24. Chapter 24
R en’s breathing sputtered, and sweat soaked the back of her tunic.
The morning sun had long since risen, but the air still bit with a chill that clung to her skin.
Her arms ached from drills, her thighs burned from endless footwork, and her ribs protested every inhale, but she kept moving. Kept pushing.
“Line up!” Ivan’s voice cracked through the air like a whip.
Ren fell into formation. Her eyes flicked down the row of fae warriors and then stilled.
Lucan Brightbane stood across from her, twirling his blade like it was an extension of his ego. His smile was all teeth, and the glint in his eyes sent a familiar churn through her stomach. Dread, yes. But also something else.
Anticipation.
Lucan sauntered forward, blue tunic pristine, his golden hair catching the light like a halo. “I’m going to enjoy tearing you to shreds,” he purred.
Ren rolled her shoulders, planting her boots into the packed earth of the sparring ring. Her knuckles cracked one by one as she flexed her fingers around the hilt of her training blade.
Lucan, smug as ever, looked like he thought this fight was already won .
“Careful,” Ren called back flatly. “Wouldn’t want you to chip one of those perfect teeth when you eat dirt.”
His expression flickered a beat before he lunged.
Steel clashed in a violent crescendo. Lucan’s attacks were fast, furious, meant to overwhelm.
But Ren moved like smoke and fire, ducking, sidestepping, parrying with brutal precision.
She let him believe she was tiring, let him gloat with every near miss.
Then, when he overreached with a wide slash, she twisted under his arm, slammed her boot into the back of his knee, and brought him crashing down.
Ren pinned the tip of her blade at his throat. “Still enjoying yourself?”
Lucan growled, but didn’t move.
She leaned in just slightly. “Next time, don’t underestimate the human from the pits. I’ve fought far worse than you.”
Lucan bared his teeth and shoved her off of him, stumbling to his feet. Noting the stares, he said loudly, “Next time, I won’t go as easy on you.”
Ren fought the urge to roll her eyes as Lucan sauntered off and joined a few other fae.
Ren adjusted her grip on the practice sword as she faced the brown-haired fae from her first day of training.
They circled each other. He was quiet, focused, his brown eyes sharp beneath a furrowed brow. Muscles coiled beneath his tunic as he moved, measured and efficient. Not flashy like Lucan, but dangerous all the same.
Ren struck first, feinting low before pivoting and slashing high. He blocked it, steel singing against steel.
“You always come out swinging?” he asked.
Ren grinned wickedly. “Only when I know I’m being underestimated.”
They clashed again. Back and forth they went, grunting, spinning, parrying. The ring filled with the sound of blades and boots scuffing dirt. Ren landed a strike to his ribs; he caught her off guard with a swift kick that knocked her balance. They both panted, sweat dripping.
Neither willing to yield.
But it was his endurance that won out. Just as Ren launched one last impulsive strike, he twisted, locked her wrist, and swept her legs from under her. She hit the ground with a grunt, sword skidding out of reach .
Before she could push herself up, a gloved hand appeared in front of her. She eyed it warily.
“Take it,” he muttered.
With a sigh, she clasped it. He pulled her up in one swift motion.
“Name’s Elric,” he said, releasing her hand. “You fight decently… for someone with your odds.”
“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I suppose it is.”
Ren trudged up the stone steps and out of the sparring pit, every muscle in her body aching like it had been wrung out and hung to dry. Her arms felt like lead, her legs wobbled with each step, and her knuckles were still raw from sparring. All she could think about was a bath. A long one.
She reached her chamber door and shoved it open, already peeling her sweat-soaked tunic over her head when a knock sounded at her door.
Ren stared at the gown like it might bite her.
It lay draped across the bed like a trap, midnight blue velvet, off-the-shoulder, with embroidered silver designs curling along the bodice.
The handmaiden who delivered it had said nothing, only placed it on the mattress with the careful reverence of someone handling something enchanted. Maybe it was. Maybe if Ren wore it, she’d lose what little sense she had left.
There was a note folded atop the dress that read:
Ren,
Blue doesn’t suit me.
But on you? It might just look decent. For a mortal.
—Her Royal Highness Princess Kaelin of House Vaelaran
Ren unfolded the letter again, her eyes skimming over the words for a second time. By the time she reached the end, she let out a laugh, unable to stop herself. Gods, the sheer arrogance, she thought wryly .
She crumpled the letter in her fist before tearing it clean in one go, the pieces scattering like petals as they hit the floor. Crossing her arms, she glared at the dress.
“I ought to burn this damn thing and send the ashes straight to Her Royal Highness.”
Outside the high window, bells tolled in the city, counting down the hour until the Winter Solstice ball. Until Ren would be expected to smile and drink and pretend she didn’t want to throttle half the fae court.
Ren exhaled sharply and paced the room. She didn’t belong there. Not in Kaelin or Talen’s world.
But she had to go. Zakhar’s words echoed in her mind, about how the Witherblight might not be as natural as everyone believed.
A cold unease settled in her chest. The Witherblight spread so quickly, the elixir’s price so impossibly high; none of it felt like coincidence. And Ren couldn’t shake the suspicion gnawing at her gut that whoever was responsible was right here, behind the glittering walls of this very court.
Still. She eyed the gown again like it might sprout fangs. Perhaps Kaelin enchanted it to do just that, and it would take a swipe at Ren when she let her guard down.
“She can go to hell,” she eventually muttered, grabbing the fabric like it insulted her ancestors and tossing it aside.
Ren’s fingers closed around a green gown tucked in the back of the armoire. Simple, elegant, and modest enough, aside from the sharp dip at the neckline that left a bold sweep of cleavage exposed.
She glanced back at the velvet blue dress sprawled across the bed, opulent and perfect and undeniably Kaelin’s style.
Through gritted teeth, she decided, “I’m doing this on my terms.”
Then she turned her back on it and yanked the green gown from its hanger like drawing a blade from its sheath.
“Green does wonders for redheads,” Mirella declared as Ren stepped out from behind the folding screen. “Earthy and moody, perfect for a grounded but bold look.”
Ren scowled at her reflection. “I feel like a plucked pheasant.”
“You look divine,” Mirella corrected .
Ren tugged at the bodice, glaring down as though sheer will might summon her leathers back onto her frame. “I don’t know why I’m even going to this cursed thing.”
“The Winter Solstice Ball? Only the most opulent event in the kingdom’s calendar?
It’s not just any celebration, darling. The Winter Solstice Ball marks the longest night of the year.
It is a night when the Veil between realms is said to thin, when old pacts are renewed and new ones are forged.
Deals sealed under the solstice moon are believed to last a lifetime. ”
Mirella’s tone softened, almost conspiratorial.
“Which makes it the perfect night for politics dressed as revelry… and perhaps, for truths to come to light where no one expects them.” Her voice chirped up.
“At any rate, the royal family adores it. Especially Her Royal Highness.” A knowing lilt colored her tone.
“She has a particular affection for her balls and her dancing.”
Ren’s lips twitched. “She sure does. I’ve been here for two months now and can only imagine how much coin she designates to hosting these insufferable balls. If you asked me, they could use that coin for something far more helpful for the realm.”
She crossed to the window, arms folded, eyes tracing the curve of the mountains beyond the palace walls. A gust of wind rattled the frosted glass. Down in the garden, torches flickered to life, preparation for the evening’s revelry.
“With her footwork,” Mirella went on, undeterred, “I daresay Her Highness could make a rather skilled swordfighter.”
Ren snorted. “Please. She’s probably never so much as lifted a blade.”
“Perhaps. But if she ever did… she’d be a force to reckon with.”
“Why bother? She has others do her fighting for her.”
Mirella didn’t answer at first. Only watched as Ren pulled her copper-red hair into a loose half-up twist.
“I’ve known Her Highness since she was a youngling. She enchanted me herself, you know. Not for vanity. Not for fun. But because she had no one else to speak to. No friends. Not even her guards would meet her eyes back then.”
Ren listened quietly. That wasn’t the version of the fae princess the court whispered about .
“She barely spoke aloud until she was eight,” Mirella continued. “Her magic frightened people. It was too wild. There’s more to her than you see. Far more than even she lets on.”
And though Ren rolled her eyes, grumbling something about manipulative royals and overly talkative wardrobes, she couldn’t shake the image of the fae princess alone as a youngling, giving life to a wardrobe for the chance to speak to someone, to anyone.
Mirella hummed thoughtfully, her fabric-laced voice drifting.
“And the prince was always running off to the training yards with scraped-up knees and a sword too heavy for his arms. When he wasn’t swinging blades, he was buried nose-deep in texts.
He’d train until his hands bled, then sit in the library and read until the candlewax melted.
He once tried to write a treaty between two fictional kingdoms in the margins of a swordsmanship manual.
Said it was a test of diplomacy and precision. ”
“That sounds insufferable.”
“It was,” Mirella agreed. “But he had this maddening sort of patience and wanted to hone his diplomacy skills, even at a young age. Talen always wanted to be the kind of leader his father is.”
Ren turned from the mirror, rolling her shoulders. “Sounds like a royal problem.”
“And yet, you’ve been rather entangled in their royal problems of late, haven’t you?”
Ren shot her a look. “Don’t start.”
The wardrobe gave a theatrical sigh. “Fine, fine. Off you go, then. Try not to look like you’re walking to your own execution.”
Ren didn’t respond. Her gaze drifted back to her own reflection. Her hair, brushed and pinned back from her face, her freckles dusted across her cheeks, and her shoulders bare and tense.
She sighed. “Let’s get this over with.”
As she stepped out into the hallway, the air shifted, carrying with it the scent of snow, spice, and rosewood. The palace pulsed with life. Fae servants flitted from corridor to corridor, laughter and music seeping from grand archways.
The ballroom doors loomed ahead, massive and intricately carved. The guards stationed at the entry gave Ren a skeptical once-over. One of them smirked, as though amused by the sight of a mortal dressed in royal splendor .
Ren clicked her tongue. “Your jaw’s hanging open.” Ren leaned in, whispering, “Don’t worry. I’m still dangerous.” she winked. “Just shinier .”
He cleared his throat, grumbling, “Just go in,” before stepping aside.
The doors opened.
And once again, Ren stepped into a world she had no business entering.