Chapter 50
Elorie
The altar is made of dead stone.
Not that any stone is living in the sense of movement or memory, but this stone has been drained of all remnants of magic.
I’d never noticed the emptiness of the rocks on the shore of Alyssium because I didn’t know the difference until coming to Lyrichia and picking up a pebble. It practically sang. Like the trees whisper or the flowers gossip in unspeakable tongues.
But this altar before me reminds me of the rocks back home.
Quiet and cold.
Pressing my fingers to the rough edge, I search for any heartbeat. Any hum. I’m met with nothing.
Callum pauses at my side, and I look up to find him searching the sky as the sun sinks below the horizon and the moon starts to glow. The faintest breeze tickles the back of my neck as his magic reaches outward, stopping at the wall of dead stone on the altar.
It’s only the two of us in the courtyard, with a few guards lingering at the edges. Greer is one of them, standing by the doorway and waiting for the king. She offered me a tight smile that felt more like an apology than well-wishes when I arrived.
Given King Malachi’s penchant for a spectacle, I expected something grander than a circle of stone in an empty courtyard. There’s no audience apart from the Crown Guard lining every exit. I suppose he’s taking precautions in case something goes wrong, and my magic can’t withstand the ritual.
“White as snow.” Callum’s gaze falls to my dress.
Pure white like the onslaught of a blizzard, sparkling with colorless gems that shimmer.
The dress is beautiful and fits me perfectly, but that does nothing to ease the weight settling over my heart.
The sleeves are transparent, secured with silver cuffs at my wrists.
It fits snugly to my chest but then flows out at my legs.
It’s more translucent at the bottom than it is at the top, until there’s nothing but a whisp of fabric fluttering in Callum’s breeze.
“Ironic, isn’t it? Wearing white in celebration.” I graze my fingers over the front of the dress, and Callum frowns.
On Alyssium, white is worn to funerals. It’s used to dress the dead. It’s a sign of mourning. While the Fae wear white in celebration, it represents nothing but the bitter cold snow that spreads sickness and famine during rough winters back home.
Here I stand, dressed for death in a ceremony that may very well kill me. And even if it doesn’t, many others will perish.
Callum is dressed in white as well. A white cape hangs over his Crown Guard armor. A single pin with two feathers holds it in place.
“If things don’t go how they’re supposed to, do you think you’ll return to Alyssium?” I ask him.
“Don’t talk like that.”
“I’m just curious.” I bite my lower lip. “If the passage opens and you can go back, will you promise to check on Letia for me?”
He nods, even if it’s clear he doesn’t want to think about it.
“Thank you.” My whisper is drowned out by a bellow of voices coming from the doorway.
The king steps outside wearing all gold except his royal blue cape.
He walks through the arch with Selia a step behind him.
She’s wearing gray, like a living, breathing storm cloud.
Her dress is intricately woven and tight around her torso.
Her dark hair is pinned away from her face on one side, showing off the silver winged earrings she so often wears.
Behind them is Hazel, dressed in all black, followed by guards keeping a safe distance.
Hazel’s black hair hardly moves at her shoulders, unaffected by the breeze Callum weaves through the courtyard.
Her dress cuts low in the front. At either hip is a slit that shows off her long, pale legs with each step.
The dress shines with the illusion of night as shadows dance at her fingertips, stretching farther up her arms than she usually allows.
She doesn’t bother meeting my gaze, seemingly put off that she has to attend the Rite at all.
A few of the king’s private circle are in attendance. Alasdair grins at me when we catch gazes, and I quickly look away. Cyan stays at the edges of the courtyard, watching. A male with wavy dark hair and stormy eyes is at his side.
The final one to cross the threshold is Wilder, wearing a simple pair of black pants with weapons strapped to a harness across his chest like he’s ready for battle. He’s shirtless, and the expanse of muscle is distracting.
“Glad I please you, Starfire.” He winks, continuing forward.
“Shouldn’t you be more royal? Or at least put on a shirt?”
“This is traditional Vaelier battle dress for a duel.”
“This isn’t a duel.”
“Isn’t it?” He hitches an eyebrow, and my stomach sinks.
“It doesn’t offer much protection.”
“That’s the point. No armor. You walk in with what you can carry—on your body and in your blood. Only one walks out.”
My throat tightens as I take in his battle dress.
Because he’s right. That’s what this is—a battle.
The final stand before his people die. Once I choose King Malachi, Vaelier will fight tooth and nail, but with the Well against them, they won’t win.
Out of respect for what I’m about to do to his home, I don’t break Wilder’s gaze as he approaches the altar.
“My chosen.” King Malachi lifts my hand, pulling my attention.
His lips press to the back of it, and my skin prickles.
Callum moves to the side of the courtyard near Greer, while Selia and Hazel stay close to the king’s back.
A final figure moves through the doorway, carrying the Staff of Sarrow.
Not carrying it exactly. She holds it inches from her hands, levitating it over the ground.
The female is wearing a lace gown like the high priestesses in Tempest, and when her gaze lifts, I’m met with swirling white eyes.
“Your Majesty.” She bows her head to King Malachi, pushing the staff forward so it floats in the center of the dead stone altar.
It glows even brighter above the gray stonework.
The intricate rivers of crimson magic weave through the staff, deeper than they were before.
Or maybe I’m only now grasping the full depth of what lies within it.
My Fae senses are still muted but stronger than they were when I first came here. This other half of who I am is brimming at the surface. Pushing through in different ways. Like my teeth last night when my magic reached an unbearable peak.
A tightness claims my throat, and I don’t dare look at Wilder. My chest is tearing in two with what is about to be done.
“Elorie Vale.” The priestess turns her attention to me, white eyes glistening.
At the center of her gaze is a drop of red like blood in snow.
I roll my shoulders back and glance at Greer, clinging to the promise I made her—made myself and my home—before turning back to the priestess.
“It is time to choose who you will enter into the Rite of Blood with.” There is no emotion in her voice. A calming indifference that does nothing to settle my nerves.
My fingers clench at my sides while I stand frozen, fighting to breathe.
“It’s all right, Starfire.” Wilder’s voice breaks through, and I finally dare to look into his golden eyes.
“None of this is all right. I want you. I—” love you. It almost slips through the thread, but I manage to cut it off.
I swallow it down.
My heart hammers, and I remember what Wilder said that first time I saw him.
There is always a choice.
If only it were that simple. If the consequences weren’t so heavy. If this decision didn’t tear my heart in two.
Birds cut from the trees. Even they can’t stand to be here, so they fly away.
The lump in my throat swells as I turn to Malachi. His blue eyes are darker than I’ve ever seen them. Nothing like the bright orbs I remember when I met him. No longer endless.
“I choose King Malachi.” The words barely make it out.
My chest aches as I burrow in on myself. Lost in the dark chasm of my mind, I seek out the thread that binds me to Wilder, and I knot it tight. I cut him off before I have to feel the expanse of his pain.
I’m a coward.
A selfish coward who can’t even look at him, much less hear the final sigh of his goodbye.
King Malachi grins. His expression feral in comparison to Hazel and Selia over his shoulder. Their mouths don’t so much as flinch. Everyone knew it would come to this. They knew that for my home, I’d choose him.
King Malachi reaches for my hand, and I slip my fingers into his palm. So smooth. Not like Wilder’s rough touch from years of fighting on battlefields.
The priestess waits while the king leads me toward the altar, and when I step onto the stone, there’s the slightest resistance. A faint tug that tries to pull me back.
To him.
I can’t look back.
I can’t go back.
The choice is made.
King Malachi leads me to one side of the staff while he takes the other. The stone is icy with the lack of magic. It bites at the bottoms of my bare feet. Wiggling my toes, I try to seek the warmth that isn’t there.
Since stepping on the altar, my magic isn’t stirring. That same empty gap between me and my heart stretches like it did when I thought I was human.
“Let us begin.” The priestess steps forward, and she’s so close to Wilder I can’t look at her, or I’ll risk looking at him.
Her toes are at the edge of the stone, barely avoiding touching it. Between me and the king, the Staff of Sarrow glows brighter when she lifts her hands. For a staff carved from the realm between here and the After, it burns as bright as any star.
“Join your hands on the staff,” the priestess directs, and I lift my hand in time with King Malachi.
I’ve feared this Rite, so if it is as simple as holding my magic against his, then it seems too easy.
The king’s palm meets the staff first, and it starts burning so brightly that it’s difficult to stare directly at it. The rivers become wide-open gaps that seem to peer into another realm. The staff hums when I near it, and when my skin connects with the wood, a pulse thrums in my blood.
A lightning bolt strikes my heart. A binding connection sears through my chest, weaving around my ribs. It wraps my heart and stretches up my shoulders and through my arms. It becomes me. Or—it is me. The fibers of my existence.
And yet, it pulls.
It pulls so hard it hurts, and not toward the king, but the other direction.
With my hand still gripping the staff tightly, I glance down to where it tugs my heart. To a thread that weaves through me and out the other side.
Stretching.
Straining.
A single glowing white bind that drifts across the altar, into the courtyard, connecting to Wilder’s heart.
And he’s grinning.