Chapter 21 Everly
Everly
The Great Hall was even more oppressive than the dining hall used to be.
Or at least, overwhelming, between the chime of frosted crystal as glasses clinked together, the low hum of conversation rippling like wind over ice, and the music that echoed off the walls from palace musicians.
Beneath all the pleasantries and forced laughter and the thin sheen of civility was a crackle of something sharp and brittle. The court was trying very, very hard to act normal.
And we were trying even harder.
I actively refused to think about my father, who apparently had yet to regain his lucidity, or the fact that I hadn’t visited him again. That I had no plans to, even when I was finished hiding behind the lie of preparing myself for court.
There hadn’t actually been any preparations because Soren’s plan was easy… in theory.
Be seen. Check.
The entire celebration was in honor of my miraculous recovery.
We were mingling through the room while the wolves trudged lazily at our feet like five giant, almost-napping sentinels.
Draven was dressed in bright whites and silver accents, his crown practically glowing against the pale strands of his hair.
And I was in a gown that actually was glowing… Like I was the shards-blessed embodiment of the Winter sky itself. The gemstones stitched into the pearlescent fabric shifted like falling snow, gleaming in front of silks that mirrored the auroras in daylight.
And if that didn’t capture the court’s attention, then my crown certainly had; each spire reflected the purples and teals and emerald shades of the night sky.
Smile. Check.
Even though Wynnie had to warn me several times that it looked more like a grimace than anything genuine.
Stand with Draven. Check.
Answer a few questions. Look like a united front. Check. Check.
In practice, it all felt like stepping onto a frozen lake and praying none of the dark shapes beneath the ice noticed the weight settling above them.
Draven’s arm was a solid, unmoving bar beneath my hand, warm through his tailored sleeve, tense enough that I could sense every breath as he held himself in rigid control. His posture, of course, was impeccable, regal, and utterly unreadable to everyone else in the room.
Which was deeply unfair and far more than I could say for myself—with my country manners and eccentric frostbat bracelet that hissed whenever someone came too close.
The worst part was that tonight was only the first step. After this, we were supposed to hold court in truth, something else I was sure Draven would carry off flawlessly while I floundered about like an injured salamander.
Then again, he’d had a lifetime of practice.
So I endured the leviathan-infested waters of the court dinner, praying that my mana didn’t suddenly try to break free and expose itself before we were ready.
Draven, for his part, kept his hand over mine on his arm, his thumb occasionally rubbing the inside of my wrist in a subtle, steadying rhythm as he siphoned off small bits of my mana, doing what he could to eliminate the pressure before it built up to dangerous levels.
And if it also felt like warm silk slipping over the most intimate parts of me… There was nothing I could do about that.
And it didn’t help that my sister was casting teasingly-judgmental glares at me every chance she could get away with it, telling me she knew exactly what I was thinking.
Still, I was grateful she was by my side this time. Facing the court without her had been miserable, and I never wanted to do that again. Something I told her at least seven times per hour.
Soren, of course, was in his element. He had managed to hide the bags under his eyes and the darkness that lurked in his gaze, wrenching himself away from Nevara to help the court she had spent her life keeping in line.
He moved through the crowd with the effortless grace of someone who understood exactly how power flowed through a room, and how to redirect it. With his silver tongue and his honeyed words, he spun stories with such elegant precision and delicious intrigue that even I almost believed them.
“You should have seen her,” he confided to a circle of nobles, lowering his voice just enough to make them lean closer. “The moment the frostbeasts attacked the villagers, she was already at their sides, pulling them to safety. Her mana is stronger than she lets on.”
The nobles straightened when they looked at me. Eyes wide. Respectful. Several bowed as though I’d suddenly become holy.
Soren leaned in closer, lowering his voice dramatically. “Of course, you won’t hear that from her. Her Majesty is far too modest. But I saw it myself.”
“Oh, he’s good,” Wynnie said from behind her glass of Shivermark gin.
Draven scoffed and took another long sip from his own glass before gesturing to a servant for another round.
The Autumn emissary moved again, landing next to another group with all the grace of a leaf elegantly drifting through the breeze.
“And that business at her sister’s estate,” he whispered loudly enough for half the hall to hear, “they tried to keep it quiet. They didn’t want to incite panic, of course. But while our king took on a horde of angry Tharnoks, the queen fought off several monsters on her own.”
Fought off felt like too generous a statement. Not when there was so much screaming and crying and only barely staving off panic attacks involved.
It didn’t help that all I could remember about the attack was the fear and the blood and the bathwater that never felt clean afterward.
But for some reason, the crowd believed Soren. Or at the very least, wanted to. When their gazes turned toward me this time, their expressions held a bit of reverence. I shifted uncomfortably as Draven pressed his thumb against my pulse point once more.
Shadows crept beneath the surface of his skin, faint enough that I was sure only I had noticed. It was still a sobering reminder that I was a far cry from the warrior Soren was making me out to be.
Draven’s spine went rigid, a muscle working in his jaw.
You are not weak, Morta Mea, his words drifted through our bond in that same irritable tone he used when he would speak aloud.
I scoffed, heat rising to my cheeks as I wondered what other thoughts I had inadvertently shared with him this evening, or if he was just intuitive enough to somehow guess where my mind had drifted.
His grip around my wrist tightened. Not enough to be painful, but just enough to demand my attention.
Slowly, I raised my eyes to meet his, watching the auroras dance like flames in his irises. His gaze was unyielding, and it was an effort not to look away.
Impetuous, stubborn, inappropriate, and careless, yes. But not weak.
My stomach gave an uncomfortable lurch.
“That can’t be true,” an obnoxious and all too familiar voice sliced through the room, dragging my attention away from Draven’s furious expression toward a slender female adorned in silver fox furs and a gown that shimmered like starlight.
Lady Thessara’s pale blue brows were arched with even more condescension than usual. Her lips pursed in distaste, her arms crossed in front of her narrow frame.
Of course, she would be the one to argue… And of course she was right, too. She couldn’t even allow me the courtesy of righteous indignation when she was challenging something that was just a hair too close to a lie.
Or felt that way, at least.
“Can’t it?” my sister challenged, and the room went still.
Whether that was from her menacing tone, being the sister of the queen, or merely the status that her position as the Lady of Thistlerun Keep afforded her, I wasn’t sure.
Either way, I was probably more pleased than I should have been when Lady Thessara bristled.
And for a single, blissful moment, I thought she might back down, gently backtrack on this precarious tightrope we were all walking and leave well enough alone… But that was just as futile as hoping Batty might suddenly develop a good singing voice, or that hideous verglas-monkeys didn’t exist.
The female let out a small tutting noise. “I’m sure that Lord Redthorn’s intentions are well-meant. After all, the entire court knows about his friendship with Her Majesty.”
She emphasized the word friendship in a way that sounded far more scandalous than I would have liked. Than my husband would have liked as well, if the ice already creeping across the floor was anything to go by.
Frost damned hells and ever-loving shards above…
This wasn’t going to end well.
Wynnie took several slow steps forward, the sound of her heels striking the icy floors echoing through the room loudly enough for Draven to slow his mana.
“I only meant,” Lady Thessara continued delicately, “that none of us can truly know what occurred at your estate. Strong feelings have a way of… complicating the details.”
“And tell me,” Wynnie said in that dangerous tone of hers. “What exactly would you know about the attack on my estate?”
Lady Thassara’s mouth formed a small, indignant ‘o’. Wynnie didn’t wait for a reply, however. Instead, she continued on like the furious little hurricane she was.
“Do you know what it is like to have your home overrun with frostbeasts? What it’s like to hear the sounds of your friends, your staff, the fae you are supposed to protect, as they are dismembered and disemboweled and eaten alive?”
For a moment, I was back at Thistlerun looking at the carnage. I was once again frozen as the Wretches mocked us with the screams of the dying, as the Tharnok pinned me to the floor, it’s claws ripping through my skin as I prayed that my sister was still alive.
Wynnie took another step forward, her voice once again slicing through the air like a blade.