Chapter 8 #2
King Malachi nods once, his stare focused out the tall windows. When I follow his gaze, it occurs to me that there’s nothing to see beyond the light streaming through them. Something masks the view so it’s little more than a reflection of the golden flickers shining within the thick glass.
“Lyrichia was a peaceful and plentiful realm for millennia. We had trade agreements with neighboring realms in the constellation, Vaelier included. Even the Mortal Realm had agreements with our kingdom. They would send humans to Alyssium to help us with the prison, and we would provide food and metals that don’t grow in their realm.
But then the stars shifted and so did the realms.” He circles the room until he pauses at a painting I hadn’t noticed on the far wall.
It's a depiction of the realms.
Lyrichia and Vaelier are the primary focus at the center, painted as swirling orbs. Intricate lettering labels the different territories in each of the two realms. To the west of the Ley Court, across the sea, is a bit of land with Alyssium scribbled on it.
Where Lyrichia and Vaelier collide, there’s a splash of black paint, depicting the Well—the crack that formed from the Collision. The paint is layered, as if someone has been adding to it over the centuries as the Well continues to grow, consuming pieces of both realms.
Callum said the Well is not land or sea or place. That even if it is what connects the realms, it is not a physical thing, but a void. I shiver at how large it’s grown.
The round orbs depicting Lyrichia and Vaelier take up the majority of the painting, with many other realms set at a distance.
They’re depicted as specks in a night sky, with dark branches binding them together like the threads of fate connect us all within the canopy woven by the Luminess, a creature that is not god or Fae, but a being of fate itself.
Only a few realms are labeled, with the focus set on Lyrichia and Vaelier.
One in particular catches my attention where it hangs to the right.
The Mortal Realm. My fingers itch to reach out to it.
To graze my fingers over the paint as if it would bring me closer to the humans’ home.
It feels so close here, when I know that with the Arches dying, that’s not the case.
In the forefront of the painting is another orb labeled Sarrow.
It is set upon a ladder of branches. I don’t know what to make of Sarrow being drawn as its own realm, when I’ve always understood it to be more of an Arch than a place.
The lore talks about the seven strata of Sarrow, the levels in which souls are judged, sorted, and passed through to the After.
In those stories, Sarrow sounded more like a spiritual scale than physical levels.
But here Sarrow sits, painted as if it is a realm of its own.
King Malachi pauses at my side, pulling my attention. “Do you know what happens to stars that crash into each other? To realms that touch?”
I shake my head, staring at the cracks painted over Lyrichia and Vaelier from where the Well tears us apart. “I know we can’t survive it.”
“When two realms collide, they usually both die within a few centuries. In rare circumstances, one realm survives.”
“How?”
“If the magic within one is strong enough, it can resist the drain of the Well.”
“But the Well absorbs magic. If one were stronger, wouldn’t the Well drain that one first?”
“Smart girl.” King Malachi smirks, and I shift on my feet. “If the magic is strong enough, it can resist the Well just enough that it corrodes the other instead. And when the other realm dies and breaks off, the Well seals. The realm survives.”
“It’s been nearly three centuries since the Collision, and both realms still live.” It’s been two hundred and ninety-three years, to be exact. “Does that mean both realms are strong enough to withstand it?”
The king shakes his head. “No. We’ve been lucky.
Lyrichia and Vaelier were both stronger than most when they collided.
It slowed the drain of the Well at first. But both are being claimed now.
What will come of the Collision is inevitable unless Lyrichia can harness magic that can reverse the tides of fate.
Magic that can make us strong beyond comparison.
Stronger than Vaelier. Stronger than the Well itself. ”
His blue eyes meet mine, and my chest tightens as I realize he’s talking about me.
“What do I have to do with any of this?”
An unsettling whisper of amusement ghosts his cheeks as he twists his orb between his fingers. “Lyrichia is nearly strong enough to push back the Well. I’m so close, but I cannot sustain it on my own. Not yet. But your magic—”
“I don’t have magic.” I flinch, realizing I probably shouldn’t have cut off the king when he glares at me, so I soften my approach. “I’m not a necromancer.”
“No, you are not. What you resurrect is life, Elorie. Not death. Your magic heals; it nourishes. It grows. You have magic unlike anything many have ever seen or known.”
“How is that possible?”
“The powers of the half-Fae are lost in the lore, and without knowing who bore you, there is little I can answer with certainty.”
Who bore me.
I always envisioned my mother as the human villager my father described. Hair as white as snow—as white as mine. A single freckle on the tip of her nose, and a laugh that played like a melody.
How much of what he told me was a lie? She isn’t a woman who died a human death, as he said. For all I know, she could still wander a cell in that hellscape of a prison.
“You have the magic of life, Elorie. Paired with mine, we could save our realm.” The king turns to face me fully.
“And what of Vaelier?” I glance at the map. “What happens to their realm if our magic becomes strong enough to heal Lyrichia? Will it heal theirs as well?”
“As connected as we’ve become, we are still separate in many ways. Pushing back against the Well will force it to deepen its veins in Vaelier.”
“They’ll die.”
“As they wish we would.” The king’s tone is harsh, and I’m met with an irritated glare as I look up at him.
It’s understandable.
Lyrichia has been battling against them for a century. They’ve killed so many from our realm and shown no mercy. I shouldn’t feel sympathy for them.
King Malachi reaches for my hand, and a soothing warmth calms me. “Do you want to save your realm? To bring life back to our territories? Alyssium could thrive again.”
Thrive.
The thought of greenery in bloom and the morning glories returning to the prison perimeter makes my heart race. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and try to imagine the warm lap of seawater on my feet. Of the sun soaking the island.
My eyes flutter open, and I take a cautious breath. “I don’t know how to use my magic or how I can help. I didn’t even realize I had magic until the attack at the prison. I don’t know what good I’ll be.”
“Magic like yours—like mine—is nearly as strong as the Well. Once it wakes, it does not rest. You just have to learn how to wield it. I can help. Together, we can save the kingdom.”
“Together.” I let out a long breath.
King Malachi nods. “There is a Rite for binding magics—the Rite of Blood. In this ritual, we form a soul bind between us. Together, we would be strong enough to heal the realm. We could do anything we wish.”
Anything.
“This Rite… Is it a marriage?”
A dark smile lights his cheeks. “Marriage is such a simple, human term. But no. The Rite is far deeper than your human rituals. It is a binding of magic. What else comes of it beyond that is between us.”
King Malachi is handsome. Charming. His aura glows, and his touch is warm. I should want his attention. But the idea of being anything more to him sets me strangely on edge.
The king releases my hands. “Fae binding is uncommon now, as we’ve become protective over what we have. But yours and mine could be truly endless, Elorie Vale. If you survive—”
“If I survive?” I cut him off again, and his eyes narrow ever so briefly.
“To attempt the Rite with someone whose magic is not fully blossomed has dangerous consequences, especially with Royal magic. A king’s magic is not isolated to what is in his blood.
He taps into the magic of the realm he rules, and as such, you are not simply binding with a single Fae, but an entire kingdom. It can be… overwhelming.”
“The Rite could kill me?” It’s nearly a whisper. “I could die?”
“I will not lie to you. Die is too kind a word. To die is to find peace in the After. But to fail the Rite is to Cleave your soul. There is nothing peaceful about it. If you are not ready by the time we reach the next full moon, then you will meet your fate. But if you don’t…”
“The realm dies anyway,” I finish his thought.
“Exactly. You have a unique magic. I heard what you did at that prison. The magic you woke in a land thought to have none. I heard of the Fae you brought back. You can survive this, and together, Lyrichia will thrive again.”
While Vaelier dies.
He doesn’t say that, but it’s what will happen. And I don’t know why I care after what their rebels have done to my home, but I do.
“And if I choose not to help?” I swallow hard. “You said this was a choice?”
“I did.” King Malachi’s smile tilts, and that strange shimmer that surrounds him presses closer. “Do you not want to save your people?”
It’s more of a challenge than an answer, erasing any other option. But also, it doesn’t matter. He’s right, I do want to save them. So long as there is anyone left to save.
“I do.”
“Very good.” He steps forward, smiling widely. “Then we shall begin the first stage of the Rite tonight at dinner. There are three phases: the promise to set our intention, the blessing we’ll receive in Tempest, and the Rite itself, where we accept our bind beneath a full moon.”
At least we just passed a full moon. Which means I’ll have some time to prepare.
A door opens at the side of the room, and a stunning female walks toward us.
Her thick honey-brown hair hangs in waves at her shoulders.
She has it tucked behind one pointed ear, showing off silver studs and hoops that decorate it.
She’s dressed in what might as well be liquid silver.
The fabric melts to her curves, leaving nothing to the imagination.
Her bronze skin is coated in a soft, sparkling shimmer.
And yet, something dark casts a gray cloud around her. A storm brews in her golden-brown eyes.
“Are you done, Malachi?” She smiles at the king, but when her gaze flits to me, there’s nothing sweet about it. “I’m getting lonely.”
Malachi pulls her close when she stops beside him. His hand slides down her backside, gripping hard as his teeth sharpen, and he nips at her neck.
I sometimes forgot the Fae can do that with their teeth. On Alyssium, they do what they can to avoid us seeing them as predators. But here, in their territory, I’m sure that’s not the case.
A gentle laugh escapes her lips as the king kisses her, but her gaze hardens when she catches me staring.
“Hello.” Her tone is sharp; there’s nothing sweet or welcoming about it. “I’m Selia.”
“Elorie.”
She offers nothing more than an indifferent sweep of her gaze before tightening her hold on the king.
King Malachi made it clear the Rite of Blood isn’t marriage.
That it is more about the relationship between magics than anything else.
But this display has me wondering what exactly he’s offering.
I’ve never cared much about love, but I assumed that when I tied myself to someone, we’d be committed to each other.
Am I really just a tool to him? Does it matter?
For Alyssium, I’ll do this.
“See you tonight, Elorie.” King Malachi lifts my hand, pressing his lips to the back while Selia watches.
And when they turn, I catch the light ebbing and flowing around them. The room grows colder the farther away they get, and the windows dim, letting a crack of something else shine through.
The Prince of Light.
The King of Hope.
Yet he’s cloaked in shadows.