Chapter 14
Alora
Sunlight streamed in through the stained-glass window of her mother’s workshop, pouring a rainbow of light over the table of plants growing on the stand beneath.
Alora sat on her mother’s lap, her legs dangling over the edge of the chair as Salvia turned the pages of a picture book bound in soft green velvet. The illustrations shimmered faintly, as though coated with fairy dust.
She gazed in awe at the illustration of a majestic tree with silver bark and sapphire leaves. The petals shone like blue stars.
“Do you see, my sweet bud?” her mother whispered, tracing a finger over the page. “This is the tree of fate. It grows in the unlikeliest of places, where the gods roam and the stars weep.”
Alora leaned closer, eyes wide. “Can we see it in person?”
Her mother chuckled softly, brushing back a strand of Alora’s hair. “One day, perhaps. If you’re very brave.”
She closed the book, her hand resting on the cover embossed with a strange symbol. Her fingers trembled for a moment. Her mother’s eyes misted, but then she smiled and kissed Alora’s forehead.
“What does brave mean?” Alora asked.
“Oh, my sweet flower child.” Her mother plucked a pink primrose from one of the pots and tucked it behind Alora’s ear. “To be brave means doing the right thing, even when you’re scared…”
Alora woke with her cheek pressed against an open book. She had arrived in the library before dawn. Now it was bright, every window uncovered, streaming in full sunlight.
No shadows lingered here.
Yawning, she sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. It had been some time since she last dreamt of her mother. Maybe because she needed every encouragement she could to face the outcome of today.
Tonight, there would be a new moon.
And the rise of Argyle’s rebellion against Calveron.
Her chest tightened with anxiety, and she frowned at the scab on her finger. Still pink and healing where she had pricked it. There were always consequences to every choice, but Alora had to assume this one would be worth it.
For she had carefully laid out every facet of her plan.
The open book before her was ancient, its yellowed pages marked with curling script she had labored to decipher. What drew her most were the drawings of the Seven Gates, each one belonging to a different god. It had taken her days to put together a plan.
The question was, would it work?
Her mother’s journal lay beside the tome, open to another passage half-consumed by frantic letters and tangled ink. The words she could make out left her clammy.
A formless shadow awaits…
…the needle must drink …
She cannot breathe…
… blood blooms sing…
He watches…
… in the moon’s red eye…
He is coming…
A shudder passed through Alora’s chest. What horror had twisted her mother’s mind so far? Alora’s gaze clung to those last words, so deeply etched they had torn through the parchment:
He is coming.
A cold draft brushed her shoulders.
The door to the library thudded open, making Alora jump.
She slipped the journal into her satchel and looked up as her father entered.
At his side strode a woman in flowing robes of deep garnet, the hems stitched with golden sunbursts that caught the firelight.
Her hair was a blaze of copper, curling past her shoulders, and her eyes burned like molten amber.
She stood with quiet assurance, one hand curled around the leather reins of the great griffin beside her. Its feathers were layered in soft browns and weathered grays, the gentle flutter of wings settling. The creature clicked its sharp beak once, its low screech carrying in the vaulted library.
“Alora,” Laurent began, “This is Lady Solara, a sorceress from the Magos Empire, and Grand Magus of the Sun Guild. She has agreed to lend her magic on behalf of Argyle.”
The sorceress inclined her head with quiet poise.
“Thank you for delaying your journey to help us,” Alora said, bowing in turn. “We are deeply grateful.”
When she had first told her father of her plan, Laurent’s anger had been swift, and he’d dismissed it as stupidity.
But the moment she revealed Rune’s weakness, his expression shifted.
That was when he mentioned a sorceress who had visited Argyle in the winter. Fortune, it seemed, had kept her here.
Perhaps at last, the Seven were deigned to grant their blessing. For Lady Solara was the last piece upon Alora’s game board.
“In truth, I had not meant to stay this long,” Solara admitted, her eyes sweeping the library with confusion.
“On the morrow I must leave for Ledoga. Another commission awaits me there, on behalf of the Archmage.” Her gaze returned to Alora.
“King Laurent has explained your plan in great detail. It is bold, princess, if not rash. I will help with what you have asked, but I will take no part in the bloodshed.”
Alora respected that. “May I ask,” she said carefully, “why did you agree to help us?”
Argyle could not afford the commission of a Grand Magus. They had no coin to tempt her.
Solara’s lips curved thoughtfully. “I suppose it is due to my House. My family has a saying. ‘The sun rises for all.’ It means our gifts were never meant for only ourselves, but for the betterment of everyone.”
Alora smiled. “What is the name of your House?”
“Fuego.” Solara’s answering smile was brief but warm before she bowed and swept through the doors, the crimson hems of her robes trailing like firelight.
When she was gone, Alora turned back to her father.
“Find what you were looking for?” Laurent asked, glancing at the pile of books on the table.
“I did.”
He looked up at the streams of sunlight and nodded. “Then this is quite frankly our last hope. If you say making a deal with the shadows will save us, then the last of our army will march. Either to victory or to our doom.”
Alora took another breath, something shaking in her chest. It had taken her exactly three days to prepare, and now everything was set.
Commander Basile and Admiral Alder entered the library and stayed by the doors, dressed for war.
Both had immediately agreed to lead the resistance.
Admiral Alder especially had been eager to reclaim his home.
They had been waiting for their king to see reason.
A hive of nerves settled in Alora’s chest. She prayed this would work.
“Then everyone is in position?” she asked her father.
He nodded. “They lay in wait for my command. At sundown, we take the fight to Calveron.” Laurent turned to go, but she caught the edge of his sleeve.
“Father…thank you for trusting me with this.” She swallowed, lowering her gaze. “I know I’m not Rihan, and the lords question you for taking a chance on my plan, but I… have only ever wanted to make you proud of me.”
King Laurent paused for a breath, then he turned.
Gently, he took her hand in both of his.
They were calloused by the use of a sword, but warm.
The corners of his mouth softened, his brow easing with the affection in his gaze.
For a moment, in the glow of the afternoon light, he almost looked as he had in her childhood.
“You have always made me proud, Alora,” he said softly. “I simply failed to show it. When this is over, I would like to find our way back to those days where I knew how to be a father to my little girl.”
Her chest tightened.
She hadn’t expected him to say that. Not in those words.
“I was beside myself when your mother died,” he went on, his voice rougher now. “I didn’t know how to raise you without her, how to protect you without…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “Sending you to the Midlands … it was best for you.”
“It made me feel like I didn’t matter,” she admitted faintly. “As though you wished to start your life over without me.”
He sighed, pain creasing the corners of his eyes. “I’m sorry for that. I know you thought it unjust, but there was a reason why it had to be so.”
She searched his eyes and found honesty. “Can you tell me why?”
Her father fell quiet for a moment, looking pensive. Worry creased his face but also admiration. “You have shown great resilience in these past few days. I suppose you are ready to understand.” In a rare show of affection, he brushed the golden-brown locks from her temple.
It meant a great deal to Alora, that her father was hearing her now and allowing her to lead. And that was more than anyone had ever given her.
Alora hesitated, then said, “I’m still a child of Argyle, father. Your child. I will fight for our people with you. And one day, perhaps… I could be worthy enough to be your heir.”
Laurent froze, then his hand slowly drew away.
“Unless, of course, you have plans for another son.” She cringed, the words tumbling before she could hold them back.
Truthfully, she didn’t care about ruling Argyle. All she wanted was to belong. To matter, instead of tumbling around with no true purpose.
Her father studied her for a long moment.
Then, finally, he placed a hand on her shoulder.
“I see your mother in you more and more each day,” Laurent murmured.
His fingers briefly brushed her head, something like a blessing, and gave her a warm smile.
“The Seven willing, should we survive to see the dawn… then we’ll speak of the future. ”
He turned and strode out, leaving Alora staring after him, her heart a little lighter, but somehow steadier.
The castle guards opened the library doors wide for their king, but Queen Delphi waited beyond.
“How can you do this?” she seethed at him. “Defying Calveron will get us all killed. For all our sakes, let them have her. I beg you, Laurent. Listen to me!”
But her father marched on without speaking to her and Delphi spun around, her angry eyes fixing on Alora like knives, deep violet like the poisonous delphiniums she was named after. Her fists shook, fingers digging into her black mourning gown.
Delphi’s hiss carried through the library. “You’re a curse on us all.”
The library doors thudded shut, sealing Alora inside like a tomb.
She flinched. The queen’s words sank sharp as barbs, lodging in her mind. Was she dooming Argyle with her plan? Her stomach twisted.
Before the thought could root too deep, a hand closed gently around her wrist and tugged her behind the tall shelves. She gasped, wide-eyed, until she found herself staring into Caelum’s familiar face.
“Do not heed her,” he said quietly, his voice steady, resolute. “All of Argyle stands with you, Alora. You’ve given us hope again.”
Her throat tightened, the weight in her chest growing instead of easing.
Caelum was armored for battle, sword at his hip. He believed her plan could succeed, even when she herself wavered.
Alora wrapped her arms around herself. “Even when that hope puts you on the front lines?”
“I fight for our home, for which I march gladly.”
His certainty struck her harder than fear. She had never seen a battlefield, never watched blood soak into stone, never given an order that might cost a life. And yet here he stood, unflinching, carrying her fragile hope as if it were a banner worth dying for.
Alora swallowed, knowing this was what bravery truly asked of her. Not courage without fear, but faith placed in others when her own hands trembled because there was no other option but to fight.
“I have been meaning to return this.” Caelum reached into his cloak and withdrew the crimson spindle.
Alora’s mouth parted with a soft breath. She thought her father had seized it the night he found her in Salvia’s old dressing chambers.
“Oh, thank you!” She took it carefully, its familiar weight and warmth falling into her palm.
He nodded. “It seemed important to you.”
“It belonged to my mother,” Alora sighed, holding it to her chest. There wasn’t much she had left of her now. “I am most grateful. How can I repay you?”
Caelum paused for a breath, then lowered onto one knee and took her hand. “If I may be so bold, princess, may I ask for your favor?”
Alora stilled, her hand stiffening. “Favor?”
His smile was faint, solemn. “A knight bears his lady’s token into battle. If you would grant me yours, I would carry it as my strength.”
In his eyes she saw the longing he no longer hid. Affection she could not return, not anymore. Guilt coiled sharp in her chest as she thought of Theia. He should be asking for her favor.
“Caelum…”
“I may not see the dawn, princess,” he said teasingly. “Could you grant me this one wish?”
Her stomach twisted tighter. Caelum was marching to risk his life, answering her father’s command, obeying the plan she had set in motion. To deny him felt cruel.
With a sigh, Alora slipped the handkerchief from her sleeve and pressed it into his palm. “Then let it remind you of Argyle,” she said gently, “and the duty you carry.”
Caelum’s fingers curled around the cloth as though it were sacred. He tucked it beneath his breastplate, smiling broadly, so heartbreakingly sweet that dread coiled in her chest like smoke.
“So, it shall. By the Seven, I will not fail you.”