Chapter 36
It’s spring. The castle’s inner courtyard is alive with soft breezes and the hum of bees. Xavelor and I sit together, cups of spiced tea warming our palms. His smirk tilts to one side, dimples quilting deep into his rosy cheeks.
This is the kind of moment you don’t realize you’ve missed until it’s given back to you, through a dream. I realize it immediately—in the too-perfect warmth of the sun, in the tea that is all sweetness. And of course, in the return of my sight.
My recent dreams have unsettled me, but I let this one pull me under its veil of nostalgia.
We are ten and seven, which means it has been a year since my mother’s death.
Grief clings to me, but Xav’s laughter works as a balm, the same way it always did.
He was born with unshakable charm, and he used it to either tease maids or flirt with nobility.
It was impossible not to feel lighter in his company.
Many times, I’d think myself lucky to have been born into this family, to have such an inspiring older brother, but according to traditions and the Faundor bloodline, I was never considered a full son. Everyone seemed to make a point of this. Everyone except Xavelor.
“Rami,” Xav snickers, waking me from my stupor.
His chartreuse eyes alight with an impish flame.
“What do you say we give Lady Elliott a fright? She doesn’t visit often.
And I heard she’s bathing now, which makes her a suitable target for our innocent eyes.
” The twang of his words imitates that of the older noble women who attend balls and drape their favor over our father’s broad shoulders.
Lady Elliott is our age, though you wouldn’t know it by her refined nature.
Untamable strawberry curls fling about over her shoulders, but the rest of her is as stoic as my father, from her perfectly tailored dress to her pale makeup and slanted, needle-like eyebrows.
She’s recently arrived as a potential marriage candidate for Xav, though he doesn’t acknowledge her as such.
He’d rather ruin connections in the name of fun than commit to anything political.
He’s always been very unlike me.
“We’d better hurry, before she exits and?—”
“I’m not sure that’s a great idea. Mother always said to respect women,” my young self mutters.
Xav raises a light brown brow at me, leans in, and smiles wider. “Do you not wish to savor the image of a handsome girl like Mariposa Elliott in the nude? Are you not a man?”
My face flushes and my heart stammers in my chest, but no words leave my mouth.
My brother laughs heartily, clapping my small shoulder with a hand.
“I’m joking, Rami,” he snorts, but I can tell he’s slightly disappointed I didn’t play along with the idea. “Let’s sneak into the kitchen cellar and taste the old chef’s wine instead. Father told me that if I manage to drink and keep my head before I am of age, I will no sooner become a man.”
I shake my head, but smile despite myself.
The dream shifts, throwing me out of the scene and into another with violence.
Colors blend and merge until the royal bedchamber fades into reality. Blood-red silk drapes over the rodded canopy, covering the majestic bed beneath.
I reach out a hand, but it hits a transparent wall.
Xavelor kneels in front of me and rests his elbows on the mattress, his pale skin dewy from tears. His hair has grown and stubble stipples from his jaw to his chin.
When I call his name, he doesn’t respond. He must not be able to hear me.
The king enters the chamber, his expression somber.
My hands go cold at his mournful stare. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him show such depths of sorrow.
“My lovely Karmin,” he groans, gazing toward the bed. The covers have been pulled over a body. “My boy, do tell me. Has the queen...?”
Several maids and a nurse appear from the other side of the dark-red curtains. They bow as the nurse slowly shakes her head from side to side, avoiding eye contact with their king. The fear in her makes her tremble.
Azriel’s face turns red as he strides toward her, raises his hand, and knocks her to the ground with a single strike.
I flinch.
I know what that slap feels like.
“Guards!” he calls. Six armored soldiers appear in the open doorway at his command. “Lock these maids in the dungeon.” He turns to face the women, and, as he runs his hand down the side of his royal robes, a cursed cackle rips from his lips. It’s warped with agony.
“Father,” Xavelor pleads from his mother’s bedside.
The king continues his laughter, even as tears slowly drip from his eyes and turn his maniacal gurgling into sobs. “My precious Karmin,” he laments, stepping over the nurse and joining his beloved son.
Shoulder-to-shoulder, they are clearly related. Hardened by war, they wear identical lines on their faces. Even the shininess in their eyes mirrors the deep loss they both feel.
The soldiers grab each maid and escort them to the dungeon, where they’ll either be left to rot or eventually meet their end.
My brother turns, meeting my eyes briefly.
“I must go,” Xavelor says, nodding to the king. His voice is like steel—forced to conceal his emotions and resume his duties as crown prince before he’s ready.
I know what it is like to lose someone so important. And yet, Xavelor and I never had the chance to discuss the death of Queen Karmin. He stayed busy, just like I did when my own mother died.
I lift my hand and press it to the wall made of glass, but as the scene fades away, my heart still stirs. How could the king have been so wrecked over Karmin, but he didn’t bat an eye at the death of my mother? Whereas Karmin died of sickness, my mother had been killed in cold blood.
Knowing now that my mother had been an elf, however, changes the tide.
Before I can linger too long on my brewing angst, the dream shifts.
An overcast sky paints the world gray. Burgundy mountains carve the horizon, and strange buildings with orange scalloped roofs surround me.
Along the dirt roads, armored knights clash with beasts of talon and claw, but no sound accompanies the violence unfolding in every direction. I can see, but I cannot hear.
My hands grip the hilt of a heavy broadsword. Its metal glints in the sun between droplets of blood that sputter over the smooth silver. I glance down and realize my hands are wrapped with a sweaty cloth stained with brown blood. My arms and head are also swathed, making it difficult to see.
My heart thuds steadily, not with anxiety but with a deep sense of pride and accomplishment. Confidence threads through my muscles. A strange pulsing energizes my veins. But instead of being solely in my left arm as I’ve grown used to, it sings along every limb, sizzles beneath the skin of my face.
Then, all at once, the clamor of war crashes into existence: battle cries, the clanging of metal, bodies thudding to the ground, the strange and miraculous use of magic and its fractals blooming in the air.
A wave of fire flicks from the fingers of a black-cloaked beast, ripping through a horse with precision.
My feet are planted in the terrain, and I hold my sword steady. My breathing is stable, a calmness achieved through the adrenaline pounding in my veins. Resolve swells within me, a resignation bringing me a foreign sense of peace.
I drop the sword to the ground. Dust rises from the impact. The world slows.
“Xavelor! No!”
My head turns on my neck. Ronan stands, panting, as sooty tears stream from his dark eyes. His arms are outstretched, reaching. Toward me.
I don’t have enough time to react.
Something sharp plunges through my chest.
But instead of horror at the pain and blood gushing from my torso, I’m overcome with peace, as though this is exactly what I’ve always wanted. The perfect end.
Then the claws of a monolithic beast rip me apart.
I wake to blackness and the feeling of Ether’s cold hand on my forehead.
She’s back.
Her breathing slows when she realizes I’m awake. Had I been acting strangely in my sleep? Before she can take her hand away, I catch her wrist and coax her next to me. She doesn’t struggle.
Am I still dreaming?
Had I even managed to fall asleep? I thought I’d be awake all night worrying about her.
She’d been gone for more than a day.
I thought she wouldn’t return.
My body relaxes, proof I’ve already forgiven her.
Having her near is more than a dose of medicine—it’s a cure to the ache that developed in her absence. It’s both blight and blessing.
“You had another dream,” she finally accuses. Her voice is raspy from overuse. Where had she gone after disappearing? “Is it also prophetic? You were making quite the expressions.”
She’s well enough to banter. The humor in her voice relaxes my shoulders.
“I doubt it. I dreamt of Xavelor. I think I somehow managed to see his moment of death. Through his own eyes. At least, that is how it appeared.” I try to reenvision the dream, to no avail. It’s as though the entire sequence has erased itself.
“I see. I’ve had dreams about my parents dying.
Those are never pleasant. You know the story.
” She sighs, placing a hand in mine. Her voice grounds me.
“I’m…” She shifts, probably rolling onto her side to face me.
I remain where I am. “I’m sorry I left. I needed to clear my head.
And… I have something I need to tell you. ”
“Is everything alright?” I ask, pushing myself onto my elbows. Ether sits with me, her eluviam hovering so close, I could reach out and touch it should I heed the desire burning in my arm.
“Yes,” she stammers. “Other than what happened to my people, I suppose I should be thankful.” She laughs bitterly at this, though the sound of it is short. “Ramiel, I?—”
“Well, if it isn’t the prodigal showing up,” Ronan grumbles, newly returned from finding more supplies. There is mirth in the way he berates her.
Ether growls, but it carries little animosity beyond her annoyance at his interruption.