Chapter 11
Elorie
That voice.
When the prisoner spoke to me on Alyssium, his voice was raspy from years locked in a cell. It echoed through the obsidian walls, and with my mind swimming from blood loss, I didn’t recognize it. It isn’t until those three words leave his lips that I realize how familiar the prisoner’s voice is.
It’s the voice of the island. Except, it’s not.
It’s him.
My eyes narrow.
“Did you prefer thinking you were talking to yourself all those years?” His amusement tickles my thoughts, sparking the gold in his gaze.
“How are you doing that?”
“The same way you are.”
“Wilder Riven, back from the dead and out of your cell.” King Malachi steps forward, interrupting our conversation, if that’s what it is.
“You know how difficult it is to keep me in one place too long, Malachi. Disappointed?” Wilder’s stare sharpens.
Wilder.
It’s strange to put a name to those golden eyes. To see the evidence in front of me that what happened in the prison wasn’t a lie. He died; I saw his heart snuff out. He was gone.
And now, here he stands, alive and dripping with power.
I resurrected him.
“Can’t say I’m disappointed when it’s been a boring century without a proper challenge. But I am surprised we’re standing here talking instead of fighting this time around,” Malachi says plainly. “Did a century in a cell finally teach you some patience?”
A century? My stomach turns, considering the few days I apparently spent in that place. I lost track of time and self. What would a century do to someone?
Wilder’s eyes meet mine like he heard my thought and is considering my question, but he doesn’t speak. The darkness in his gaze answers for him.
Nothing good.
“How are you out of the prison?” I blurt out, realizing when the king glances at me that I probably shouldn’t have said anything.
This is his court, and from the hushed silence surrounding us, I sense I’m supposed to be quiet like everyone else.
But I can’t help it. It doesn’t make sense.
I resurrected Wilder within the walls of the prison—a prison that is specifically spelled so the Fae can’t leave alive.
He shouldn’t be standing in front of us right now.
Wilder takes a step closer, and the energy radiating off him makes my chest tight. “I see your great king skipped over explaining the intricacies of Fae arrangements even as you’re about to enter into one.”
His eyes fall to the goblet in my hand, and my fingers grip it tighter. He continues to slowly close the distance, stopping barely a couple of feet in front of me. I angle my chin up, refusing to break stares with him.
His mouth twitches at the corner like he finds my fearlessness amusing. “The terms of all spells and rituals must be specific, leaving room for loopholes if they’re not worded carefully.”
“Only the dead can leave the prison. You’re alive. What’s more specific than that?”
“Only once dead can a Fae leave the prison,” he corrects me.
Once dead.
Which he was until I resurrected him and let him out.
King Malachi’s eyes narrow. “It’s interesting that you’re free and yet you choose to linger here of all places. I’m surprised you didn’t hurry back to your kingdom the moment those walls spit out your soul.”
His kingdom?
I look at Wilder, thinking back to what the king called him when he first walked into the room. Wilder Riven.
Riven.
The royal name in Vaelier.
“You’re the king of the rebels.” I take a step back, realizing who he is.
Wilder watches me, his smile gone. But he doesn’t deny what I said. Instead, he turns his attention to King Malachi, ignoring my outburst entirely. Probably because I’m a human and insignificant to him.
Some thanks for raising him from the dead.
“Would you like me to thank you?” Wilder’s voice whispers, and I take another step back.
“No. I don’t want credit for that.”
He smirks, his attention still on the king. “We both know I can’t get back to Vaelier with the condition of the Arches as they are.”
The only way to travel between realms is to use an Arch, which is something Callum told me Fae did often before the Collision.
They’d travel to nearby realms. And since Lyrichia and Vaelier were close in proximity, the two would regularly trade with each other.
It wasn’t until after the Collision that tensions began to rise.
And when the Arches started to flicker with the wane of magic, travel between realms became more unpredictable and dangerous.
Even with our two realms touching, it’s difficult to travel between them, which is why only rebels come through. Warriors. The last stand of Vaelier in this war. It shows how desperate they are, given that they likely lose Fae in the process of simply sending them here to fight.
“I’m sure you could have found a viable Arch if you were determined to do so. Clearly, your people still manage to find a few,” King Malachi says, his voice flat and unamused.
“None healthy enough to guarantee survival to the other side.”
“I apologize if your survival is the least of my concerns. Play coy all you want, Wilder; we both know why you really stayed. Selia, come here.”
King Malachi reaches out a hand, and Selia appears at his side. Her brown hair is nearly gold with the light overhead, and her eyes sparkle as she glances at the king. It might be that she’s standing beside King Malachi, but she glows.
The moment her fingers rest on the king’s arm, the air sizzles. It pricks my skin until the sting is nearly unbearable. It takes me a moment to realize that it’s coming from Wilder.
His golden eyes turn nearly black as he watches Selia lean closer to the king.
Is it jealousy?
I suppose I don’t blame him when her beauty stands out in a room filled to the brim with it.
“You didn’t go home.” Wilder’s fists clench.
A bead of sweat trickles down the back of my neck with how warm the room has become, and it’s only getting hotter.
Selia doesn’t bother looking at Wilder. Her gaze is fixed on where she holds the king’s arm. “This is my home now. You should leave.”
“Selia…” The air cracks above Wilder’s head.
A bolt shoots down through him, webbing along his runes, his arms. His fingers flex, and tendrils of lightning spread across the ground.
Fae panic, backing up. The few it reaches drop to their knees as a golden rope wraps their necks and squeezes, draining their life in a single breath.
Wilder’s power is unlike anything I’ve seen or felt. Even standing beside the king, who pulses with something that is a presence in its own, Wilder’s magic steals every last thought. It fills my lungs. The room is a ball of static, ready to burst with his rage.
And then, in one sweep, darkness drinks all light in the room.
Magic snuffs out.
My vision goes black.
In a blink, there’s nothing but emptiness, unlike anything I’ve ever felt. Unlike the void I met in the prison. This isn’t magic; it’s the opposite.
It’s nothing at all.
As quickly as the darkness claims Wilder’s magic, it tunnels back in, and light returns to the room.
At the center, behind Wilder, is a woman I’ve never seen before.
Her long black hair hangs nearly to her waist. Her cheeks are pale.
There’s not a hint of a blush on her porcelain skin.
The blackness in her eyes is an endless abyss as she stares at the back of Wilder’s head.
Black, shadowy vines climb her arms, wisping around her.
Her very presence sends a chill through me.
Wilder smirks, relaxed as ever, when he dips his hands into his pockets. Not bothering to so much as turn and look at the woman who flooded the room with a midnight drain of magic.
Around are the bodies of the Fae Wilder killed without blinking. The guards quickly begin to cart them away.
“Hazel.” The corner of Wilder’s mouth lifts. “Still fighting your brother’s battles, I see.”
Her brother?
Hazel shows no emotion as she walks forward. Her black dress shimmers with purple at every step. Dark webs of her shadowy magic weave up her arms, spitting from her fingertips. Her gaze sets on the king, and I search for any resemblance, but she looks nothing like her brother.
The shadow to his light.
Hazel says nothing as she stops in front of me first, skimming me up and down once before walking to stand beside Selia and King Malachi. While the two of them have a golden glow, there is no light around Hazel. Simply darkness.
Wilder’s gaze slides from Hazel to the king. “Even your sister isn’t strong enough to take me down, and you know it. So, unless you have your entire Guard standing by so you can stab me in the back again, I suggest you tell her to keep her party tricks at bay.”
Amusement has vanished from King Malachi’s face. “Why are you here? You’re free now. Surely you have something greater planned than digging up old grudges.”
Wilder hums, and it sends a shiver through me. “I’m here as is my right. After all, a royal Rite is to be offered to all willing of royal blood before it is performed, is it not?”
King Malachi’s back stiffens at that comment. It’s the first nervous reaction I’ve caught from him when he seems generally unfazed.
“You have no claim to this Rite.” The king’s jaw tightens. “This is not your realm.”
“Correct, Vaelier is my realm. But as you know, the Well muddles the magic of our realms at the moment, making my place in the Rite as valid as yours.”
Malachi plants a hand on my back, and Wilder’s gaze follows the movement. “Don’t tell me you’re interested in playing savior now that you’re free. From what I remember, you let your people suffer long before your queen met her bitter end.”
“Who says I want to save anything? The Rite is a long shot with the realms this weak anyway.” Wilder looks around the room. “Maybe I’m here just to ensure you all Cleave.”
“You can’t.” I shake my head, and Wilder’s gaze lands on me with such intensity, I wonder if I really should be drawing his attention.
“I can.” He steps forward, lifting his hand. Sparks weave through the air until they’re caressing my chin. “And I will.”
“I won’t enter the Rite with you.” I pull back, refusing to offer him my magic just so he can destroy Lyrichia with it.
“That’s not your choice.” His gaze slides to the king. “Isn’t that right, Malachi? So long as a Rite is being performed, any of royal blood may enter for a chance to bind at the end.”
“Well, then I won’t enter the Rite at all.” I shove the chalice toward the king, but my eyes don’t leave Wilder’s. “I refuse to enter so you can kill Lyrichia.”
“You refuse, and your people die anyway.”
“Get out of my head.”
Wilder chuckles, and the king’s gaze moves between us. He rests his hands over mine on the chalice, pushing it toward me.
“This changes nothing, Elorie. Regardless of what Wilder does, the choice is still yours. Tell her, Wilhelm.”
The king must really be grasping at straws if he’s asking Callum to explain it to me. He knows I trust him—or trusted him.
I look up at Callum over my shoulder, biting my lip.
Callum steps closer. “The king is right. It’s your choice in the end, Elorie.
No matter how many enter the Rite, magic can’t be stolen.
You have to give it freely, and when the final ceremony comes, all you have to do is choose King Malachi to seal the soul bind. That choice can’t be taken from you.”
“Unless you decide to change your mind,” Wilder croons, amused at the thought of killing an entire kingdom.
Of the humans suffering with it.
“I won’t.” I glare at him. “I promised to save Lyrichia.”
“If you survive.”
My teeth clench as I turn to the king. “If I drink this, and I survive the Rite, do you swear what he’s saying is true? No loopholes? My magic is mine to offer.”
“If magic could be stolen to change the tide in this war, we’d have found a way to use that to our advantage already.”
That’s an unsettling thought and not really an answer, but I choose to ignore it.
“Then I choose you. Now and during the Rite, I will choose you.” I lift the chalice to my lips and drink, sealing the promise.
The liquid is sour and thick. It coats my throat on the way down, and my head instantly swims.
“Palemor blood,” King Malachi says when I grimace.
I thought Palemors were only found deep at sea, but I’m learning there’s much I don’t know, so I could be wrong.
Wilder steps forward, stealing the chalice from my hand. He downs the swig of blood like it’s nothing, shoving it back at Malachi when he’s done.
“Enjoy her while you have her.” Wilder steps back, his gaze darting between the two of us. “When she’s mine, I won’t shove you in a prison like a coward. I’ll let you watch while I Cleave everyone you care about.”
Wilder offers a single glance to Selia, who still won’t look at him, before turning to leave.
“I assume the royal guest quarters are still open,” he says, keeping his hands in his pockets as he walks away.
The king stiffens, watching him but not responding.
With a final glance over his shoulder, Wilder’s golden eyes meet mine. “See you soon, Starfire.”
“I won’t change my mind.”
“Ah, how I’ve missed your determination giving me a headache.”