Chapter 10 #2
Sam stands resplendent in a deep navy tunic that’s been embroidered with obsidian thread in patterns that catch the torchlight like captured midnight.
The formal attire suits him in ways that surprise me, he looks every inch the nobleman, though I know he feels anything but comfortable in such finery.
His green eyes light up when he sees me, drinking in my appearance like he hasn’t laid eyes on me in weeks instead of mere hours.
He offers his arm with a smile that’s both proud and tender.
“You look like true royalty, Angel,” he says, bending to brush his lips over my cheek with reverent softness. The familiar endearment settles some of my nerves.
I lift my eyebrows in what I hope is a flirtatious arch, attempting to inject some levity into the moment despite my growing anxiety. “You clean up remarkably well yourself, Mr. Baker.”
Locke clears his throat pointedly from where he stands nearby, and I turn to find him handsomely dressed in polished black leather armor that’s been buffed to a mirror shine.
His ceremonial cloak is clasped at one shoulder with a silver brooch bearing his family’s crest, and his twin swords gleam from the sheaths on his back.
His thick locs have been pulled back into a style that’s both practical and elegant, revealing the sharp angles of his face.
His expression remains carefully blank, but his eyes flicker with something unreadable as they land on me.
Something passes between us in that moment.
A current of understanding and longing that has nothing to do with my Tether or bond to Sam and everything to do with the complicated feelings that have been growing between us like wildflowers in forbidden soil.
The ache that settles in my chest is dull but persistent, a constant reminder of roads not taken and choices not yet made.
“Truly a vision, Starlight,” he says with a slight inclination of his head that manages to be both respectful and intimate.
I offer him a faint smile, though the weight of responsibilities I haven’t yet claimed already presses heavy on my head like an invisible crown.
Locke steps forward with military precision, offering his arm with formal courtesy. “Protocol demands it,” he explains simply.
I switch arms reluctantly, feeling Sam’s immediate tension radiating from behind me.
I want desperately to turn and offer him reassurance, but the massive double doors to the Great Hall loom ahead like the mouth of some great beast, and all my carefully planned words of comfort scatter like leaves in a storm.
“Sam,” Locke says evenly, his voice carrying the authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed. “Your seat is reserved with the king’s personal guard. Front row, directly in her line of sight. You’ll be close enough to reach her if needed.”
Sam’s gaze finds mine, searching my face for signs of distress, ready to argue if he senses I need him closer. The protective instinct radiating from him is almost tangible. I give him what I hope is a confident nod.
“I’ll be right there waiting,” he promises, squeezing my hand once with gentle strength before turning to follow a liveried court attendant through a side corridor. I watch until he disappears into the shadows beyond what I assume leads to the main dais.
Locke leans down slightly, his breath warm against my ear. “Ready for this, Starlight?”
I laugh, but the sound comes out shaky and breathless. “Not even remotely close to ready.”
The great doors begin to creak open with an ominous sound that seems to echo through my bones, and brilliant light spills out into the corridor like a golden waterfall, temporarily blinding me.
I blink rapidly, trying to adjust to the sudden brightness, and then gasp at the sheer opulence that awaits.
The Great Hall has been completely transformed into something that belongs in fairy tales rather than reality.
The vaulted ceiling disappears into shadows far above, draped with floating silk banners that ripple in unfelt breezes, their fabric shimmering with embedded starlight that casts dancing patterns across the walls.
Dozens of massive chandeliers hang at varying heights, each one glowing brightly, captured in crystal and gold.
The very air seems to sparkle with residual magic.
Soft, otherworldly music filters through the space from floating instruments suspended midair.
Stringed lyres of woven glass, spiral lutes that shimmer with runes, and wind-horns that emit notes like birdsong and thunder all at once.
The melody rises and falls in a rhythm I can’t place, both haunting and regal, as if the hall itself were humming in reverence.
Hundreds of courtiers line either side of the long royal blue carpet that stretches like a river toward the throne.
They shimmer in silks, velvets, and gemstones that catch the light like a treasure hoard given human form, each outfit more extravagant and impossible than the last. Fae of every conceivable size, coloring, and magical lineage sit in carefully arranged rows on either side of the center aisle, their pointed ears adorned with jewelry that probably costs more than most mortals see in a lifetime.
Their skin bearing the subtle glow that marks them as creatures of magic and moonlight.
To the side, obsidian banquet tables are arranged in elegant curves, each one laden with delicacies I had the pleasure of taste testing earlier this week.
Bowls of glowing fruit that change color with every bite, pastries filled with dream-root cream.
A silky soft, melt in your mouth dark chocolate creation that lingers long after the flavor fades, weaving happy memories and heady dreams that cling to you like a spell.
Tall crystal flutes of goldwine that scent the air with honey and frost line the tables.
Even the platters seem enchanted, hovering inches above the tablecloths as if reluctant to touch anything so mundane.
Every single one of them turns as one entity and looks directly at me with expressions ranging from curiosity to barely concealed hostility.
The weight of their collective gaze feels like a physical force pressing against my skin.
I freeze for a heartbeat, gripping Locke’s arm so tightly I’m surprised he can still feel his fingers.
But I refuse to move, refuse to flinch or show weakness under the scrutiny of hundreds of magical beings who are clearly still deciding whether I deserve to breathe their air.
Locke guides me down the aisle with steady, measured steps, his presence a reassuring anchor beside me in this sea of judgment. I keep my head high despite the effort it takes, even as whispers begin to ripple through the crowd like water over stones.
“I thought Blue Mountain witches were supposed to have crescents marked on their foreheads, where’s hers?”
“She’s the witch’s daughter, isn’t she—”
“Look at her, she’s obviously a half-blood. The diluted magic shows.”
“She doesn’t belong here among true fae. This is an insult to our bloodlines.”
“The king has lost his mind, acknowledging a mongrel child.”
Each cruel word hits like a small blade, but I let them wash over me, focusing instead on the figure waiting at the end of the aisle. My father, a man I’m still learning to think of in those terms, commands attention even while seated.
King Rhys Ayla sits upon the obsidian throne that’s been carved from a single massive stone and inlaid with veins of silver that pulse with their own inner light.
His robes flow around him the color of captured twilight, deep purples and midnight blues shot through with threads of gold that seem to move of their own accord.
His expression remains carefully unreadable, but when our eyes meet across the distance, I catch something warm and unmistakably proud flashing in their depths.
For just a moment, he’s not a king looking at a political necessity, he’s a father seeing his daughter.
Beside the throne, Queen Lucelle’s ornate chair sits conspicuously empty, like a missing tooth in an otherwise perfect smile.
After her thinly veiled threats and obvious hostility, I expected nothing less than this calculated snub.
Her absence should be a relief, but instead it only makes my anxiety spike higher.
Even someone as politically naive as me understands that her empty seat represents more than personal animosity, it’s a deliberate slight to the king himself.
A public challenge to his authority that every person in this room will note and remember.
Locke stops precisely at the bottom of the marble steps leading to the throne, inclining his head in a gesture of perfect military respect before stepping back.
My legs feel unsteady as I climb the steps, the weight of my elaborate gown making each movement deliberate and careful.
The marble is cold beneath my feet even through my silk slippers, and I can feel the collective breath of the crowd held in anticipation.
When I finally reach the top and turn to face the assembled court, the king rises with fluid grace, and the entire Great Hall falls into complete, breathless silence.
“Fae of the Night Court,” he calls out, his voice carrying the kind of natural authority that fills every corner of the vast space without seeming to strain. The words echo like rolling thunder.
“Tonight, I have the honor of presenting to you, my daughter. Princess Esmeralda Ayla, born of this court’s ancient blood and blessed with its magic. She stands before you as rightful heir to our legacy and inheritor of our crown.”