Chapter 8
Elorie
Rumors of King Malachi Adira run wild on Alyssium. The Prince of Light, as he was once called. The Ley King, who ousted his tyrant father. A kingdom’s hope or downfall, depending on the storyteller. Equally worshipped and hated as magic has continued to slowly fade after the fall of King Erdem.
I’ve been mostly indifferent about my feelings toward the king until now. The thought of a king on a throne, thriving in the Ley Court as he comfortably oversees the realm of Lyrichia, was a distant thing. Except now I’m here, reeking of vomit and covered in dust, awaiting his judgment.
When Callum retrieved me from my cell, I thought I understood magic in the realm from looking into his eyes. It isn’t until the doors to the great hall swing open that I’m faced with the aura of true power.
Royal magic.
The room glows with small orbs dancing overhead.
They’re pieces of sun that bathe the room in a warm glow, highlighting every soft edge in the gold-and-cerulean-adorned space.
Polished floors reflect the light streaming through the windows, and they’re almost too bright to stare directly at them after being in the dungeon.
Much less after years of being deprived of real sunlight, desperate for every ray that filtered through the cloud cover on the island.
My eyes squint at the brightness, and I curl back, pausing at the door. Until the Fae at my side shoves my shoulder, forcing me forward.
Callum’s eyes cut in his direction, but that’s all he does. He says nothing as I’m dragged through the room.
King Malachi looks younger than I expected. If he were human, I’d guess that we’d be around the same age. But I know he’s not, given Fae appearances make the years irrelevant and deceptive.
He sits on a throne at the head of the room, and once we lock gazes, it’s impossible to look away—to see anything apart from him. His golden-blond hair hangs to his shoulders, and his blue eyes are piercing. They match the royal blue cape tied at his neck.
The air around him glows, but it isn’t from the orbs overhead or light streaming through the windows.
His very presence is reflective. Brimming with light, overflowing with his magic.
I’ve heard he’s a light wielder, which is extremely rare.
His magic is what earned him his Prince of Light nickname.
But I’ve never quite understood how light-wielding works, or why the Fae seem to fear something that I would think would be good for the realm.
Not until I stare into King Malachi’s wild blue eyes and sense the depth of his power reaching for me. A very presence in this room. Heady and overwhelming.
“Why is she in chains?” King Malachi doesn’t tear his gaze off me, even though it’s clear he’s speaking to someone else.
“What she did to those guards—”
“Release her.” He waves a hand, then reaches for a small blue orb hanging around his neck.
He spins the orb between his fingers, watching me with unnerving intensity. I have no idea what magic that orb holds, but I don’t miss that it has its own pulse. My throat thickens, making it harder to swallow.
“Wilhelm.” King Malachi waves Callum forward while two other Fae start to unlatch my chains. “You know this girl?”
“Since her birth.” Callum steps forward and nods once.
In the years I’ve known him, Callum hasn’t said many good things about the Crown, even as he donned the royal armor. He avoided insulting the king directly, but I never missed how careful he was with his words.
Here, with his head bowed and his answers clipped, he’s someone I don’t recognize. A soldier with unwavering devotion toward his king.
My fingers clench.
“Were you aware of the Fae blood running through her veins?” King Malachi twists the orb between his fingers, and a subtle wave of static swims through the air.
Callum’s fingers tighten on the pommel of his sword, and something pushes back against the pulse streaming from the orb. A warm bubble stills the vibrations around the two of us.
Callum shakes his head once. “No, I learned of it when the others did.”
My eyes snap to Callum, but he doesn’t flinch or meet my gaze. He admitted to me in my cell that he was there when my father carried me out of the prison. He’s known of my Fae blood since birth. And while he’s done nothing since the prison to show me that I can trust him, he just lied to the king.
“We assume her father snuck her out of the prison when he was a guard,” Callum continues, and while his fingers have relaxed, I still sense something humming around him, fighting the current radiating from the king.
“And her hair?” King Malachi lifts a skeptical brow at my messy strands.
They’re matted and greasy, drawing out the darkness of the blue at the ends.
“He said it was caused by a morning glory tonic.”
“Morning glories on Alyssium?” The king’s back stiffens.
“Yes, Your Majesty. They’re gone now, like much else.”
King Malachi’s expression remains indifferent, but his eyes curiously search my own. “I shouldn’t be surprised. Alyssium has been fading for centuries.”
It takes everything in me to bite back my anger. What the court sees as a dead, magicless island is my home. The village is my family.
The village.
My stomach clenches at the thought of what might have happened to them since I was taken away.
I was so busy being angry with Callum when he came to fetch me that I didn’t bother to ask what is left of my home or my friends. I didn’t ask if my father was given the blessings before he was burned—if he was burned at all. Or if Letia and her family survived.
My heartbeat thunders inside my chest.
“You’re scared.” King Malachi stands finally, and I get a sense of how tall he is in height and in power.
In one swift move, everyone in the room drops to a knee and bows their head for him. I’m still standing frozen for a moment before I realize I should probably do the same. My head dips as I take a knee for the king.
King Malachi steps forward, walking until his polished shoe pauses directly in my line of sight. “I’ve been told we should fear you.”
I dare to look up at him. “I don’t know why.”
The orb around King Malachi’s neck twists between his fingers like he’s reading me. “I suppose you don’t. Do you?” He holds out a hand. “Stand.”
I rest my fingers in his palm. His skin is warmer than a human’s. His palm is smooth. His touch is impossibly comforting when I know I should fear him.
He helps me stand, releasing my hand once I do.
The king slowly circles, looking over every inch of me. My cloak is tattered and torn. My shirt is ripped where the blades cut through. The fabric is stained with blood. Dirt cakes underneath my nails, and dust creates a layer on my skin.
“What is your name?” He stops directly in front of me, and I tip my head back to look up at him.
“Elorie Vale.” My answer is pulled from my lips before I’ve thought it. As if he tugged it out.
“Quite the trouble you’ve stirred, Elorie Vale. Wandering my prison. Waking the dead.”
“I didn’t mean to.”
I still barely remember doing it. And even if the guards who brought me here made it clear it happened, I have no idea how I did it. Something shone at the brink of death. A thread I couldn’t help pulling.
King Malachi nods, as if he is considering my answer. “I believe you. Are you aware that resurrection is punishable by death? That any magic that tampers with the dead is forbidden?”
My head shakes, but my voice says, “Yes.”
Something compels the truth when I was about to tell a lie.
I am aware that a select few magics are forbidden to the Fae, one of them being necromancy. Any Fae found to have the ability is executed on sight, which, now that I think about what I’ve done, begs the question as to why I’m still breathing.
“I’m not a necromancer,” I say, not knowing if that’s true after what I did, but hoping it is.
I’ve been around many corpses in my life, tended to more dead than I can count. Never have I brought one back. Which is why I’d like to think that what I did isn’t that.
“No, you aren’t a necromancer,” King Malachi agrees, surprising me.
“Then what am I?”
“That is the more complicated question.” He paces back to his throne, looking up to the stained glass that hangs behind it.
Etched in the glass is a depiction of the four gods creating our constellation of realms. “Raising the dead and raising life are not one and the same. Necromancers raise corpses that are mindless and easily manipulated. They have no will of their own. A necromancer creates animation, not life. But you…” He turns to face me, but his eyes move to Callum.
“Are you certain the human guards did not lie? The prisoner was lucid?”
“Yes. His soul was intact,” Callum answers, still at his knees like the rest of the room.
King Malachi twists the orb between his fingers. “Everyone, leave us. I’d like to speak with Elorie alone.”
“Is that a good idea?” One of the guards shoots to his feet.
“Are you worried your king cannot handle a half-human?”
The guard’s posture is stiff, but he doesn’t dare question King Malachi. “Of course not, Your Majesty.”
“Then leave us.” There’s bite to the king’s voice now, emptying the room.
Callum is the last to leave. He hesitates for a moment, eyeing where I stand at the center before obeying the order himself. As the door closes behind them, I realize how large the room is. The ceiling is taller than I’ve ever seen one. Sounds echo so high they never find their way back down.
The king scans me from head to toe. “You don’t know what you did in that prison—who you woke. But there is a reason you are here, Elorie. You could be very useful should you choose to be.”
“You always have a choice.” The prisoner’s words echo again.
“Lyrichia is dying,” the king says plainly.
“From the Collision?”