Chapter 28
P erhaps it was foolish for me to insist the guards remain with the carriage, but I’ve never allowed fear to stop me from traveling on my own, and I don’t intend to start now. Plus, the city is so densely packed with bodies that if a rogue fool found themselves brave enough to raise a hand to me, they’d be committing to do it in front of everyone.
I leave the guards behind as I cut my way through the Harvest Festival. The city is strung with lights—lanterns notched on every post, displayed in every windowsill, bathing the capital in a sea of gold. Lining both sides of the streets are tents upon tents of vendors selling small trinkets, fruits and vegetables from the summer harvest, freshly baked breads and jams, and jewelry crafted from fine minerals and precious metals. Not a single alley escapes the zeal of the merchants, or the excitable giggles from young children as their eyes swell to the size of cannons at the sight of flower crowns, candies encrusted in hard sugar and drizzled with caramel, and ribbons of every color laid about the tables and more strung from the supports of the tents.
Music flows into the street, the notes of fiddles bleeding into the deep rumbling of drums, women’s voices meeting the soft notes of a harp. As I move throughout the crowd, it would be impossible to not be acutely aware of the elves mingling throughout. Even if their pointed ears didn’t distinguish them from the rest of the residents, their ethereality would. It’s not simply their clear skin that’s not been aged from sunlight, or their long limbs that have grown lithe from living amongst nature, or their spines that are pin straight… it’s their very movement that is celestial.
It's a strange sight, elves and transcendents and humans drinking and chattering amongst themselves. Although most of the elves stay within their own groups, they are still here . The humans are at least tolerating their presence, and they certainly appreciate the crops and delicacies their blessing brought based on how they patronize the tents.
Transcendents intermingling at any kind of public event is an anomaly all itself. My heart weighs heavy in my chest at the sight of it, and my throat swells as I allow myself to imagine, for a fleeting moment, a future where my family didn’t have to hide what they are. Didn’t have to hunker down in a remote cabin in the woods every night as the rest of the isle celebrated trivial wins, while shifters were merely grateful no one hunted them that afternoon.
It takes me a while to make my way to the market center, my curiosity allowing me to grow bolder and peruse some of the booths, sampling some of the candies and decadent cheeses. But I know it isn’t just the delectable food that has me slowing my pace.
I hurt Sin. And Bonded or not, hurting him cuts me deeper than if I had plunged a blade into my own gut. I’ve endured many harsh seasons in my life, from being betrayed by my parents, captured and made a prisoner, forced to suppress the beast that howls in my veins, and yet, not being able to tell Sin why I’ve pulled away from him is easily my darkest regret.
But if I am to be Her Black Grace, that means I am inheriting more than just the Black Art’s station. I am gaining his subjects, his people.
Our people.
That thought sends me back on my path, and I quicken my steps down the cobblestone street until it spills into the capital’s large market center. In the middle of the circle is a large dais that was carted in, a deep burgundy rug spanning the wooden platform beneath three, wing-backed chairs forged from blackened steel and adorned with quilted padding.
Sin sits in the middle chair, one elbow propped on the arm rest as he casually rubs the underside of his jaw, his legs spread wide in a position that cries power. The very word thrums through me as I drink him in, the hard planes of his chest accentuated by the tight leather and buckled straps of his cuirass, the thick muscles of his thighs highlighted by his tailored pants, his long, black hair flowing over his shoulders and grazing his abdomen… Sin is more than a warlord. More than the Black Art.
Singard Kilbreth is a god, and the only one I will ever get on my knees for again.
Ileana sits in the chair to his right, an absolute goddess in the flesh in her own right, too. A dress of deep green fits snugly around her, the silver beading along the square neckline matching the shimmery silver thread along the seams of her long sleeves, and her curly hair is styled and pinned high on her head, several coiled pieces framing the sides of her angular face. Her brown eyes land on me as she casually scans the crowd surrounding them, and she gives me a soft nod. The mundane Hand exudes as much confidence as the Black Art, despite bearing no weapons on her person, and having no magic in her veins to wield. Ileana does not need power— she is power .
As much as I’d be content to admire her beauty for a fortnight, my attention quickly slips back to the warlord at her side. He’s watching me now, having seen or scented me the moment I drew near, and my heart pounds mercilessly against its bone prison. I hold his stare for several moments, unable to look away if I wanted to, ensnared in his liquid green fire.
His movements shift mechanically as he watches me, the gentle rubbing of his jaw now looking forced, and his right knee begins to bounce slightly. He’s not just watching me, he’s assessing . Waiting to see my next move—if I will go to him.
The second I take a step forward to approach the dais, Sin rises from the chair and leaps off the platform in one fluid movement, meeting me where I stand and escorting me to my seat. The crowd makes way for us at once, and we quickly ascend the steps. I slip into my chair and cross my legs, causing the slit of my dress to fall open around my leg, revealing an eyeful of the bare skin of my thigh.
His gaze flits to it immediately, and he looks up at me from beneath his long lashes, a devastating smirk lifting one side of his mouth. I shoot him an inquisitive look.
“It suits you,” he says, as if that were answer enough.
“The dress?”
“Power.”
That single word sends heat careening through my body. It’s not that I needed his approval to feel sated, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that part of me feared I would not live up to his expectations in this role. Sin was born into stature and wealth. He’s received far more of a formal education than I ever have, and is well experienced in politics and war, both on and off the battlefield. Despite it never being expected he would ascend as the Black Art, he was still a lord, and not just any lord at that. He was Dusaro Kilbreth’s only son, and his reputation was as terrorizing as his father’s.
He leans in close to me, his mouth hovering just above my ear when he murmurs into it, “The dress more than suits you, love. The only way you will be more stunning is when my claws shred it to ribbons at your feet.” With that, he lifts my chin with a single extended claw and kisses me.
Anyone could glance up at us and catch the glimmer of his claws, but I suppose it doesn’t matter now. Perhaps, for the first time in my life, the ones I love don’t have to hide the most special parts of themselves anymore.
When he breaks our kiss, it’s to press his forehead to mine, our heads tilted down with his hand now cradling my jaw. In a voice loud enough for only me, Sin whispers, “Thank you.”
For being here. For choosing to come to his side tonight despite the tension that’s been growing more and more taut between us. So different than how we once swiped at one another, because it meant nothing then. Now, every tug of our relationship feels stronger, graver.
There is something so raw about two people baring their traumas and loving the other all the more for them, but there is something equally as dangerous that comes along with it. Because when two damaged people strip themselves so completely to display their deepest vulnerabilities, choose to finally trust when they never knew how to before…
There is nothing shy of everything to lose.
And I know that terrifies Sin, the revered warlord who could bring armies to their knees, just as much as it does me. Maybe more.
I give him a knowing look when I pull away, acknowledging the words he said and all the ones he didn’t. We don’t speak much more after that, a line now forming with those that wish to offer their praise and present a gift to the Black Art and their future queen. One by one, the guards allow them to approach the dais, and one by one, they bow or curtsy deeply and offer fine words and even finer gifts. Jewels, fur stoles, flowers, and plump produce all gather in a mountain of gifts next to the dais as we hear their praise, some of it genuine, and some of it spoken to try to earn our favor. Some of our people may fear us, but with Baelliarah’s recent attack, they know it is better to ally with the tyrant you know than the one you don’t.
Except… Sin isn’t a tyrant.
He was surely on that path before, and I harbor little doubt that had fate not destined our paths to tangle, the Black Art would have continued to rule with iron in his blood and steel in his fist. The high-ranking lords and ladies would have revered him, while the peasants and transcendents would continue to fear him.
Sin’s fall to grace was not without its bruises, but sometimes we must bleed our own blood before we can truly right our paths.
When there is finally a break in the line, a glimmer of red snags my attention. “I’d apologize for not bringing a gift, but I take it my left arm earns me a few free passes, eh?” Eldridge’s lips part in a crooked grin, and warmth pools in my chest at the sight of it. It’s been too long since I’ve glimpsed this Eldridge, the one who pulled easy smiles from me as quickly as I plastered them on his own face.
“I suppose we can make an exception,” I muse, feigning a deep sigh. “Once.”
His smile grows wider, and he offers a curt nod to Sin before moving to stand before the Hand. “Now this one, I wouldn’t dare showing up empty-handed for.”
Ileana cants her head to the side, her expression reserved, but there’s a slight wrinkle near the corner of her lips as if she is forcing a smile from her mouth. “Hm. As I see it, you are carrying nothing to offer me right now, and I surely hope you have not come to recite a poem or sing me some hymn you picked up from a tavern.”
Her words do nothing to curb his joviality, and he bows. “What I have for you is much too near to the heart to present it here, my Lady, and I’m not above admitting I am terrified of you rejecting me publicly and forcing me to walk away with my tail between my legs.”
“You don’t strike me as the type to walk away from someone who challenges you,” she says, peering down at him from her wing-backed chair. She might as well have wings for how ethereal she looks.
Eldridge inclines his head. “Aye. Which is why I said if you forced me to walk away, as you’d never find me doing so willfully.”
Sin shoots me a sideways look with an eyebrow arched, and it occurs to me that this may be the first time the Black Art has taken note that his Hand may be… involved with Eldridge. While I am unsure how he feels about it, he must know by now that despite his differences with my friend, Eldridge would sooner die than harm those he cares about. He’s never raised a hand to me, and I’m certain he’s never even thought about it. It’s not who he is. Not with me, and certainly not with the woman he’s been painfully smitten with since first laying eyes on her in Adelphia’s church.
I must have allowed myself to become too entranced by their interaction because I startle as a new voice addresses us. Vox steps up to the base of the dais, his braided hair like ice against his own tight, black leathers. The elf bows, and after a few exchanges with my betrothed, his onyx eyes dart to mine.
“It looks remarkable on you.”
Sin shifts at my side, and even from here, I feel his tension. My hand moves to the comb in my hair, Vox’s compliment not lost on me.
“The comb is beautiful. Thank you, again,” I say, smiling warmly at the commander.
I watch as Sin looks to me from my periphery, his attention undoubtedly assessing the gift I wear. I realize now that I hadn’t told him about it. It wasn’t intentional, it simply didn’t come up, especially with the argument that ensued when I returned to our chambers that night. But the narrowing of Sin’s eyes confirms he did not appreciate my silence regarding the gift.
“It seems our gems are useful for more than just siphoning magic. Rubies are a great complement to your hair,” Vox says, nodding to where the comb’s teeth strike through my strands, the color like murder on snow. “With hair as white as mine, I’d almost mistake you for an elven maiden, if not for those perfectly rounded ears of yours, and eyes far too vivid to have hidden from the sun.”
Sin eases back in his seat, his knees falling farther apart, and his arms resting lazily on the chair. But I see his posturing for what it is, a forced casualness to assert dominance, painting the picture of the bored king.
“I will wear it with honor always,” I say, allowing my hand to drop back into my lap.
Sin doesn’t know any of what Vox shared with me, the origins of this comb, and how it once belonged to his late friend. He doesn’t know I wear it with honor because it once belonged to Aloisa, and she deserves to have her memory preserved. I will tell him later to put to rest any thoughts he may be having about why the elven commander has given me a gift, and why I wear it with honor .
“Very well, then” Vox says, his leather groaning as he shifts. “I can’t say I am terribly fond of events so public , but I suppose a night away from my chambers could serve me well. I tend to overlook the knowledge that spending time in leisure often yields me better productivity later.” He bows before us both, then briskly strides away from the dais, exchanging a few quick words with Eldridge as he passes.
There’s another pause in the line after Vox leaves, giving Sin the chance to lazily glance my way, one eyebrow slightly raised. He doesn’t outright ask, and he won’t. Not here, surrounded by too many nosy busybodies, but the clenching of his jaw tells me he will not stop thinking about it until I tell him. I give him a look that translates to I’ll tell you later, and he nods subtly, shifting his gaze back to the crowd surrounding us.
The roar of the festival is loud, but it does not keep me from distinguishing the sound of scraping metal. It’s then I notice Sin’s claws have punched through his last knuckle joints again, sliding across the arm of the chair as he watches the commander disappear into the crowd.
I reach up to adjust the comb in my hair, now suddenly all too aware of the accessory. The rubies are smooth under my fingertips, the peaks and valleys of the facets polished to perfection. I suppose the elves are rather clever, using the gems as receptacles for Source, offering even the non-magic wielders a way to siphon its power, and strengthen their blades in combat. Perhaps the elves living in the shadowy expanse of the Vale for so many years bears more benefits than I originally considered. Baelliarah’s men are trained to fight against magic wielders, but their ignorance to the rubies being siphons that channel their power is?—
A thought crashes into me with as much force as the Howling Sea.
The rubies. Of course .
The dagger doesn’t hold Sin’s— Adelphia’s —magic. The rubies do. The rubies that, if I remember correctly, were quite similar in size to the small ones embedded in Aloisa’s comb. I work to steady my heart that begins thumping against my ribs, not wanting Sin to notice the sudden surge of adrenaline coursing through me.
I don’t need the dagger; I just need the gems fastened to both ends of the crossguard. If I can pry out the rubies and swap them with the ones in the comb, I can deliver the dagger I rendered worthless to Torin. The king is mundane, he won’t be able to sense the lack of power emanating from it, and it’s likely his seer is not versed in elven or god magic. It will take them a long while to discover that the dagger is only good for drawing blood and nothing more.
I can restore Sin his power by the time they learn of my deception, if I can just… do what exactly? The rubies were able to siphon the goddess’s blessing when I pierced it through his chest, but how do I put it back ? Still, that’s a concern for tomorrow. Tonight, while everyone is distracted and the castle is mostly barren, I need to find that dagger. But where? Think Wren. Fucking think!
‘Truth be told, I didn’t much care for it being so close to Aeverie’s belongings and such,’ Vox’s words from the second time we met in the library suddenly twirl through my mind. ‘It felt wrong. Like she deserved to be separated from the magic that was her undoing in the end.’ If Vox was trusted with the protection of something as powerful as the high priestess’s staff, who else better to safekeep a dagger imbued with a goddess’s magic? I already suspected Vox had the dagger, but it isn’t until now that I know where he keeps it.
My stomach sours, and I suck in a breath through my lips, careful to control my heartbeat to keep Sin from detecting my sudden dread. Because I now know what I must do, especially with the Harvest Festival leaving the castle mostly barren.
I need that dagger.
Which means I need to get inside the commander’s bedchamber.