Twisted Ties

Chapter One

“MY MOTHER IS dying,” said Killian, leaning heavily against the ivory arch that separated the king’s sleeping chambers from the rest of his quarters. The long room swathed in the low light of the fire.

Crossing his arms loosely over his chest, Killian waited for his king to respond.

Fyar, still in his dress robes, long impractical layers of pure white fabric embroidered in patterns of gold thread, stayed frustratingly silent.

He gave no indication he’d heard Killian at all.

Back turned, Fyar continued to flip through the reports that he’d had delivered to his private quarters, endless piles of scrolls and loose documents leftover from the day.

Killian blinked, his mouth twisting downwards the longer the silence stretched out. He glared at the intricate plaits of braids that Fyar had piled neatly on the crown of his head, the rest of his long white hair trailing in waves down his back, falling to his waist.

When he couldn’t bear it anymore, Killian asked, “Did you hear me? My mother is dying.”

Fyar unraveled another scroll. “Good riddance. Or should I say congratulations? You’ve been waiting for this day for a long time.”

Killian sniffed, but didn’t deny it. He couldn’t.

It was true. He’d longed to hear this news for decades, but he’d always imagined it would come posthumously.

This turn of events was unexpected, not to mention unwanted.

“My brother writes that her condition worsens by the day. He doesn’t expect that she’ll last till the next moon and she… asked to see me before she passes.”

That caught Fyar’s attention. Folding the scroll, Fyar threw it unceremoniously onto his desk and finally turned to face Killian, his face lit up with new interest.

Fyar had an eerie air to him, devoid of all color with high cheekbones and long, slanting pupil-less white eyes. He was ethereal and otherworldly and severe. Terrifying and off-putting to those who didn’t know him.

It hadn’t always been like this.

Killian remembered a time when Fyar’s coloring nearly matched his own. Raven black hair and the eyes to match, but where Killian had tanned skin from working and training long hours in the sun, Fyar had a milky complexion, inherited from his mother.

They could have been mistaken for brothers once. Now, they were opposites. Killian stood behind the king like a shadow. The darkness to the light.

Killian had been there, witnessed it, the day that the pigment drained from Fyar’s hair and skin and eyes.

The day Fyar had bleed and bound himself to the very earth beneath the kingdom’s feet and was crowned king to all elves who called Netyere their home.

And Killian had been there, every bloody step it had taken Fyar to crawl his way onto the throne.

“And you wish to see her one last time?”

“No.” Killian paused. “Yes.” He sighed, running a hand down his face. “I don’t know. It’s complicated.”

“Family always is.”

Killian huffed a weak laugh. “You would know.”

“Yes. Well. Few families are as complicated as mine. Yours certainly doesn’t come close. What reasons do you have not to go?”

Killian straightened in surprise. “You think I should?”

“That’s not what I said.” Fyar folded his hands into the sleeves of his robes. “I’m simply posing a question. What would you lose if you do go? What could you gain? Your brother still resides with your mother, yes? You said you were close, once.”

Swallowing harshly, Killian turned away from the weight of Fyar’s eyes. He opened his mouth and then closed it again, unable to put into words the storm of emotions that brought up.

See his brother again? See Kade?

It was a horrible idea.

The very thought of it made Killian’s stomach churn.

And yet, at the same time, it was all he wanted.

It was all he’d ever wanted. For the past hundred years, it had haunted him.

Kade was only a few days ride away, and the knowledge that he was alive and well had been Killian’s salvation in his darkest days.

Kade was exactly the reason Killian shouldn’t go.

Killian shook his head. “I can’t.”

Fyar merely shrugged, as if he didn’t care either way. Then, moved closer and turned around, once again showing his back to Killian. “Attend me.” Fyar stretched out his arms, waiting, no doubt in his mind that Killian would obey.

“You have servants for this,” said Killian, already beginning to pull at the complex lacing of Fyar’s dress robes. Loosening the ties around the king’s waist that were pulled taut.

“I also have you,” Fyar teased, glancing over his shoulder, eyes catching on the two thick black lines that wound around Killian’s neck, half hidden beneath the high collar of his uniform. “Are you not one of my servants, Captain?”

Killian rolled his eyes. “Always and forever, my king.”

Enil, evidence of an oath taken.

A promise. A vow.

Shackles, some might say.

A collar, though one Killian wore willingly.

A binding oath was nothing to take lightly. It came with a great risk to an elf to tie any amount of their en—their life force, their magic, the very core of their being—to another. No matter how little en they pledged or how fair the conditions set and agreed upon by both parties.

When Fyar had come to Killian that night in the dungeons, still a young prince with inky black hair and twinkling eyes, and asked for his story, Killian had nothing left to lose.

Having taken an interest in Killian, Fyar had offered him a way to escape his fate of rotting away in the cold, damp dungeon just waiting for his inevitable execution.

A simple oath and unwavering loyalty in exchange for opportunity and life.

Killian had not made the decision lightly.

Despite his position, or lack thereof, he’d known that the consequences could be severe.

It could cost him everything and be nothing more than a slight inconvenience to the prince.

The royal family was not one to be played with.

But death was his fate either way, so he’d taken Fyar’s hand and let himself be used.

“You would have my permission,” said Fyar simply.

Killian’s hands froze for a moment before he caught himself and quickly finished with the last of Fyar’s layers.

He’d been working in a comfortable, companionable quiet until then.

The steady, predictable way Fyar was bound in his clothing was almost therapeutic to remove.

It was a mindless task, one Killian had plenty of experience with, having attended the king in many ways over the years.

Killian made an exaggerated noise of surprise. “You would let me out of the capital? What an honor! Oh, how much my king trusts me.”

Fyar shoved at Killian, laughing, then stepped out of his clothes when they fell into a pile at his feet to go off in search of looser linens to sleep in. “You’ve been outside the capital before.”

“On errands for you. Or on campaigns with you.”

Fyar raised his delicate white eyebrows. “Are you scared to go home, Killian? Is that what this is all about?”

“No.”

Fyar didn’t look like he believed that. He fixed Killian with an unimpressed stare, one that Killian avoided by dragging out how long it took to clear Fyar’s robes.

By the time Killian returned, Fyar had reclaimed his place by the desk, a deep frown marring his handsome face.

“What is it now?”

Fyar held up the paper he was holding, a flashily embossed letter covered with neat script.

He read, “Prince Lyra Yylvr accepts King Fyar Engarathi’s invitation with pleasure.

The prince is delighted for the opportunity to celebrate His Majesty’s centennial jubilee.

Here’s to one hundred peaceful years on the throne. ”

“I don’t like that you invited him back here.”

Fyar sighed. “It’s not like I had much choice. My cousin is still a prince of Netyere, even if it’s in title only. Not to invite him would garner questions I don’t want to answer. It’ll be easier this way.”

“In theory,” said Killian, stepping more into Fyar’s space. He scowled down at the letter over Fyar’s shoulder as if it were the sender itself. “Who knows what he’ll do once he’s here. I wouldn’t put it past him to try something. Gods knows it wouldn’t be the first time.”

“And the first time is what got him stripped of his land, his position, his power here in the capital, and sent out to spend the rest of his days banished to the countryside. I pray he’s learned his lesson.”

“If he hasn’t?”

Fyar’s blazing eyes met Killian’s. “Then I will do what I must.”

Killian smiled, sharp and fierce. “Complicated families.”

“Complicated families,” Fyar agreed with an answering grin. “Make sure to keep a close eye on him while he’s here.”

“Of course.”

“Good. Now that’s settled, get out of my room.”

Bowing with a flourish, Killian turned to obey. He was nearly at the door when Fyar called his name.

The king was plumping his pillows and peeling back his covers. “I meant what I said. You would have my permission, all you have to do is ask for it. If you’re worried about the Guard, you shouldn’t be. Loran would wear the responsibility well.”

Killian’s nostrils flared. “I have no doubt my lieutenant is up to the task.”

Fyar paused in his primping, his prying white eyes bore into Killian’s soul. “I see,” was all he said.

And that was that.

The royal estate in the capital city of Ingara sprawled over nearly one thousand acres, the palace at its center.

Beyond the gates, lay manicured stone paths plotted through pristinely groomed gardens, each full of lush flora of all shapes and sizes and colors.

Each species native to and found across the kingdom.

The taller trees clustered in small forests around the edges of the estate, surrounding two brilliant blue lakes nestled under their foliage on opposite sides of the grounds.