Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
The following morning, as I mount my horse and patiently wait for the caravan to take off, I hear the sound of approaching hoofbeats to my right.
Wrath pulls his horse beside mine. His armor bears several marks, each a testament to the numerous battles he’s survived.
A heavy fur-lined cloak drapes over his shoulders, his left hand resting lazily on the hilt of his sword.
I am about to speak when he pulls off his leather gloves and extends them to me. The gesture catches me slightly off guard, and I stare at them momentarily before reaching out. “Thank you,” I say softly.
His gaze lowers to my hands. A flush of embarrassment rips through me as I pull on the gloves.
I know he’s looking at the scars and bruises.
Everyone stares at them. I hate the marks Margaret left on my skin; they are ghastly and decrepit.
Once the gloves conceal my insecurity, I push out a quick breath of relief.
Wrath says nothing as he rides off, the army following in his wake.
The group maintains a swift and unforgiving pace, causing the soreness in my legs from yesterday to resurface with a vengeful ache.
As I endure the discomfort, I take in the surroundings, wondering where we are.
The flat and open field looked identical to the previous day’s passing landscape, leading me to believe we’d made no progress.
I wipe the sweat from my brow, the sun’s unforgiving rays beating down on us without the cover of trees.
Taryn slows her pace to match mine, a smile on her face as she takes in my state.
“Hello, Taryn.”
“How are we feeling?” she asks, seemingly more friendly than yesterday.
“Sore.” I deadpan. “Where are we?”
“Still in the flatlands,” she replies. “The lack of water makes it difficult to grow anything; the soil is dry, and the summers are quite challenging to shelter from. Humans abandoned trying to inhabit these lands a long time ago. Therefore, it makes a good traveling route for us.”
“Interesting…” I say under my breath, looking at the land.
Taryn snickers beside me. “You’ve never traveled, Princess?”
“I have not.”
She passes me the canteen of water. “Well, you’ll see many things on our way back to Khalessor.”
I drink, clinging onto the cool metal for as long as possible before returning it to Taryn. “You were in the gardens that night I spoke to the king.”
“I was.”
“You said you wanted to kill me when we first met, and now you’re being kind to me,” I continue, hoping she understands what I’m implying.
“I trust King Wrath with my life,” Taryn says confidently. “He told me to guard you. Therefore, I will.”
“Why?”
“I owe everything to him.” Taryn’s demeanor softens.
“When humans raided my village near Corovya, I was only sixteen. They lit our houses with fire to draw us out, performed rituals to sever us from our magic, then slaughtered us.” Her eyes burn with an intense fury.
“My mother hid my sister and me in the food storage underneath our home while blood leaked through the floorboards and onto us for hours until the carnage ended.”
“Taryn…”
“King Wrath found us three days later on the brink of starvation. I was too weak to walk. He carried us to the camp and insisted the healer save us when others said we were too far gone.” She releases a deeply held breath. “I have devoted my life to serving him.”
“I’m—”
She cuts me off. “Do not apologize. Simply observe and form your own opinions.”
I consider her words. There are many things I don’t know about the Elvarrans, as my father forbade me to learn anything about them.
Ulrik raised me to believe they are my enemy, but it is clear I have much to discover about their way of life.
I will never trust them fully, but perhaps I can delve deeper into uncovering why they fight this war.
“Why are you the only female in the royal guard?” I pivot the conversation.
“I killed the king of Nythara.” Taryn attempts to hide her smirk, but I can see her beaming with pride.
I enjoy how spirited and passionate Taryn is when she speaks—a rare trait and clear indication of a true warrior. I admire her strength, how she was able to persist past the grief to blaze her own trail.
“Do tell.”
Taryn’s smile widens. “I scaled the keep and broke through the window leading into the castle’s solar.
The king was attempting to flee into the underground tunnels when I arrived.
” She makes a noise of annoyance. “What a coward! You couldn’t even fight honorably when so many others gave their lives to protect you? ”
“I agree,” I reply as we continue to ride. “How did you scale the castle wall?”
“I’m more of a scout than a soldier,” Taryn explains. “The king usually sends me ahead to sneak into places and get a lay of the land.”
That must be how they were able to infiltrate Cathros’s castle.
The landscape around us shifts as we descend the hill.
The trees are black and lifeless, their branches wilting, and the bushes are withered clumps of thorns, leaving a hollow and unsettling feeling as we pass.
A pungent, metallic odor causes me to scrunch up my nose in displeasure; the scent is unfamiliar and unnatural.
As we travel deeper, I spot the remnants of an incinerated village.
Pieces of ash still lay on the ground, stirring slightly from the breeze.
I wonder if this forest burned recently, taking the town with it.
Was it a human or Elvarran village? The destruction is devastating either way.
People lost their lives, the wildlife of the forest destroyed, and still, war rages on.
Now more than ever, I realize the world is dangerous and vast beyond my wildest imagination.
My father may have tried to protect me behind those walls, fearful of what may happen to me, but choosing to live in fear is a choice.
Protection is a farce, stability an illusion, safety a false prayer we tell ourselves to sleep at night.
The veil has lifted, and no longer shall I remain in the dark.
My body sags from exhaustion as we ride into camp, begging for rest. I dismount my horse, pulling the reins over and patting the mare’s neck a few times in my thanks.
An Elvarran takes the reins from me and ties the horse to a post, allowing me to walk to Wrath’s tent.
As I enter, I see Wrath pluck a cork from a bottle of wine and pour himself a glass.
I move to the small cot, plopping down ungracefully to yank off my boots. With an exhausted sigh, I drop them beside me and roll my sore ankles out. I thoroughly enjoy riding, but the length of this journey is wearing me down.
“Raelys.”
“Yes?” I glance up at him.
“Would you like some wine?” he asks, adjusting his sleeves lower.
I study him. For someone who spent all day riding, his appearance is immaculate—hair brushed back, a renegade lock over his temple.
His black coat is smooth and wrinkle-free.
Somehow, his boots are polished while mine are dusty and muddy.
His offer surprises me. It could be a trick, but I’m too exhausted to care.
A little wine would ease the soreness and help me fall asleep quickly.
“I would.”
Pulling off my heavy cloak, I toss it to the side.
I unweave my frizzy braid, untangling the long strands.
Once I feel the relief on my scalp, I approach Wrath.
He pours wine into a slightly dented tin cup and hands it to me.
I take a long swig from it, trying not to let the displeasure show on my face.
I now understand what Valentin meant when he said the wine he had while traveling tasted like piss.
I am in no position to complain, though.
Wrath reaches out, taking my mother’s pendant between his fingers. “Where did you get this?” he asks, running his thumb over the left wing on the crest. Wrath looms over me as we stand beside one another. I’m a bit taller than the average woman, but Wrath is still a head higher.
“It was my mother’s,” I reply pensively. A cold feeling spreads through my chest. The memory of her loss will forever haunt me.
“Your mother was House Izydor?”
I don’t reply.
The itch of magic slinks at the back of my throat, snaking its way into me. “No—!” I protest, clenching my jaw together as I step back.
“No?”
“You will not use your magic to force me to speak,” I demand.
No matter what I try, I slowly succumb to the magic as I try to fight against it.
I grit my teeth, press my lips together, and bite my tongue, but it’s useless.
“My mother is Isla Izydor,” I say against my will, my chest heaving for breath.
“Your mother was the last of her line.” Wrath’s brows draw together. Intensity radiates off of him like a storm on the verge of breaking, striking fear into me.
I fight against it, shaking my head as I grip the table for stability. My lungs gasp for air that doesn’t come. “I was born out of wedlock,” I say, the magic wrestling my answer from me.
My father lost his first wife, Queen Thalia Valantis, to an infection and never remarried. He met in secret for years with Queen Isla Izydor of Rykaris, resulting in my birth. My veins carry royal blood from two great houses, but I am an illegitimate heir born outside of a union.
Valentin is my half-brother, but I love him just the same.
My father forced me to swear an oath of secrecy.
He did his best to make me appear as his second daughter, despite me looking nothing like Thalia, who had chestnut brown hair the same shade as Valentin’s.
We did share our blue eyes, but my pale blonde hair made me stick out compared to the portraits in the halls of House Valantis.
“This means—”
I cut him off. “Enough!” Irritation lines my voice. “You cannot rip my secrets from me against my will.”
“House Izydor is an Elvarran line.” Wrath ignores me, his face exasperatingly placid.
“Are you suggesting I’m half-Elvarran?” I ask impulsively, despite not wanting to know the answer.
The question gnaws at the edges of my thoughts, eating into one of the things I desire the most. I miss my mother every day. I cling to what little memories I have of her. If Wrath finds out how much I wish to know more about her, he will use it as leverage against me.
“You are.”
“I don’t remember my mother having pointed ears,” I counter, recalling her features from memory.
“Your memory deceives you.” He studies my face, scanning each feature as he tries to spot similarities to Isla.
“It doesn’t change anything,” I lie.
Wrath stole one of my deepest and most guarded secrets.
I’m caught fast in his web, every thread pulled taut to remind me who holds the power.
I am no person—just prey dressed in silk, struggling against the strands that tighten the more I resist. The familiar sting of helplessness rushes through me, burning beneath my skin.
“This changes everything,” he counters.
“You do not get to dictate that.” I cling to the fading remnants of my freedom.
“The magic does.”
“I knew there were ulterior motives when you demanded I come with you.” I slam my empty cup down on the table.
Turning, I move to walk away. Wrath catches my wrist in his grip, stopping me. A burst of magic shoots through my arm, igniting every nerve on my skin as it attunes to his will. It sends chills down my spine as the world closes in around us.
“Raelys.”
“I will never trust you,” I snap.
“I don’t need you to.” His voice is low.
“Then what do you want from me?” I rip my wrist from his grasp. The sensation of his magic fades from the broken connection. I hate this mark. There must be a way to rid me of this shackle, or I will never be free.
Wrath doesn’t answer my question.