Chapter 8
Elara
The outside air had a hint of crispness to it.
Intermittent shade from the trees offered coolness, and the breeze sent a shiver down Elara’s spine.
The last heat of the summer was finally starting to fade, giving way to autumn.
This summer had been a sweltering one, brutal and drought-ridden.
The crops had suffered, and so had the king’s popularity.
The queen frequently toured the poorest areas of Valoria to distribute rations.
Elara had begged to go, but her father had forbidden it.
Despite her mother’s efforts, the servants whispered about the unrest creeping through the city.
A king who could not keep even his closest subjects fed was a failure.
Now her father might not get the chance to fix it.
Elara walked the palace grounds, as she did every evening. Now, instead of Thalia, her new guards—two of the soldiers who’d assisted Caelan during last night’s invasion—accompanied her.
“When can I speak with Lord Stormrider?” she turned to the older of her new guards. She’d spent the day trying—and failing—to see Lord Stormrider.
“Soon.” The gray-haired man didn’t even look her in the eye.
Elara huffed at his answer—the same he’d been uttering all day. “Do you ever say anything else?”
The younger guard snickered. He appeared to be about the same age as Kaz, judging by the fine lines around his eyes.
“What about you? Do you speak?”
His lips pulled into a thin line at the scathing look from his peer.
“Please,” she tried again, her voice softening. “Can you at least tell me your names?”
“I’m Felix,” the younger one said, running a hand through his red hair. “This is Silas.” He jabbed his thumb at the other guard.
Silas grunted.
Elara sighed. I hope Jalin and Kaz are all right.
The trio passed the front gate, where the burned hay and damaged wagons had already been cleared away. The gardeners she passed whistled as they scraped at the ground, removing various weeds from the beds. Her chest tightened with the memory of doing the same with Thalia just a few days ago.
Other servants bustled about finishing their usual daily tasks and errands.
None showed any sign that anything was amiss.
So strange, she thought. Surely some of them witnessed the invasion.
Lord Stormrider’s men had replaced the king’s guards overnight.
Absent were the Stormriders’ blue tunics and scale mail—they donned the emerald green and swan crest of Elara’s house. She recognized none of them.
A short distance away, a guard had paused his patrolling to chat with one of the many servants who was scurrying around.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, and had an air of command about him.
A subtle dignity, the way he held his head, the precise set of his shoulders—all proclaimed his high rank.
And those blond curls . . . He turned toward Elara and caught her staring.
Caelan. Of course it was. He offered her a gallant wave before returning to his conversation. Stars help me. She flushed and ground her teeth.
Her guards continued ambling along the gravel path until she stopped at a bed filled with desdemona bushes—the same ones she and her sister had last tended. She pretended to enjoy the fragrant blooms and tried to eavesdrop on Caelan.
“Hello there,” Caelan purred from behind her.
She jumped and whirled around to face him. “Hello.” Warmth spread from her neck to her chest, her rage simmering.
“Enjoying your evening stroll?” he asked.
Elara glowered at him.
“What?” he said, raising his hands out to his sides, palms up. An unusual scar marred one of his hands—a reminder that, despite his charm, he was a warrior. Elara held her own hand behind her back, hiding her missing injury from last night.
“You want to ask me about my walk? Or the weather? What do you expect from me?” She was seething by the end of her last question.
“I expect my future wife to be cordial with me,” he growled back, frowning.
“Future wife? I want nothing to do with you!” She crossed her arms over her chest.
“You don’t have a choice, darling.”
“Just because we’re engaged doesn’t mean I have to like you, darling.”
“Pity,” he said, shrugging. “There’s a long line of women—and men—who would kill to be with me.” He gave her another lazy, irksome smile.
Elara bristled. “Well, I’m not one of them. Look, I will keep up appearances for the sake of my family, but make no mistake—I don’t want you.” Bile roiled in her stomach.
“We shall see.” He titled his head, a deep chuckle escaping his throat. “I look forward to our dinner tonight, Princess.”
Elara balked. “Dinner?” she whispered, glancing around to ensure they weren’t overheard. “You invade my home, capture my family, and torture my mother in front of me; and now you expect me to have dinner with you?”
“Technically, I only helped with the first part.”
“You—”
“Careful, Princess.” He jerked his chin toward a gardener pushing a squeaky wheelbarrow nearby.
Elara’s frown deepened, her teeth aching from clenching her jaw.
“See you tonight!” Caelan offered her a low mocking bow before he turned on his heel and strolled off, the gravel crunching loudly under his heavy boots.
Elara, in her frustration, yanked a bloom from the nearby bush.
Thorns pierced her skin, and blood dripped onto the stony path.
She dropped the flower and crushed it beneath her feet as she stomped away.
Her hand tingled as her skin knit itself together.
She curled it into a fist, hoping that the guards hadn’t noticed.
The most logical explanation of the phenomenon was also the most uncomfortable one.
The royal family came from a long line of Serathi, gifted with the affinity for healing essence.
When the Evensongs rose to power after the Shattering, rumors claimed they were immortal, their lasting youth a testament to their stars-blessed bloodline.
But none of the royal family had healed so much as a splinter with magic in four generations.
Fewer Serendithian children showed signs of essence affinity with each generation.
Those who did often only possessed minor talents, parlor tricks.
Gifts like Caelan’s—and perhaps his father’s—were rare and dangerous.
Even the most powerful magi on the council could only light a candle or serve as a glorified lightning rod.
Elara had never seen magic like Caelan’s, or the sorceress’s, before.
The memory of her mother’s eyes filled her with dread, a sense of powerlessness creeping in as she thought back to her fight with Caelan.
If similar mages existed elsewhere, the crown was in more danger than she’d ever imagined.
The power linked to a name could only last for a short duration amidst warriors who could manipulate the elements.
And being a Serathi wouldn’t help her fight them off.
If anything, it made her more of a target.
Her gaze followed Caelan’s back until his figure vanished into the palace’s shadow. She hadn’t the faintest idea what his angle was. She tilted her head back to savor the salmon-and-azure sky, the first bright stars twinkling, and a sliver of crescent moon peeking through the clouds.
What do you plan to do with me?
Elara forced herself into the dining room in her burgundy ball gown, every step bringing her closer to her enemy.
The gold embroidery on the dress weighed enough that she had to kick the full skirts out of her path with each careful step.
A footman pulled out her chair at the long mahogany table.
Lord Stormrider sat in her father’s usual seat at the head of the table, setting Elara’s teeth on edge.
Caelan sat at his right hand, directly across from Elara.
Next to him was the sorceress. Elara avoided the woman’s piercing gaze, not wanting to anger her and further endanger her family.
She swallowed hard. She could endure dining with them if it meant she’d finally have the opportunity to negotiate—to change her fate.
Glowing candelabras filled the room with flickering buttery light, serving as centerpieces for the feast before them: chicken, bread, fish, lamb, and more.
Tendrils of steam wafted off the spread, making Elara’s mouth water despite the growing pit in her stomach.
The footmen and guards lining the perimeter of the room were statuesque in their stillness, their presence a silent threat along the walls.
Her heart leapt when she recognized Jalin and Kaz in their ranks, but the relief faded almost as quickly as it came.
They didn’t meet her gaze—not even a flicker of recognition.
Jalin’s jaw was clenched, a cord of tension visible in his neck, and Kaz stared through her like she was a ghost. What’s wrong with them?
Her family was conspicuously absent. Where are they?
Are they still in the palace? Servants plated the first course in silence, the only sound the clinking of silverware against porcelain dishes.
Elara sat stiff-backed, every muscle wound tight.
Despite being surrounded by people, she felt utterly alone.
“You look stunning in that color, Your Highness,” Caelan crooned before taking a long drink from his wine goblet.
“Thank you, but if you think you can win my affection with silly compliments, you are sorely mistaken,” Elara replied coolly before turning her attention to Lord Stormrider. “Where is my family?”
“The king took your mother and sister to your country estate.” He reached over and patted Elara’s forearm.
Her skin crawled under his touch. “I’m sorry they were both taken ill so suddenly, and right after the wonderful news of your engagement.
A shame.” He shook his head. “Ah, well, we will simply have to celebrate for them. After all, your father was so pleased.”
Elara schooled her features into an expression of nonchalance. “And I suppose you have graciously volunteered to run the remaining council meetings in his absence?”
Lord Stormrider beamed at her. “Indeed, as well as hosting all of your engagement festivities. Such wonderful timing, to have all the noble families already gathered together.”
Elara gulped. “Festivities?” she asked.
“A ball to celebrate our engagement, along with a tournament,” Caelan said, dipping a piece of meat into sauce and swirling it.
Elara felt a powerful urge to smack that smug expression off his handsome face.
“And don’t forget your appearance at the festival,” the sorceress said with sweet venom. “We hope you’ll take part in each of your obligations to ensure your family rests and fully recovers during their time away.”
Elara glowered at the thinly veiled threat, then composed herself. She turned back to Lord Stormrider. “I understand that you and my father were in the midst of a negotiation when my mother and sister fell ill.”
“Yes, well, that is not your concern, my dear.”
“I would be happy to assist you in fulfilling that arrangement, without the need for an engagement. If you would consider—”
“It’s too late for that,” Lord Stormrider snapped at her, clearly annoyed at her bluntness. “You should focus on celebrating your joyful engagement. And be grateful that you didn’t fall ill too,” he said through gritted teeth.
Elara nodded, her breathing shallow beneath her fitted corset as her heart sank. “How can I trust that my family will be well cared for at the country house?” she asked carefully.
“I swear it.” Caelan leaned forward, surprising her. “We want this to be a peaceful, advantageous arrangement for both of our families.” He stared intently into Elara’s eyes, his voice dripping with sincerity. “I give you my word that no harm will come to your family or any of our subjects.”
Elara’s heart pounded. “Our” subjects. There was a partial answer to her questions. Lord Stormrider wants his son on the throne. And I was right. Father must have declined an arrangement involving me.
Elara held Caelan’s golden eyes. Despite her fears, she nodded at him. “Very well.” Look docile. Easy to control.
She tried to bolster confidence in her decision with the fact that she was securing her family’s lives. Bargaining was a game of leverage, and she had none. Lord Stormrider had her family, the palace, and her future in his hands. So she let them believe she’d surrendered.
Elara remained silent the rest of the night as her fellow diners discussed plans for the upcoming events.
Caelan never took his eyes off her. It unsettled her—the intensity of his stare, the way he seemed to absorb every detail of her.
She took a drink from her goblet, observing the intricate pattern on the table runner.
Caelan’s reputation preceded him, and not in a flattering way.
Elara had heard his name come up at several of her mother’s teas. One story in particular came to mind.
“There now, Lady Isoldea, you will find another suitable match,” the queen had said in a rare moment of empathy for someone other than her daughters.
Isoldea had grown up at court alongside Elara and Thalia, though she was quiet and reserved.
A beautiful, if naive, young woman, she cried into her tea, sniffling over the rogue who had lured her away from her fiancé, only to abandon her.
Hers was a common story at court—and one that Elara had always been eager to avoid.
Not only was he a social rake, but Caelan was clearly a skilled Moiren and one of the most powerful men in all of Serendith.
His was not power like what her family had—a power which had to be bargained for and thus so easily lost. His was ancient, primal power.
Elara imagined she had only witnessed a tiny fraction of it during their encounter, and her palms dampened with sweat.
Caelan’s gaze caressed her neck, and a tiny line formed between his brows, causing her fingers to fly to her throat.
“Excuse me,” he mumbled, not waiting for a footman to pull out his chair. He shoved away from the table and cut a sharp path out of the room.
Lord Stormrider frowned at his son’s back.
Elara seized the distraction as an opportunity.
She glanced hopefully at Kaz and Jalin. “Help me,” she mouthed.
Blank stares, as if she were a stranger to them, haunted their faces.
Elara stole a look at Lady Seraphine. The sorceress met her gaze and gave an almost imperceptible nod.
The guards had been silenced with some sort of magic.
Elara slumped back against her chair. She was a prisoner in her own home, alone, completely powerless. Except for one thing—Lord Stormrider wanted her name, her bloodline, her throne for his son. All she had to do was convince him they were his for the taking.