Chapter 12
Caelan
Sweat beaded on Caelan’s brow, causing his messy hair to cling to his forehead.
He stood with his feet apart, his face angled toward his target.
He exhaled a smooth whoosh of breath as his fingers released the arrow he had drawn back.
A satisfying whistle sounded, followed by an even more satisfying thud as the arrow met its mark.
Caelan relaxed his arms as his father nodded toward him from his perch above—a subtle jerk of the chin to signal his approval.
Lord Stormrider eyed his son like a hawk from his vantage point in the sea of tents surrounding the arena.
With a roll of his shoulders and neck, Caelan shook off his last vestiges of anxiety.
Though not quite pride, a deep satisfaction filled him, and relief washed over him with the conclusion of the archery competition.
He was far more comfortable hunting game than he was shooting under the judgmental gaze of his father—not to mention the audience that was now assessing their future king.
Caelan was taking part in just three of the events today—archery, dueling, and the Thal’Moira.
One down, two to go. He was eager to watch the Children of the Sky’s closing ceremony.
Sera’s opening performance had resulted in many raised eyebrows, and the rumored lightning display was sure to do the same.
He shook his head. Damage control with the courtiers would occupy the rest of his week.
Hands forming a bowl, he summoned a pool of water into his palms and splashed it onto his face before running his fingers through his hair.
He unlaced and removed the protective leather brace from his forearm and passed his longbow to a nearby squire.
Another servant handed him a single long-stemmed red rose.
Here we go. After bowing grandly to the audience, who responded with roaring applause, he tilted his head at the flower, which seemed to weigh as much as a gelding in his hand. His eyes searched the crowd for hers.
I’m sorry. His eyes glistened with those two unspoken words as he marched over to her seat. I never meant to hurt you, he wanted to say. Instead, he flashed all of his teeth and presented her the favor with a flourish.
“Your Highness,” he said. “Please accept this rose as a reminder of our blooming love.” It took all his willpower not to vomit at the ridiculous line.
“Well done, Captain Stormrider.” Elara’s answering glare burned with the fire of a thousand suns, but only for an instant. Her anger was gone in a flash, replaced with a rehearsed vague pleasantness as she took the stem into her grip.
The sharp heat of remorse prodded the back of his neck like a branding iron.
He didn’t want to feel guilty about kissing Sera, but he did.
She’d been nervous about her performance in the opening ceremony, and he had tried to comfort her, until .
. . things went too far. But the look of hurt on Elara’s face had puzzled him, stifling his own indignity at being discovered.
Why had she looked at him like that? And why had her pain struck his own heart like a stray arrow?
Besides that, another feeling had flickered behind the betrayal in her eyes: curiosity.
Caelan’s lips curved into a smile. He wasn’t one to be embarrassed by such things, and the thrill of knowing that she was spying on him during such an intimate moment made him shiver with pleasure.
His task complete, Caelan returned to his designated tent to rest and quench his thirst before preparing for his next competition.
Dusty earth crunched beneath his boots, and the sun beat down on his damp skin.
Sera was promenading with his father in the distance, making the rounds and ensuring the events for the tournament ran smoothly.
She looked in his direction and waved. He shook his head, unable to prevent his tiny smile.
I don’t need any more trouble today, Sera.
The two of them had weathered countless storms, their bond strengthened by shared hardships and laughter.
Caelan had loved Sera for as long as he could remember.
But, as they grew older, the breaks in their romantic relationship had extended.
Both had made full use of their freedom to explore with others, engaging in countless ill-fated relationships.
He was finally beginning to see Sera for what she truly was to him—family.
But certainly not his future wife, even if they were free to wed.
Elara, however, differed from all the other women he had ever met.
His charms did not draw her in—which made sense given the nature of their engagement.
One moment she was batting her eyelashes, the next she was snapping at him, her emotions a whirlwind of flirtation and fury.
The challenge was driving him crazy in the best way, serving up a delicious kind of torment.
The trumpet sounded again, pulling him back into the present moment.
Caelan lifted a cup off the ornately carved wooden table, placing his hand over the empty goblet and using magic to fill it with cool, soothing water.
After a refreshing drink, he began his stretching routine.
Each pose brought a sense of peace as his mind emptied, replacing thoughts with physical sensations. The calm before yet another storm.
The sharp focus, the adrenaline-fueled clarity of combat, brought a stark contrast to the fog of his everyday life.
That escape was a pleasure rivaled only by nights spent in the company of aether.
Both offered him a way to silence his racing thoughts, to ground himself in the physical world, where the various aches seemed less intense than the pain that swirled in his mind.
Caelan settled into his routine, but a voice in the farthest corner of his mind was persistent about Elara.
Don’t let her get too close.
Caelan needed to be careful. He had an assignment from his father, a role to play in the grander scheme.
The performance he was giving in the tournament paled in comparison to the acting he’d been doing his whole life—for his father, for himself.
His engagement with Elara was the riskiest of them all; despite her allure, he couldn’t afford to become attached.
Lust would only be a distraction, and love would never be in the stars for him.
Shaking his head, he donned his armor, the metal scales clinking together in a rattling cacophony. He gripped his weapon with steady hands and returned to the arena.
Askilled swordsman, Caelan was likely to be one of Serendith’s finest by the time he reached his father’s age.
It wasn’t surprising, considering his occupation as a guard captain, but he was uncommonly good for a Moiren.
Most nobles with essence affinities only learned the basics of physical combat.
Some of them didn’t even bother mastering the basics of manners, relying instead on their bits of magic to cow people into doing their bidding.
Caelan, however, had honed his skills until they were as sharp as the shining blade he now wielded.
After half a dozen matches, Caelan had landed in the final duel.
His muscles strained as he wove around the ring, sweat dripping down his neck underneath his polished armor.
Both combatants paused for a moment to catch their breath, the sound of steel scraping steel replaced with huffing.
Then, with a predatory grace, he circled his opponent, observing and calculating his next strategic move.
“Having fun yet?” he asked. His adversary was a man nearly double his size, but also twice as slow.
Caelan had already sliced into him—once on the back of his hand where the gauntlet had slipped off, and once on his cheekbone with a blow that had launched the man’s helm a dozen paces away.
While others might have labeled it cockiness, Caelan’s signature swagger stemmed from his confidence in his abilities and experience.
The other man, a vibrant scarlet cape hanging behind him, sneered, his eyes flashing with contempt.
Then he charged. Before Caelan could roll out of the way, his boot slipped in a shallow puddle of mud.
His ankle twisted with a sickening pop, sending a jolt of pain up through his leg.
The air rushed from his lungs, a grunt escaping his lips as his opponent’s shoulder slammed into his torso, the impact jarring his bones.
The crowd gasped in unison, a sharp hissing sound that buzzed inside Caelan’s skull.
He lay on the ground, stunned, his back flat in the dirt as his opponent’s blade pushed the scale mail collar up, exposing the tender flesh of his throat.
The world slowed, and his head spun as he tried to catch his breath and regain his bearings.
Cool steel tickled his neck, an almost sweet caress.
Exhaustion settled over him like a thick blanket, weighing down his limbs and dulling his senses.
With one fell swoop, this man could end it all.
No more training, no more lying, no more pain, no more . . . her.
Caelan strained his eyes to one side, searching for Elara again, finding her where she stood at the edge of her tent. Instead of a mask of nonchalance, a storm of emotions raged behind her eyes as her guards struggled to block her from bolting into the arena.
“No!” she cried. She was frantic, panic evident in every inch of her.
Why would she even care? he wondered. Or is it just another act?
Another lie? He closed his eyes, the seconds ticking by in time with his heartbeat.
Even if her fear was an act, he’d promised to protect her, to help her hone her essence affinity.
He recalled her crying in the library, her eyes glistening, lips swollen.
Hers seemed an isolating, heavy burden to bear, though he wasn’t sure why the thought of her loneliness bothered him so much.
At least, he couldn’t stand the thought of leaving her here alone with his volatile father.
“Yield?” his opponent asked, his voice echoing across the arena and back.
Caelan’s eyes narrowed. “Not a chance,” he hissed.
With a swift, brutal maneuver, he rammed the pommel of his sword into the back of the man’s knee, sending him sprawling on top of Caelan.
Grunting with effort, Caelan wrapped his arms around his waist and rolled.
Not elegant. Not clean. But effective. His muscles strained as he dragged himself upright.
Mercifully, adrenaline dulled the pain as his injured ankle bore his weight.
A thunderous roar, a mixture of cheers and shouts, shook the tent poles as the crowd reacted.
His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat that drowned out all other sounds as blood rushed to his head, blurring his vision with a crimson haze.
The rest of the duel was a blur of motion—a finish that left Caelan’s adversary on the ground, just as Caelan had been moments before. Only this time, Caelan was on top. He slammed his boot onto the man’s blade for good measure.
“I yield! I yield!” the man sputtered.
“Well done, sir,” Caelan said, offering him an arm and pulling him upright.
He readjusted the man’s cloak—its dusty fabric threatening to fall from his filthy armor—and placed his hand on his fellow swordsman’s shoulder.
Caelan might be a warrior, but he was also a good sportsman, clinging to honor wherever he could.
“Thank you, Captain Stormrider.” The loser hoisted Caelan’s hand high above their heads, and another deafening roar erupted from the crowd.
Caelan had won.
As he limped back to his tent, arm draped over a squire’s shoulder, his eyes searched the crowd for Elara’s once more. She was gone. His chest tightened.