Chapter 6 Quinn #3
“For decades, while the kingdoms of Orteaux and Avilogne relied on trade and magical mastery, Kilstrand grew powerful through diplomacy and debt. King Eamon, a Tether, the reigning monarch of Kilstrand, ensured every contract was unbreakable through soul-level bindings. But power breeds resentment. When Orteaux sought freedom from Kilstrand’s limiting laws, and Avilogne hungered for control over the trade routes Kilstrand monopolized, a three-kingdom war was inevitable.
” Adjusting my weight in the saddle, I went on.
“The hunting of Twilights came because of the actions of one man.”
A frown shadowed his features. “Calvessar Enhorn. There’s a ballad about his story.”
“A ballad?” My brow arched in surprise. “You are not going to sing it, are you?”
Mav huffed a quiet laugh. “Not today.” He bit his bottom lip, as if sorting through the lyrics in his mind.
“Calvessar wasn’t a monster—at least, not at first. He was a nobleman of Kilstrand, a Twilight of rare power.
They say he could walk the dreamscape as easily as walking a garden.
He served King Eamon as an advisor and diplomat, but the songs remember him for primarily one thing—loving Eamon’s youngest daughter. ”
“Princess Evangeline.”
He nodded. “When Calvessar asked for her hand in marriage, the king refused him outright. And to ensure her obedience, Eamon bound Evangeline to another through a Tether contract—one sealed in both blood and soul.” His tone softened.
“They say the princess’s cries could be heard from the coasts after she was separated from Calvessar.
On the eve of the wedding ceremony, Evangeline took her own life, rather than live shackled to a man she didn’t love. ”
The air around us stilled. I could imagine her pale hands stained red, her heart breaking.
“Calvessar’s grief,” Mav went on, “became something legend couldn’t contain. They say he swore that since Kilstrand had taken everything from him, he’d take everything from Kilstrand.”
I cast my eyes down, understanding merely a measure of such grief.
“Calvessar walked the dreams of the Kilstrandian royalty, generals, their spouses, and children. He twisted loyalties, planted false visions, and made them doubt each other until the kingdom crumbled from within. Thousands were dead before the armies of Orteaux and Avilogne even reached their borders.”
Mav’s jaw set. “The song also claims King Eamon died by his own hand—compelled by Calvessar’s gift.” His eyes lifted to meet mine. “And now they think you’re all like him.”
“It transcends thought, Mav. By decree of the Avandrian Crown, my gifted kind are enemies of the realm. If I am discovered, there will be no trial—only irons long enough to escort me to the pyre.”
The fall of Kilstrand taught the kingdoms one lesson: a Twilight could unmake a nation faster than any army.
Since then, Avandria has seen shadows where there were none—every failed harvest, every tax revolt was blamed on dreamwalkers.
The decree and systematic execution of my gifted kind all stemmed from a singular root.
Fear.
Regarding Mav for a moment longer, I attempted to lighten the mood. “I am surprised you would remember a ballad centered around love. I did not take you for a hopeless romantic.”
“I’m hopeless, all right.” A close-lipped grin shaped his mouth. “As for the romantic bit—well, that assumption proves you don’t know me very well.”
“Yet,” I added before realizing the word had escaped my lips.
His hazel eyes searched mine for several heartbeats. “You’d like it to be a ‘yet’?”
The air became too thin and too thick all at once under the gravity of his attention.
Fearing I had already revealed too much, I changed the subject. “You truly are not afraid of me? That I am a Twilight?”
“Should I be?” Suspicion clouded his eyes.
I almost smiled, but the weight in my chest was too heavy.
“I can walk dreams,” I said, quieter now.
“Convince the body. Control the mind. My gift can show someone what they long for, what they fear. What they hide. It can also conjure images of falsehoods and fantasy. It is extremely dangerous. You would be right to fear me.”
He stiffened. I felt the shape of the thought before he spoke it aloud.
“I have not used it on you,” I added in haste. “I would never.”
He offered no immediate answer. Mav stared at me with that unreadable, measuring expression of his, as if weighing what it meant to ride beside someone who could unmake him in his sleep.
Finally, he said, “Good. Because if half the stories are true, princess…you’re a walking declaration of war.”
“Still not a princess,” I insisted. “It feels like an intrusion.” My hands gripped the reins in a feeble attempt to steady myself. “Peeling someone open and rifling through everything that makes them…them.”
“So, you don’t use it?”
“Not unless I must.”
Another pause. The tether thrummed with an emotion I could not place—akin to wrapping oneself in a sun-warmed blanket. The gentle surety of it frightened and surprised me in equal measure.
I did not voice the thought that followed, though it came clear as the cloudless sky.
Do you dream of me?
For a breath, I could not determine whether the question had arisen from my own mind or brushed against me down the tether, unspoken and shared between us. The distinction hardly mattered. I was not sure what I would do with the answer.
The trees thinned. Rooftops peered through the foliage, leaning forward to overhear travelers’ secrets. Sunlight spilled over Mav’s shoulder, catching on his collar and the fine sheen at his nape.
“While I am sure your friend is wonderful, I doubt Thistle will be able to help,” I murmured.
“Oh? Why? Too complex for a Hedge?”
“No.” I drew a slow breath. “Only that, as far as I know, there is only one thing that can break the spell.”
He scoffed. “What, true love?”
A jest, tossed like a coin meant to roll harmlessly away.
Laughter eluded me. There was nothing humorous about my circumstances.
His head turned fully at my silence. “Wait. You’re serious?”
“Yes.”
He choked. “You’re telling me this spell—centuries old, stitched into the bones of time by a vengeful prince—has a fairytale failsafe?”
“Preposterous, is it not?”
“Preposterous?” His tone was dry. “It’s cruel. What sort of spell works like that?”
“The sort designed to strip a person of all dignity.”
“And what, you simply fall in love?”
“It must be mutual and spoken aloud,” I said. “Within the fourteen days. Or the spell resets.”
“Saints preserve us,” he muttered.
We rode in silence for a few moments. Then—
“So…when you suggested a bigger bed last night…”
I groaned, the sound unbecoming of a lady, but no less authentic. “You are fully aware that was not my meaning.”
“Mm. But I’m confused, with a bigger bed, wouldn’t love have more room to blossom?”
“You are insufferable.”
“And you’re the one who managed to curse herself into a novel.”
My eyes slid to his with a heated glare. “I did not curse myself.”
“Right. Sorry.” The frown on his face eased as a glimmer of something suspiciously prideful surfaced. “Permit me a moment, though—I was right twice in one day, on guesses. That never happens. We should find a gambling hall and keep this luck going.”
A weak chuckle slipped from my lips. “Perhaps some good may come of this after all.”
The breeze cooled as we passed beneath an arch of oak boughs.
“Quinn?”
“Yes?”
“If the spell resets—if it always resets—why keep hoping?”
The question floated in the air as I pondered my response. “Because hope is the only thing the spell has not taken from me, and I refuse to surrender it.”