Chapter 38
- LORA -
L ora’s grandmother drapes her in golden leaves she spun herself. The thin lace, light as spiderweb, lays over Lora’s arms and the green fabric of her dress. The tiny crystal beads woven within the leaves spark in the candlelight as Lora turns to the mirror to see the full effect.
She supposes she looks like a Totus Omni queen. She chose the green of the dress to represent the Elodie Forest and because its fabric is soft as velvet. The plain, modest piece is made divine by the gold overlay. Yris sent a hairdresser to attend to Lora’s hair earlier that morning, and they drew her curls up and pinned it in some design at the back of her head. She looks regal, elegant, and she hardly recognizes herself.
But the golden leaves she adores. They are perfect, reminiscent of the tree-adorned flags that have replaced the Lux Aester banners throughout Wyntra .
“How did you manage to get this done so quickly?” Lora asks, looking at her grandmother’s reflection in the mirror.
Hellevi flicks her wrist, like the answer should be obvious. “I began working on it as soon as you told me you intended to compete in the Trials.”
Emotion creeps up in Lora’s throat; the faith of her grandmother feels like something she doesn’t deserve, not when she won in such a deceitful way.
As though sensing her thoughts, Hellevi settles worn hands on her shoulder and steers Lora to face her. “I am proud of you, my darling. Your father will be proud of you, too. I’m certain of it.”
The emotion strangles her, and Lora forces herself to breathe through it until she regains control. Undoing her father’s exile—and the ones who were exiled with him—was the first order she intended to give as Sovereign. But now, everything feels treacherous. She will have to tread carefully. But she will undo it and soon.
A soft knock sounds on her bedroom door. Bronwen sticks her head in, and Lora beckons her with a flick of the wrists. She enters with a bag slung over her shoulder, looking utterly radiant in a burgundy dress that fades to orange at the bottom, like tree leaves in autumn. Her hair has been freed from its braid and hangs down her shoulders in ringlets. Unlike Lora, whose skin feels like it might crawl off her bones, Bronwen looks perfectly at ease in her femininity.
“You look beautiful,” Bronwen says as she stops on Lora’s other side. “But you also look like you want to come out of your own skin. So let’s make you look vicious as well.”
She reaches into the bag and pulls out armor similar to what Lora wore as a graduate of Adamant, but more ornate, tipped and swirled in gold. Bronwen helps Lora put it on, careful not to snag the delicate threads of the lace. The leather crisscrosses her chest to protect her heart and ends in buckles around her stomach. Horns curve upward from her shoulder pads and spikes line the wrist cuffs. When Lora inspects herself in the mirror, the image is fierce; striking. Almost right, but not quite. This is how she'll have to face all the people who have flocked to Wyntra, far more than were already there, ready to see her crowned.
Her breath quickens, and panic rises like a volcano erupting within her, suffocating her lungs, clogging her throat. It’s been a long time since she’s felt like this, since her years training with Peregrin. She tries to breathe like they taught her, but she can’t?—
“Damn,” scoffs a voice from the doorway. “Your hair is absolutely wretched.”
Air soars back into her lungs, though she’s quite sure her heart has flown out of her chest, flying across the distance between where she stands and where Ayc is leaning casually against the doorframe. She can see him in the mirror, grinning at her. Her heart suddenly reappears in her chest and pounds against her sternum.
Ayc is here, and he, too, is all dressed up, similar to how she’s seen him for dozens of performances. His worn brown vest now covers a forest green shirt. He’s pulled his hair back with a ribbon and lined his eyes with a smoky black that make his blue eyes stand out even brighter. His rings that he left at home during the Trials have returned to his hands, and his earrings gleam like they’ve been freshly polished. Handsome is too small a word. He looks devilish, unique and utterly himself.
Lora looks away from his reflection before Bronwen and Hellevi notice that she’s staring at him. “And what exactly is wrong with my hair?” she adds a bite to her tone, facing him.
He peels himself off the doorway and approaches her, and she wonders again how she missed that he wasn’t fully human, with the way he glides across the floor. Has he been pretending this whole time or has she just been too afraid to really look at him? “It looks like how your mother does her hair. And I’m not swearing allegiance to your mother today. I’m swearing it to you .”
He meets her eyes as he says those last words, and she inhales sharply. No doubt blemishes his voice. She told him to leave, and here he is, staying. Which must mean it’s because he wants to stay.
“He’s right, Lora,” Hellevi agrees. “You haven’t worn your hair back like that in years.”
Quite suddenly, as though she needed permission to feel it, Lora becomes aware of the tension on her roots and way the pins scrape against her scalp. She doesn’t understand why she even allowed the hairdresser to touch her, except she perhaps felt she needed to look more like a queen, different from herself. But now, she can’t stand it. Her hands flutter towards her head.
“Would you like me to undo it?” Bronwen asks.
“Please, and hurry. We only have a few minutes left.”
As Bronwen and Hellevi work together to remove the pin, Lora watches Ayc in the mirror. He stands, bouncing to whatever melody only he can hear, spinning in circles as he absorbs the details of her room. Unlike her room in Avia, this room is devoid of much more than the basics: a four-poster bed, a vanity, a wardrobe, this mirror. The only thing within it that Lora truly loves are her loom, her bookshelf, and the oversized chair by the window.
He wanders close to the bookshelf, squinting at the titles. When he reaches out a hand, Lora snaps, “If you touch my books, I’m going to require one of your fingers as payment.”
He folds his hands behind his back and spins back around. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Hellevi catches Lora’s eye in the mirror and smiles.
When Lora’s thick curls flow down her back once more, they are frizzy from the administration of the hairdresser, but it's her hair. Then Bronwen wiggles her fingers over Lora’s head. Her scalp tingles, as the frizz eases and her curls shine like they do after Lora’s intensive biweekly care regiment. Bronwen doesn’t often waste energy on such frivolous things, and magic can damage the health of hair if used too frequently, but it’s nice for moments like these.
Ayc appears at her side and stretches out his hand. The two clips she always wears, the ones she left on her vanity, sit in his palm. She takes them and carefully places them on either side of her face. This time, when she glances at her reflection, something unhitches in her chest. She might not feel like someone who is prepared to place a crown upon her head, but she, at least, feels like she will be herself.
Ayc’s gaze teases like a caress down her spine. She twists her head toward him. There’s an emotion in his eyes, one as deep and riotous as the Bellum, and she can't define it. She hopes her own expression is as unreadable. One day, she'll look at him and not remember what it's like to kiss him, to be kissed by him like she’s something worthy of worship. Someday, she'll stop wanting him, as she should. But today is certainly not that day .
“One more thing,” Ayc says. He reaches into his pocket and brings out the leviathan tooth, still on its cord. When Lora nods, he moves behind her and slips it around her neck. It settles onto her armor, just above her heart. The end of the tooth is no longer sharp, but broken and jagged. Lora wonders if it is still in Marcellus’s throat.
“To remind you,” Ayc says, “of who you really are.”
When she stands outside the great hall, alone except for the guards this time, she curls her hand around the tooth and reminds herself of just that. She is not a girl terrified of being everything her mother tried to make her to be.
She is Loraphne, her father’s daughter, and she is the most fearsome creature on land or sea.
So she lifts her chin like she already wears a crown and thrusts the door open. She enters the great hall like a lightning strike. Like an unreckonable force. Like the villain her people need.
~ AYC -
She looks fearsome and beautiful and like every mighty queen from every storybook. And as Ayc watches Lora storm up the aisle between the crowd that fills the great hall, he cannot help but admit, at least to himself, that he loves her. He loves her beauty and her viciousness, her ferocity and her kindness. He loves every vibrant shade that makes her up. His heart is a foolish, hopeless thing, but it has always been hers.
And in this moment, he lets himself love her. Soon, today will be over, and he'll lock all his feelings back inside the wall he’s carefully constructed. He’ll chain it up next to the vibrations of pain that still linger in his body. He’ll go back to pretending, because that's the only way to survive.
Lora sweeps past the crowd who make no sound, only stare in reverence, or curiosity, or even a few in disdain. She doesn’t glance over when she passes her Five who stand clustered together near the front. Xylie has joined them, half hidden behind Ayc, her hands covering her ears despite the dampeners she wears. The crowd is much larger than the one she tolerated for Marcellus’s ceremony. Lora said she could swear allegiance in private and didn't have to partake in the ceremony, but Xylie wanted to be here. And so she is—squeezing Ayc’s elbow so hard it hurts, but here, nonetheless.
Lora comes to a stop at the end of the aisle, looking up the steps to where a single throne stands, its gryphon wings forming the back, its talons gripping the floor. Yris looks stiff as she sits upon it. Her Five gather on either side of her, a motionless wall of support. Between daughter and mother rests a marble podium, bearing a single silver pillow.
Yris stands, her black dress fluttering around her, glistening like stars. A stillness envelops the crowd as she removes the golden circuit on her head. She lays it carefully on the pillow on the podium, and then, without a word, she turns and exits the stage, taking a designated place among the crowd. Her Five follow her. Only Lora stands before the crowd now. She climbs the steps, the leaves on the lace sparking in the light.
She lifts a hand to her mother’s abandoned crown. When her fingers brush it, a pulse of power surges through the room, and the crown instantly changes. The gold thickens and bends into a central peak. Black, spiraling vines grow and wind around the gold, sprouting leaves as it climbs toward the center of the crown. Lora sets it upon her head, and it fits her perfectly.
The podium vanishes, allowing Lora to take the last few steps to the throne. She turns, but does not sit, letting her people look upon her. And what a sight she is to behold. Ayc is so busy staring at her that he misses whatever cue must have been given. The rest of her Five assemble before her on the stairs, and he rushes to join them. When they lower themselves to their knees, Ayc doesn't hesitate to join them. Even Saga lowers his head.
Ayc peeks through his lashes, just enough that he can see the emotion that shimmers in Lora’s eyes. She blinks hard and clears her throat, and when she speaks, her voice is steady and clear.
“Do you swear to give allegiance to myself as Sovereign, to be my guides and my advisors, and most importantly, to always keep the good of the people of Everadyn at the forefronts of your mind?” Lora asks.
“It is my honor,” Bronwen, Peregrin, and Tavish say. Ayc murmurs it after. He’s so going to have words for them. Clearly, they practiced this.
Xylie signs her reply.
Saga barks.
Tavish hurries to shush Saga, but a laugh escapes Ayc’s lips. A few scattered laughs echo from the crowd, disrupting the solemnity of the moment. Lora’s lips tug up on one side before she presses them into an obedient line.
“Rise, my Five,” she says, “and serve Everadyn well.”
They stand, and Ayc follows the lead of the others as they move to stand at Lora’s side, where the previous Five once stood. Xylie hides partially behind the throne, but her breath is still coming easily. Lora lowers herself onto the throne, sitting on the very edge, her back stiff.
Seven people disentangle from the crowd and approach Lora. Ayc recognizes them as the seven regents, the leaders of the Everadyn clans, each wearing the traditional garments of their clan. When they come before Lora, they form a line and bow at the waist. At least, all do, but one.
Amos, regent of Lux Aester, does not bow.
A murmur ripples through the crowd, as the other six send Amos sideways glances.
“I will not bow to the wicked queen,” Amos hisses through his teeth.
Ayc stiffens, fighting against the desire to force the man upon his knees. He must not be the only one. Power ripples off Bronwen’s skin, and Peregrin’s hand flexes near one of the knives they wear across their chest. Ayc’s own sword hangs at his hip. As the new Sovereign’s Five, the rule of being unarmed in the great hall does not apply to them anymore.
But Lora doesn't tense, as though she anticipated this.
“The laws of the Trials are clear—” The Lycendi regent, an ancient alchemist by the name of Busara, begins.
Amos cuts her off. “She won through villainy!”
“Surely, you won’t stand for this,” Dedryk—the Noxumbra regent and Wylder’s father—says, looking to Lora. “You cannot let him get away with defiance. You must demand loyalty.”
“You cannot demand loyalty,” Lora says, her voice nothing but calm. “Obedience and loyalty are not the same.” She directs her attention to Amos. "I can see that I didn’t win your loyalty. But I will earn it.”
“You won't sit on the throne long enough!” Amos says .
“Is that a threat?” Bronwen snarls, blue light glowing around her fingertips.
Lora lifts her hand to hold Bronwen back and gives Amos a calculated smile. “Perhaps you should be more concerned about your own leadership. You have denied your people liberties that should be theirs by nature. My mother cared more for your friendship and your frequent donations to the royal treasury than for the rights of her own people. I do not share that same sentiment. Straighten out your lands, Amos. Or I’ll replace you with someone who can.”
The little bit of color that exists in his pale face vanishes. “You don’t have that type of power.”
“Don’t I?” Lora leans back into her throne, crossing one leg over the other. The slit of her skirt parts, revealing an expanse of bare skin from her calf all the way to where she’s strapped a dagger to her thigh. She looks as though she was born to sit upon that throne, and the fire in her dark eyes quietly dares anyone to take it from her. The little coil at the end of her lips states she might just enjoy it.
And fuck, if it isn’t single-handedly the most alluring thing Ayc has ever seen. Ayc looks away and takes a breath to cool the heat that ripples through him.
But the way her voice purrs her next words only turns the heat to a boil. “Are you willing to bet on it?”
The Lux Aester regent stares at her and then the other six regents. They offer him no aid. Amos gives the smallest bow of his head toward Lora and then storms away. Ayc knows better than to believe this is over. No matter how confident Lora looks, Ayc knows she understands too well. She and her Five had to fight to put her on the throne, and they will have to fight to keep it. It doesn’t matter .
The monster within Ayc is done hiding. He's ready for a fight.
The ceremony gives way to partying. There's a feast and dancing, and for once, Ayc is not serving, but an honored guest. The word of his true identity has spread throughout the entire crowd. He can tell when people shy away from him, as he always feared they would, but just as many blatantly flirt with him. Maybe, some people have a thing for monsters.
It doesn’t really matter, because Ayc has found his people. The ones who see him and love him anyway.
Zinnia and Ember rush up to him after the ceremony, Ember reaching Ayc first and throwing his arms around him in a hug that takes Ayc’s breath away. Ayc catches Peregrin’s brief smile as they watch Ayc and Ember together. Tavish lets Ayc pull him through the hall and introduce him to a sweet-looking Sal Maris female, who immediately coos at Saga and sneaks the dog a treat. Only gibberish comes from Tavish’s mouth, and Ayc interjects to rescue him, but it's progress.
Ayc fills a plate full of treats and takes them to where Xylie watches everything in the silent hallway, peering through a crack in the side entrance. She tries one and tells him they can’t compare to the ones he makes.
Bronwen laughs, her pale hair flying, as Ayc spins her around the dance floor.
They are enough. More than he dared hope. He has them, and in some small way, he has Lora, too.
Throughout the day, Ayc keeps his eyes upon Lora. She talks politely or poises regally on her new throne or more commonly tries to disappear into the shadows of the hall. Irving trails after her, one hand on his sword. He catches Ayc looking each time and flashes a smile that lets Ayc feel as though it's safe to look away, if only for a time. Irving won't let anything happen to her.
But eventually, Ayc seeks Lora, and she’s nowhere to be found.
He finds Bronwen laughing with a gorgeous female with pink skin and a gown that looks like living flames. Bronwen brushes her hand down the fae’s arm in a clear indication that neither will be going to bed alone. He stops at a distance, not wanting to interrupt, and waves a hand.
“Lora?” Ayc signs when he catches her eye.
“She went for a walk,” Bronwen signs back. No concern registers on her face, and she immediately turns back to the fae.
He knows just where to find Lora.
She stands on the cliff overlooking the Bellum, Irving and a couple of other guards lingering several feet behind. They say nothing as Ayc slips past them to join her on the cliff’s edge. The salty air whips at her hair and the gold overlay, but the crown she wears does not slip. She stares out at the gray waters, watching the gnashing waves that stay riotous until they meet the horizon. He knows past that horizon there's a land where he once lived, before a girl burst into his life and changed everything.
There are things that he regrets, blood that cannot be unspilled, pain that lingers as a ghost even now, his heart that's destined to never be whole, and entire people whose suffering he refuses to ignore any longer, now that he has power to do something. But overall, he doesn't regret that he's here now. With her.
“Villainess,” he says softly as he comes to her side.
He must imagine the smile that tugs at her mouth at the nickname, but there isn’t disdain when she says, “Cinnamon roll. I see you decided to stay.”
“That I did.”
She studies him in the dim light, the thick clouds above casting shadows on her face. He fears she might ask him why he decided to stay. He doesn’t know what lies he'll tell her, or what lies he’ll begin to tell himself once today is over and he must go back to pretending he doesn't love her.
“I’ll probably make you regret it,” she says instead.
He quirks a smile. “Without a doubt.” He nods out to the horizon and dares to ask, “What do you think of when you stare out at the sea?”
She looks back to the Bellum. The crash and sighs of the waves fill the space between them. It’s millimeters today, instead of miles. “Before, I’ve mostly thought about all the injustices in this world. I’ve stewed in guilt over the things that I’ve done that have empowered those injustices. I’ve wished for the power to change things.”
“But today?”
“Today, I’m trying to decide where to start. There are so many hurts in this world that need healing.”
He twists his body to face her. “You can’t undo every injustice in a single sweep. You’ve got a few decades to work on it.”
"No." She turns to face him fully. “No more waiting. People have waited long enough. We start tomorrow. The first meeting of the Five is at sunrise. Don’t be late. ”
“Fantastic. I’ll bring breakfast.” He grins wickedly. “Any requests? I’ll make you anything but cinnamon rolls.”
“You can make whatever you would like, but it’s a shame. I’m quite fond of cinnamon rolls.” She smiles, full and unguarded, and he wonders if she knows it too is a weapon. Forget a knife to his throat. Her smile can bring him to his knees.
Wings beat the air above them, loud and swiftly approaching. Ayc and Lora lift their heads toward the sky. Ayc expects to see a gryphon rider or two out on a patrol or practicing maneuvers, but the clouds obscure them from sight. As the sound nears, a warning shudders through him. Something about the sound isn’t right. It’s too loud.
Too big.
The shape that rips through a cloud above the sea is brilliant red and massive.
“Dragon!” Lora calls.
She grabs his arm and yanks him into a run. Together, they race back from the cliff’s edge, trying to get somewhere less exposed. The guards run the opposite direction, toward them, swords in their hands. Metal hisses as Lora draws the knife at her thigh, and Ayc fumbles for his own sword. The wind whips with an unnatural power. The sound of wings descends until it’s so loud it nearly punctures his ears.
“Get down!” Irving yells.
Lora flings herself down, pulling Ayc with her. He manages to maneuver his body so that when they fall to the rocky ground, his body covers hers. Something sharp scraps over his back, slicing fabric but not skin, a moment before the earth shakes beneath them like it might split apart.
When Ayc lifts his head, the massive dragon has landed only feet away. Its scales are variants of red, from the deepest of crimson to blood red to a burnt orange. Its mighty wings lift above Ayc and Lora’s head, blocking out the little remaining sunlight and casting them completely in shadow. It curls its long head the other direction to snap at the charging guards. When that doesn’t halt them, it bellows a roar and unleashes a stream of fire that propels itself toward the guards.
“Irving!” Ayc screams.
The fae flings up his hands and a field of green, large enough to shield the three guards, bursts from his palms. The fire parts around them.
“Stay back!” Lora yells from beneath Ayc. She shoves upward. Ayc rises with her and draws his blade, the two of them standing side by side.
“Come down from there and speak with me!” she calls.
The dragon’s wing shifts, and Ayc sees what Lora noticed. The dragon bears a rider.
The cloaked figure who sits at the base of the dragon’s neck slides down the dragon’s leg, which is as tall as a tree. They land with bent knees and gracefully pull themselves to their full height. Within the shadow of the hood, red eyes burn.
Ayc steps closer to Lora, who lifts her chin, looking like she’s ready for a fight. No, like she’s ready for war .
“I’m sorry I missed your coronation but allow me to offer congratulations now.” Ayc recognizes the Drakr’s voice immediately, but he wishes he didn’t. “All hail, Loraphne, the wicked queen! May your reign be short.”