly his arm transforms into swirling smoke that drifts through Frane as if she were made of nothing more than air.
She looks momentarily bewildered, confusion flickering in her eyes. But before she can react, Arax’s arm solidifies within her, and in a swift, brutal motion, he thrusts it forward, impaling her.
I gasp, my heart lurching in horror, and instinctively turn away as a spray of blood arcs through the air, splattering the stone. When I dare to look back, the scene is etched into my mind: Arax’s arm, slick and crimson, now free from her lifeless body as Frane lies motionless on the balcony, the relentless rain washing away the remnants of her fury, leaving only silence in its wake.
Arax attempts to rise, but he falters, collapsing to one knee. My heart races as I rush to his side, panic tightening my chest when I see the blood seeping from beneath his arm. His face drains of color, and his eyes begin to glaze over, like fading stars against a darkening sky.
“Princess. Are you safe?” His voice is strained, barely more than a whisper.
I steady his shoulders, bracing him against my own strength as the blood continues to mingle with the rain, pooling beneath us. “Yes, Arax. I’m safe. Now let me heal you.”
He shakes his head weakly, the defiance in his gaze clashing with the pain etched on his features. “I do not deserve a second mercy.”
Ignoring his nonsense, I lean closer, my voice firm. “Arax,” I command, meeting his gaze with unwavering resolve. “As your princess, I order you to sit still and be quiet while I heal you. Do you understand?”
He looks at me, the rain cascading over his brow, and a faint smile breaks through the pained line of his mouth. “Very well, princess.”
I slip my hand beneath his arm, feeling the warm, slick blood as I locate the wound. He winces, a sharp intake of breath escaping him.
“Don’t be such a child, old man,” I tease, forcing a brave smile as the rune around my neck begins to glow, casting a soft light amidst the storm.