Under the Cygnet Moon (The Serendith Saga #1)

Chapter 1

Elara

To Elara, the palace was a prison—elegant, gilded, and suffocating.

She held her breath and hugged the wall, her bare shoulder brushing against the smooth plaster as she crept through her eerily silent home.

The midmorning sunlight poured through massive arched windows lining the hall, illuminating dust motes like trapped stars.

Sneaking around in the daytime was far more difficult than she’d expected.

Another nobleman sauntered past, offered her a curt nod, and ignored her otherwise.

Relief rushed through her as she let the forced smile fall from her face, then ground her teeth.

The last two men to cross her path had stalled her, stealing away her precious minutes with their fawning.

She waited for this one to disappear around the corner before she kept moving.

As her heels clicked along the polished marble floor, she winced at each echo.

Her shimmering skirts tangled around her legs, threatening to trip her, but wearing anything simpler would have drawn even more attention.

A princess en route to the queen’s tea service was the perfect disguise for hiding in plain sight.

Elara’s heart pounded as she reached her true destination. Before her, a tapestry covered the wall from ceiling to knee, displaying a serene scene of a mother picnicking with her two toddlers. Few others in the palace knew that the embroidered meadow concealed a door.

Years ago, one of her guards had shown her the network of secret tunnels hidden behind the palace walls and beneath its foundations.

The adventure had been a game at first—a way for the guard, Jalin, to flirt with the young princess.

When their dalliance ended, exploring the tunnels alone became an idle habit.

Now, the passageways held the key to her plan.

She craned her neck to each side to check for onlookers before she slid her arm behind the heavy fabric of the tapestry. Her fingertips found cold metal, and the latch clicked. Glancing down the hall one last time, she pushed the inset wooden door open and climbed inside.

Raw stacked stones and dirt replaced cream-colored plaster and gleaming marble.

Even the air changed, a cool dampness settling over her cheeks and neck.

Her eyes fought to adjust to the sudden darkness that swallowed her as the door clicked shut behind her.

She placed the palm of her hand against the closest wall and followed it until she found the first bend in her path.

The floor sloped upward, earth transitioning into stone, until the ceiling met her hair.

Almost there. She hiked up her skirts and began crawling on hands and knees.

She tried not to think about the silky cobwebs that stuck to her skin. This better be worth it.

For days she’d argued with her father, King Reginald Evensong, begging him to present her to the Council of Magi as the heir to the Serendithian throne. The announcement would signal to Elara, and her people, that she was ready to leave her books behind and learn how to rule at her father’s side.

Her mind wandered back to their argument this morning.

She’d approached his study and found the door ajar.

She paused, curiosity overcoming courtesy, and leaned in to listen.

Peering through the narrow gap, she watched her father facing a figure clothed in cobalt blue.

The stranger’s hands gripped the edge of the king’s desk, knuckles white.

“If you think for one second I would agree to those terms . . .” the king hissed.

“Fool,” said the man. “You think you have a choice, old friend?”

“She’s my daughter—”

Elara rapped her knuckles against the weathered oak with a firm tap, tap, tap, interrupting the conversation.

She bristled. She’d seen that look on her father’s face before.

Every time the king discussed her personal life without her present, fury bloomed in her chest. The strange man turned to leave, locking eyes with her.

He squinted, his eyes a warm golden brown, but his gaze icy.

“Your Highness,” he muttered, bobbing his gray head as he brushed past her.

A shiver danced down her spine.

“Elara,” her father said, gesturing to a chair in front of his desk.

The king’s face was red, but his smile for her was genuine, causing the soft skin at the corners of his eyes to crinkle.

“Your timing couldn’t be better.” He chuckled.

His laughter, soft and familiar, thawed her indignation—but only a little.

“Who was that?” she asked, taking a seat before him.

“Lord Eamon Stormrider,” the king replied. “He and his son have traveled from Veilkeep for the council gathering.”

“What were you arguing about?”

He waved a hand, brushing her off. “What can I do for you, dearest?”

Elara dropped the matter, prioritizing her own agenda. The king had enough secrets that this one wasn’t enough to distract her from her goal.

“You already know,” she said with a frustrated sigh. “I want to attend the council meetings with you this year. It’s time I take my place at your side.” Elara sat forward in her chair, squaring her shoulders and puffing out her chest.

“You are young, with ample time ahead for learning.”

“Father, please.” Her hands balled into fists in her lap. “I’m ready now.” She should have started attending the gathering two years ago, when she turned eighteen. Instead, her father had insisted that she wait and focus on her studies instead.

You are ready only when I say so. Her father’s harsh words echoed in the back of her mind, stinging her more than the rough stones beneath her knees.

Elara shifted her weight, trying to get the blood flowing through her legs.

Her kneeling position, while uncomfortable and unbefitting of a princess, was necessary.

Wincing at the sensation of pins and needles running down her limbs as she moved, she turned her attention back to the council meeting below.

She leaned forward, closing one eye to sharpen her view as she continued spying through a tiny hole in the stone wall.

Below her, the great hall buzzed with rare purpose.

The Council of Magi only convened once a year before the final harvest, settling into the capital, Valoria, for several weeks to share news of the different cities throughout the kingdom.

The lords and ladies of Serendith were accompanied by talented mages and a select few trusted advisors; together, they formed the full council that served the monarchy.

Elara huffed. She’d been eavesdropping for an hour, and nothing of note had happened. I should be in there, next to Father. She pressed her forehead to the stone so hard it throbbed. Her pain was a small price to pay for information.

The gathering had begun with old friends embracing and the council elders showing off their prized sons and daughters, who would assume their council seats this year. Then, as often happened when the king hosted a royal event, rare and strong wines flowed. So, too, did the news of the realm.

With palates whetted and lips looser, the council members asked the king for various things—food, supplies, favorable trade agreements. Her father addressed each request with calculated diplomacy.

The casual, friendly atmosphere shifted. Conversations quieted. Laughter silenced. Chairs scraped against the floor as the magi took their seats. Several of them squirmed in their high-backed chairs. Others sat like statues, with their shoulders stiff and necks straight.

The reason for the soured mood strolled through the entrance to the great hall.

Lord Stormrider.

The man loomed over the other guests in the room as he strode onto the central circular dais that was framed by long, curved tables. He looked at the empty throne, and from her hidden perch above, Elara swore she caught a trace of longing in his gaze.

“Eamon!” the king called, making his way over to his throne. “Welcome, my friend.” He clapped a hand onto Lord Stormrider’s back. The king sat on the throne and waited, nothing in his expression hinting at their earlier disagreement.

“Your Majesty,” Stormrider grumbled, bowing so low the ends of his long gray hair brushed the floor. He rose and gestured to a young man behind him. “May I present to you my son, Captain Caelan Stormrider. Should the stars align, he will serve on this council in years to come.”

Elara blinked. Something was missing from his tone: pride. She recognized its absence—she’d seen it lacking in her father’s eyes too many times to count. If he’d only give me a chance, I wouldn’t be cramped in this stars-damned tunnel.

Elara tried to drag forward any memories of the Stormriders.

They came from Veilkeep, which was at the southernmost tip of the Shadowed Isles.

The Stormriders used to dwell in the Valorian court until Elara’s family, the Evensongs, had ousted them generations ago.

The reasons were murky, the resentment less so.

The Shadowed Isles were the ancestral home to both the Moiren and Nimireth. The blue garments suggested the Stormriders were descendants of the former.

Hopefully. She shuddered at the idea of illusionists in the palace.

“Sorcerers,” her mother, Queen Evadne Evensong, had once called them. The Moiren controlled water with their magic, but the Nimireth twisted reality with theirs. Unlike the other bloodlines that made up the Council of Magi, illusionists had lacked representation for decades, their power taboo.

The younger Stormrider, Caelan, bowed to the king before finding a place to sit.

His tanned skin provided a stark contrast to his unruly dirty-blond curls, which seemed to have a life of their own.

His clothes were the same cobalt fabric that his father sported.

Despite his wealthy attire and polished manners, there was a roguish air about him, with his unkempt hair and stubbled face.

Caelan’s expression brightened as he leaned in to whisper to his neighbor, a striking young woman in a gray gown.

Her silky platinum hair cascaded down her shoulders, framing her sharp cheekbones and delicate nose.

She tried to suppress her laughter by covering her mouth with a slender hand.

Caelan grinned and caressed her arm with easy affection.

Elara rolled her eyes. I’ve heard rumors about you.

Caelan had been a frequent topic of conversation at her mother’s teas. He was a notorious rake, leaving a trail of brokenhearted noblewomen in his wake.

Other conversations filled the air as the woman continued blushing and giggling. Elara’s ears homed in on a particular phrase across the room, drawing her attention away from Caelan and his latest victim.

“My family continues to lose our essence affinity,” said a woman with rich brown skin. “It is worse with each generation. We must find a solution,” she begged the king.

Elara had never seen her at court, but the amber dress meant she was from Emberreach.

“If you’d open your minds to our devices,” another voice said, “we wouldn’t need to worry about essence at all.

” This magi Elara knew. Lord Malcom Ashfall hailed from the Celestial Summit in the Stormspire Mountains and was a Son of the Sky—an energist who could create and manipulate electricity.

That power was so rare that the northernmost cities had evolved to rely on technology instead of magic for their survival.

“Bah! We don’t trust your artifices—they are dangerous, not to mention blasphemous.” The woman slammed her fist onto the table.

Elara flinched. The artifices were devices inspired by ancient artifacts imbued with essence. As natural-born essence affinities had become less common, some turned to those devices to harness power.

Such things were illegal in Valoria, but the king often made unsavory deals with leaders of other cities to skirt the law.

The queen herself had gifted Elara and her sister a pair of enchanted jewelry boxes one winter solstice.

When opened, they each played a special song, much to the delight of the two little girls.

What other artifices could be out there? The possibilities seemed endless. And dangerous. If weaponized . . .

The king needed to tread carefully and measure his response. The royal family’s power came from their alliances, not magic.

Soft scuffling noises filled the small space around Elara, pulling her attention away from the debate below.

A warm fuzzy body scurried past her leg and into her scrunched-up skirts.

She yelped at the small rat; the noise echoed.

She swiped one hand toward the tiny creature and clapped the other over her mouth.

She waited and prayed to the stars above that she wasn’t discovered.

No footsteps. No alarm.

A few heartbeats later, the rat was gone. Elara peered through the hole and let her hand fall away from her face. Caelan stared up in her direction, his golden gaze fixed on hers.

Impossible. Despite herself, a blush warmed her cheeks as she locked eyes with him briefly before he shifted his attention back to the king.

The council discussion had transitioned to preparing for the last harvest before winter.

Damn. I missed it. She would have to research the artifices in the library—and riffle through her father’s notes—later.

For now, she crawled, her knees and hips complaining at the movement.

When she could stand again, she stifled a groan, dusted off her skirts, and began the journey out of the damp tunnel.

A heavy weight settled in her chest as she prepared to trade her fleeting freedom for the stuffy formality of court.

She exited the tunnel, straightening her skirts and smoothing her black hair, and returned to her gilded cage.