Chapter 15
The gates rise ahead, black iron curling like talons toward the sky. My pulse stutters. Kyler and Remli step into view, their animal forms already shed. The ease of human faces does nothing to soften the sharpness in their eyes. They fall into step beside us like shadows that walk.
Lowan leans close, his voice low against the cold air. “Keep your hood up. Eyes down. Not until we’re inside.” His hand brushes my arm, steadying me, though I hear tension threaded through his words.
I nod, though unease prickles my skin.
The castle towers over us, stone once pale now stained with time and smoke.
I can imagine it being beautiful once, maybe when its walls sang of light and welcome.
Now it looms dark, heavy, as if the years themselves have pressed the warmth out of it.
I try to match Lowan’s calm, but even he glances up at the walls with a flicker of something almost like surprise, almost like regret.
We cross into the courtyard. It yawns vast and empty, the silence unnatural.
Still, I feel it—eyes. Watching from behind arrow slits, from shadows too deep to see into.
Zillah’s presence flares warm beside me, then settles like a shield sliding across my skin.
The small comfort makes me shiver. If she’s drawing her power close, then she feels it too.
We’re nearly across when a figure emerges.
The guard is enormous, fully armored, his face hidden behind a visor. He plants himself in our path, and his weight makes the air feel heavier.
Kyler steps forward, his voice crisp. “We’re escorting the Veynars and their guests to see the King.”
“The King is away,” the guard rumbles, the sound echoing strangely inside the helm.
“Then the Queen,” Kyler presses.
“The Queen is busy.”
Kyler’s mouth tightens. “Too busy for this?” He lifts a hand and gestures toward me.
My heart lurches. Lowan gives the slightest nod. I raise my head. The hood slips back just enough to let a spill of red hair catch the torchlight. My eyes meet the shadowed slit of the visor.
The guard freezes. Even through steel, I see his eyes flare wide.
“This way,” he says at once, his voice altered—urgent. He pivots sharply and strides toward the looming doors.
We follow, my pulse hammering. Whatever he saw in me was enough to part the gates that wouldn’t usually yield under any circumstances.
The great doors groan open, heavy enough that the sound rumbles through the stone beneath my boots. The air inside is cooler, thicker, as if the walls themselves breathe it out after centuries of holding it.
The moment I step across the threshold, something stirs in me. A shiver races over my skin, not of fear but of recognition—my magic hums, low and steady, answering something I cannot name.
It feels like pressing my palm against an old harp string—the vibration sharp, familiar, but also strange because I don’t remember plucking it.
I glance at Lowan, at Zillah, at the others. Their faces are set, wary. Zillah’s shield tightens, as though she senses danger in the stones. Lowan’s hand hovers near a hidden dagger, his eyes scanning every shadow. They feel the weight of menace here.
But me? Against all reason, against every story I’ve been told, I feel steadied. Not safe exactly, but tethered, as though something inside these walls recognizes me.
I swallow hard, dragging my gaze away from the vaulted ceiling, and the banners faded with age. I don’t know this place. I’ve never set foot here. And yet, deep in my bones, it is as if I have.
The guard leads us into the great hall. The air shifts again, cooler, closer, heavy with the scent of stone and age.
And then—the flames leap.
The torches lining the walls flare brighter, spilling sudden light across the stone. Orbs that hover above blaze with new intensity, bathing us in a golden glow before slowly dimming again.
I stop short, heart hammering.
Across the hall, Lowan’s head whips toward me. His eyes narrow, sharp with the same question burning in my own: What was that?
I press my lips together and look away, forcing myself to keep walking. Zillah’s shield tightens, her hand flexing at her side, but she says nothing. The others stride forward as though determined not to notice.
Inside me, though, the echo lingers. The hall’s magic brushed mine, like a hand catching another in the dark. Strange. Startling. And—gods help me—comforting.
The guard leaves us in a small chamber, the heavy door thudding shut behind him. The space feels like a waiting room of sorts—stone walls hang with a few faded tapestries, narrow windows letting in only slivers of light.
“Wait here,” he says. Then he is gone.
For a moment, none of us speaks. Then Zillah exhales sharply, turning toward us. “Did anyone else feel that?”
I nod before I can stop myself. The others murmur in agreement.
“Something pressed against my shield,” she continues, voice low. “Old power. As though it was trying to seep through.”
Selene’s eyes narrow. “Then watch your words. Walls like these have ears.”
The warning hangs heavy between us. I lower my gaze, pretending to study the room instead.
My eyes snag on a tapestry near the hearth—its threads so frayed the edges blur, yet the images remain: a tree split down the middle, light and shadow spiraling outward, a flaming bird soaring upward from the divide.
The sight tugs at me. A memory. A story whispered in the flickering dark just before I left.
I clear my throat. “Does this tapestry… remind you of anything?”
Lowan glances at it, then at me, brow furrowing. “No.”
“Not really,” Zillah adds.
“Anything? A story?” I press, careful, watching their faces. Blank stares.
I chew my lip, then risk more. “Your mother—she told me one just before we came here. About the realms. This tapestry? It reminds me of that.”
Lowan tilts his head. “What are you talking about?”
Heat prickles my neck. If someone is listening, circling it won’t help. I force the words out in a hushed rush. “The story that maybe, long ago, the mortal realm and Thrae weren’t two separate realms at all. That they were one, and then, something happened. A split.”
A silence settles. Zillah snorts softly. “Metra, that’s just old lore. Nobody believes it. A fireside tale at best.”
I swallow, my gaze darting back to the tapestry. I don’t say your father did. Not here. Not now. The thought prickles uncomfortably under my skin.
I manage a slight shrug. “Maybe so. It just reminded me, that’s all.” I let my voice go light, dismissive. Pretend it means nothing.
But deep in my chest, I feel the hum again—that strange recognition that began the moment I stepped inside.
I turn back toward the tapestry, unable to stop myself. The threads shimmer faintly in the shifting torchlight, the woven image seeming to breathe.
And then—faint as a breath against my ear—I swear I hear it. A whisper. Words I cannot catch, slipping through like water between fingers.
My heart stutters. I glance over my shoulder, but no one else reacts. Lowan is pacing. Remli and Kyler were dismissed once we were shown to this room. Zillah and Selene exchange wary looks, their attention far from the wall. Not one of them is watching the tapestry. Not one of them hears.
The whisper slides through me again, low and urgent. My skin prickles, every instinct screaming that the sound is real. Yet I don’t dare speak of it. Not here. Not with these walls.
The heavy door creaks open, making me jump—the armored guard steps in, his voice booming in the small chamber.
“Come with me. The Queen will see you now.”
The whisper vanishes. The tapestry hangs silently, with only faded threads in the dim light.
But as I fall into step behind the guard, my magic thrums in my chest, unsettled, as if some ancient truth just slipped past me like smoke.
The guard leads us down a long corridor. The air is colder here; the stone walls lined with tapestries and narrow windows. My hood feels too heavy, my pulse too loud.
At the end of the hall, double doors swing open into a chamber more intimate than a throne room, but no less imposing—the Queen’s space.
She waits for us, perched on a tall, carved chair that is not quite a throne, though the air bends toward her all the same.
Around her stands a cluster of women in flowing gowns, attendants who hover like shadows of perfume and silk.
The guard at her right hand is a mountain of a man—broad, carved from shadow and steel.
His stare rakes the room, but when it returns to the Queen, it lingers too long. Hungry.
I shift under the weight of it, uneasy, because there is nothing dutiful in that look.
His jaw tightens as if restraining himself, his shoulders rolling once like a predator scenting blood.
And the Queen? She doesn’t even glance his way, yet the air between them crackles, charged with something I shouldn’t be close enough to feel.
For the first time since entering the throne room, I wonder if even the most fearsome guard here is only dangerous because she makes him so.
The presenting guard stops and bows. “Queen Calidora, I present Lowan and Zillah Veynar. Selene Neythra. And… their guest.”
He steps aside. We move forward. Together, we bow. My hood slips, and a spill of red hair tumbles free.
When I rise, Calidora is already watching me.
She is beautiful in a way that sears the eyes—dark auburn hair falling in sleek waves to her shoulders, skin pale as ivory, amber eyes that gleam sharp and cunning. Her lips are a perfect, painted red; her smile is both lush and dangerous.
She wears a gown of deep burgundy, plunging low, its sheer layers catching the light. The fabric parts at her legs, slit to the hip, revealing smooth, flawless skin. She crosses one leg over the other with languid confidence, as though she commands the room by existing in it.
But when my hair falls loose, she shifts. She sits straighter, uncrosses her leg, and rises with deliberate grace.
“Welcome,” she says.
The word is warm. Her voice is not. Beneath the honeyed cadence coils something sharp, a threat wrapped in silk.
We straighten from our bows. Her gaze flicks briefly over the Veynars, over Selene. Then it locks onto me.
Green eyes meeting amber.
Her lips curve, slow and knowing. “Welcome indeed.”
The chamber is hushed but for the rustle of silk.
Around the Queen stand half a dozen women, each draped in gowns as revealing as hers, but in shades of cream and white—soft, pale echoes beside her deep burgundy.
One has hair the color of sand, swept sleekly back.
Another’s black tresses fall in a shining river to her waist. They are all beautiful.
But none of them—none—can hold the room as she does.
When Calidora rises, the air shifts. She glides down the steps as if the floor itself bends to her, chiffon skirts drifting like smoke, revealing long, toned legs with each measured step.
She halts before us, hands clasping lightly together.
Her fingers are long, elegant, and tipped with sharpened nails that make them seem endless—like weapons disguised as grace.
“What an interesting story you all must have to tell,” she says, her amber eyes flicking from one face to the next. Her smile gleams. “I cannot wait to hear it.”
Lowan bows his head. “Your Majesty, we indeed have a story to share. We had hoped to tell His Majesty as well—that between you both, perhaps, we might find answers for Metra.”
The Queen’s gaze lingers on him, desire flashing openly in her eyes. She steps closer, her voice a low purr. “Perhaps you could join me in my chambers, and we could discuss it all… privately.”
Rage detonates in my chest. It takes every shred of willpower not to show it. My spine stiffens, my jaw locks—and then Zillah’s shield slams around me, invisible but absolute. Like she’s caging me in place, sealing the rage before it can escape.
The Queen’s guard looks just as outraged, but he directs his fury squarely at Lowan.
Lowan, smooth as silk, bows as deeply as her nearness allows. “I am deeply flattered, Your Majesty. But I fear I couldn’t tell the story properly without Metra.”
Her gaze slides back to me, slow, deliberate. “Metra. Metra Donovan, I assume?” She gestures faintly toward the spill of red hair across my shoulders.
My throat tightens, the rage still burning through me. I dip my head. “Your Majesty.”
“Well.” The smile sharpens. “This is excellent timing. The King will return this evening. We shall celebrate the return of one of my own. After a brief audience with him, we will feast together—a joyous reunion.”
The words are sweet, but something inside me whispers that joy has nothing to do with this. Still, I cling to Lowan’s assurance that the King is benevolent, that he will have answers.
Calidora snaps her fingers. Another servant appears at once, as if conjured from the air. “Show our guests to their quarters. Ensure they receive the finest clothes for tonight's feast. I want them to look and feel their absolute best.”
She turns back to us, her eyes lingering on me. “Welcome. While you are here, my home is your home. I cannot wait to hear what has brought you back into our orbit, Metra Donovan. And of course, to show proper appreciation to the Veynar family for bringing you into my presence.”
The words fall heavily, layered with meanings I cannot parse—my stomach knots.
But we all bow. And then, silent, weighted, we follow the servant out.