Chapter 3
ILYRA
The market basket weighs heavier than usual against my hip as I climb the worn stone steps to our door.
Turnips, a small wheel of hard cheese, barley flour—the same modest provisions Father sends me for each week.
But tucked beneath the coarse cloth, wrapped in brown paper, lies my real purchase: dried elderflower and honey-mint leaves.
The herbalist promised they'd soothe the worst coughs.
Father's been in bed since dawn, that terrible rattling sound echoing from his room every few minutes. Each cough seems to tear something loose inside his chest.
I push through the front door, already planning how I'll steep the tea—hot but not boiling, just long enough to release the oils. The sitting room stops me cold.
A stranger occupies Father's chair. Tall, unnervingly graceful, with skin the color of ash and silver-blond hair tied precisely at his nape. His violet eyes assess me like I'm livestock at auction. Dark leathers and fine silks mark him as Undercity nobility, though his presence here makes no sense.
Two guards flank the doorway—silent, armored shadows that make our modest room feel cramped.
Vaelra rises from the settee, her smile stretched too wide. "There she is. Lord Hethryn, this is Ilyra."
The stranger unfolds from Father's chair with liquid grace, his gaze never leaving my face. I clutch the basket tighter.
"Who are you?" The words escape before I can stop them. "Why are you here? Where's my father?"
"Ilyra." Vaelra's voice carries warning wrapped in silk. "Lord Hethryn has traveled a considerable distance to visit us. Brew some tea for our guests."
"But these leaves are for Father—"
"It doesn't matter." She gestures toward the kitchen alcove. "We have company."
The elderflower crinkles in its paper wrapping as I set the basket down. Father needs this tea. He's been coughing blood into his sleeves when he thinks no one notices.
"The special leaves?" I try again. "They're medicinal. For his cough."
"Ilyra." Vaelra's tone sharpens. "The tea. Now."
I sigh, shoulders sagging as I move toward the kitchen. The guards' eyes track my movement while their master settles back into Father's chair like he owns it.
"Remarkable," Lord Hethryn murmurs, though he speaks to Vaelra as if I'm not standing three feet away. "Such quiet obedience. Most humans require... encouragement."
My hands still on the tea kettle. The way he says 'humans' makes my skin crawl—like we're a different species entirely.
"She's always been well-behaved." Vaelra's laugh sounds brittle. "A credit to her upbringing."
I fill the kettle with water, trying to ignore how Lord Hethryn's violet gaze follows every movement. The elderflower leaves whisper against their paper as I unwrap them, their sweet scent rising like a prayer for Father's relief.
"And her lineage?" His voice carries the casual interest of someone appraising breeding stock. "Both parents human, I assume?"
"Naturally." Vaelra smooths her skirts. "Though her father's family has deep roots in the settlement."
The kettle trembles in my grip. What does my bloodline matter to a dark elf lord?
Steam rises from the teapot as I pour the amber liquid into our best cups—chipped porcelain that once belonged to Father's mother. The elderflower's sweet scent mingles with honey-mint, creating the perfect remedy for Father's cough. Instead, I'm serving it to strangers.
"Lord Hethryn," Vaelra's voice carries from the sitting room, pitched low but not quite whispered. "I believe a union between our households would prove... mutually beneficial."
The teacup slips in my grip, porcelain clinking against the saucer. Union? I press myself against the doorframe, heart hammering.
"Your settlement faces increasing pressure from trade restrictions," Lord Hethryn replies, his tone conversational as if discussing weather. "Protection becomes more... challenging to guarantee."
"Exactly." Vaelra leans forward, her voice gaining urgency. "Ilyra would make an excellent bride. She's young, healthy, obedient—"
"And what assurances would such an arrangement provide?"
"Trade privileges. Safe passage for our goods. Perhaps even expanded quotas?"
My knees nearly buckle. They're bartering me like a sack of grain.
Heavy footsteps creak on the stairs. Father appears in the doorway, still in his nightclothes but standing straighter than I've seen him in weeks. His eyes take in the scene—the dark elf in his chair, the guards by his door, Vaelra's guilty expression.
"What's this about?" His voice cuts through the room's tension like a blade.
Vaelra's composure falters. "Edric, you should be resting—"
"I heard voices." His gaze fixes on Lord Hethryn, who rises with predatory grace. "Strange voices in my home."
Lord Hethryn's smile spreads thin as winter ice. "Ah, the patriarch awakens. We were discussing your daughter's future."
"Were you?" Father moves to stand between the dark elf and me, though I remain frozen in the kitchen doorway. "And what future would that be?"
"A prosperous one," Vaelra interjects, desperation creeping into her tone. "Lord Hethryn has made a generous offer—"
"No." Father's voice brooks no argument. "Absolutely not."
Lord Hethryn's violet eyes gleam with amusement. "How noble. Though I wonder, Master Dain, how long such nobility can protect your household." He gestures toward the modest room, the worn furniture, the threadbare curtains. "Protection cannot be guaranteed forever. Circumstances... change."
The threat hangs in the air like smoke. Lord Hethryn collects his cloak with fluid movements, nodding to his guards. They file toward the door with military precision.
As he passes the kitchen doorway, Lord Hethryn pauses. His shoulder brushes mine deliberately, close enough that I smell expensive oils and something darker—like metal left too long in rain.
"Consider my offer, Ilyra," he murmurs, my name rolling off his tongue like a possession already claimed. "I am not known for my patience."
The door closes behind them with finality that makes my bones ache.
"Short-sighted fool!" Vaelra whirls on Father, her careful composure shattering. "Do you have any idea what you've just thrown away? What you've cost us?"
Father sinks into his chair, the effort of standing so long finally catching up. "I've cost us nothing we can't afford to lose."
"Nothing?" Vaelra's voice climbs toward hysteria. "Protection, trade privileges, security for our future—"
A coughing fit cuts off Father's response. His whole body convulses as that terrible rattling sound tears from his chest. I rush to his side, abandoning the tea tray.
"Easy," I whisper, steadying his shoulders as the coughs subside. "Here."
I press the last cup of elderflower tea into his hands—the one I'd saved for him. He takes a careful sip, his breathing gradually evening out.
"My brave Illy," he murmurs, his weathered hand covering mine. "You don't need to worry about being married off. You'll marry for love, someday, just like I did."
I offer a smile of encouragement. I know he loved my mother, though I never knew her. But when I think of him and Vaelra, it becomes impossible to think that it's love that ties them together.
But, then again, what do I know of love?