Chapter 13
Elara
Elara shifted her weight in her seat, waiting for the final dueling match to begin.
She folded her arms and narrowed her eyes when Lord Stormrider and Lady Seraphine sauntered past her tent.
The cobalt-cloaked man only nodded at her, but the sorceress blew her a kiss.
Out of that kiss, a tiny butterfly made of purple smoke flew into Elara’s face, souring her mood even further.
Is she jealous? Elara wondered. She shouldn’t be. Elara was engaged to Caelan, but a romance between them was impossible—given how much she despised him, of course, and that he was obviously unavailable. She shooed the butterfly, smacking at it with the back of her hand and waving away the smoke.
Lady Seraphine laughed—a delicate, tinkling sound—and Lord Stormrider smirked.
He flexed his hand, drawing Elara’s attention there.
He flicked his wrist and wiggled his fingers in a rhythmic sequence.
Something about the subtle movement tickled the back of her brain.
The movement was similar to the one she’d witnessed during her fight with Caelan—when he’d used his magic to summon water.
Her eyes scanned her surroundings, trying to discern what he could possibly be doing.
Seeing nothing, she relaxed. His fidgeting was probably habitual.
After they had gone, Elara turned her attention back to where Caelan fought in the arena.
He circled his opponent, both fighters pausing briefly, the sounds of their battle fading to a low hum.
The midday sun beat down on his armor, the heat shimmering in waves as he moved with surprising grace around the arena.
The swagger he affected, which Elara had initially perceived as arrogant, was instead a silent assertion of power, a quiet hum of competence that vibrated in the air around him.
As they danced around the ring, edging closer to the audience, Caelan gained the upper hand. Elara didn’t know which was more attractive—his physique or his finesse. A blush warmed her cheeks, and she cast her eyes down at the delicate, colorful embroidery on her skirt, trying to distract herself.
The tournament was a strange experience for her.
Growing up, she’d had little experience with magic.
So few people had essence strong enough to worry about, let alone showcase in a pageant.
Previous tournaments she’d attended focused on physical combat and skills, like archery and jousting.
As a little girl, she’d always fancied watching the horses, while Thalia and their mother debated which knights were the most handsome.
Now the magical events took center stage for everyone in the audience.
While the Tharven and Sylari hadn’t put forth any champions, the Moiren and Embrathi would participate in the Thal’Moira and Thal’Embra, respectively.
Elara didn’t know what to expect from those ancient rites.
The tournament had drawn the most powerful men and women from across Serendith together, offering a prime opportunity for her to evaluate threats to the crown.
Lord Stormrider is a genius for thinking it up, she thought. Elara would witness more magic in one day than she’d seen during her entire life.
The crowd gasped in unison, and Elara snapped her head up, returning her attention to the match below. Caelan was on the ground, his back flat in the dirt and his opponent’s blade pressed to his throat.
“No!” Elara flew to her feet, only to have Felix and Silas bar her with their arms. Caelan had to win—or at least survive. He was her only hope for saving her family. Get up! Get up!
Caelan’s golden eyes found hers. She shuddered as icy fear filled her veins. Don’t you dare die on me. I need you alive. Stars help me—I want you alive.
“Yield?” The word hung in the air, waiting for a response. With a swift maneuver, Caelan bashed the back of his opponent’s knee with the butt of his sword, forcing the man to fall on top of him. They rolled, armor clanking, until Caelan dragged himself to his feet.
A deafening roar erupted from the crowd, shaking the ground beneath her feet and rattling the tent poles surrounding the arena. Elara’s heart hammered against her ribs.
Caelan ended the fight, mirroring the earlier hold from his opponent, roles now reversed.
Caelan even stood on the man’s blade, showing off for the wild crowd.
A shimmer caught Elara’s eye. An ill-placed puddle had appeared at the edge of the ring, right next to Caelan’s muddy boot.
Elara scrunched her eyebrows together, sure that it hadn’t been there earlier.
It dawned on her that she’d been right—Lord Stormrider had summoned water.
Did he mean for it to fell his son, or was it meant for the other man?
Why would he want to see Caelan fail?
Once his opponent had yielded, Caelan offered him an arm and hoisted him up. The loser raised Caelan’s hand into the air, and the crowd cheered wildly. A squire rushed to Caelan’s side, taking his weight on his shoulder and helping him limp back to his tent.
Elara turned to her guards. “Take me to him,” she ordered. This time, they didn’t argue.
Upon their arrival, she pulled back the canvas of his tent to reveal Caelan sprawled out between two chairs—reclining in one with his injured leg propped up on the other.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
He jerked his head in her direction, startled. “I’ll live,” he said, wincing as he tugged at his boot.
“Here, let me help you.” Elara kneeled next to his injured leg and gingerly removed the muddy boot.
“Ah!” he cried.
“Don’t be a baby,” she said. After searching for a moment in the tent, she found a clean towel and wrapped the cloth around his ankle. “Can you wet this?” she asked him. “It will help with the swelling.” She watched in awe as he held his hand over it, his magic turning the dry fabric sopping wet.
“You get used to it,” he said.
“The magic or the injuries?” she asked.
“Both.”
They waited in silence, the air thick with tension, until Ursa, the royal physician, bustled into the cramped space.
“Oh, well, good to see you, Your Highness,” she said to Elara. “You’ve done a wonderful job caring for our patient.”
“Yes, she has. I’m very thankful that my foot is still attached, given our earlier . . . spat.” Caelan winked at her.
“Ah, young love,” Ursa said wistfully. “Full of fun and fury.”
Elara fought a grimace but couldn’t help but roll her eyes.
Ursa got to work quickly, setting her large leather satchel on a table and pulling various bottles out of it. Corked glass bottles containing different colored herbs filled the tiny space. She selected two, one with dried orange petals and another that looked like black ashes.
As the two substances mixed in Ursa’s miniature copper cauldron, a bitter smell filled the air, causing Elara’s nose to wrinkle.
Ursa used a needle to prick her own finger and add three fat drops of blood to the concoction.
As soon as the last drop hit, the cauldron glowed with a faint buttery light.
A flame from a portable enchanted burner danced under a kettle, and Ursa scooped the sooty substance into the boiling water. She poured Caelan a cup of the brew. When he sipped it, he gagged.
Ursa handed Caelan a pouch of the remedy. “Make this into a tea by adding two spoonfuls to a full cup of hot water. Twice a day for three days. It will help.”
“Thank you,” Caelan said, nodding, already rotating his ankle with a sigh of relief.
“And stay off that ankle too!” she added. “It’ll heal faster the more you can rest.”
With Ursa’s quick departure, Caelan and Elara found themselves alone once more.
The question of whether or not to tell him about the puddle gnawed at her, a silent battle waging within the confines of her mind.
Telling him the truth might tempt him to her side, or it may reveal too much about her distaste for his father.
“Just spit it out,” he said, breaking the silence. “I can tell you have something to say, so just say it. Otherwise, I’d rather watch the rest of the Thal’Moira.”
Elara took a deep breath, deciding to accept the risk. “I think your father sabotaged you.”
To her surprise, Caelan nodded. When she raised her brows in question, he sighed and said, “It wouldn’t be the first time,” his voice low and resigned.
“But why would he want you to lose?”
“We need to show strength, but my father always says that it’s not wise to show your hand.”
“He didn’t want you to compete in the Thal’Moira,” she said slowly. Lord Stormrider wanted to keep the full extent of their power hidden—to show just enough strength to garner favor from the court.
Caelan nodded.
“And he would gamble your life for that?”
“Have a little faith. I can handle myself.” He winked, then winced as he adjusted his injured leg.
“Doesn’t that bother you?” Elara almost felt sorry for him, to have a father so vicious that he would risk his son’s life for political gain.
Caelan shrugged. “It’s just the way he is.”
Felix poked his head into the tent. “Princess Elara?” he asked sheepishly.
“What?” Elara snapped. She was finally getting somewhere.
“Apologies,” he said. “You are meant to present the dueling champion with laurels. This way please.” He held the fabric door open for her.
Caelan grinned. “See you out there.”
Instead of arguing with Felix, she nodded and followed her guards down to the arena.
Once at the edge of the fighting ring, she was approached by a servant, who offered her a fragrant crown of laurels, its scent sharp and green against the smell of sweat and dust. Elara smoothed her skirt with her other hand, the rough brocade fabric irritating her fingertips.
The trumpet sounded. A magi’s booming voice carried across the arena: “Please rise for Her Royal Highness, Princess Elara Evensong, and for the dueling champion, Captain Caelan Stormrider!” She glided out to meet Caelan in the center of the arena.
He walked from the opposite end of the bowl with only a slight limp.
“Well done,” she said through the gritted teeth of her forced smile. “Kneel, please.”
Caelan did as she asked. The sight of him in that position, a champion kneeling before her, covered in dirt and sweat, made her own knees a little wobbly. Her breath caught. This man who had been flirting with her was a true warrior, lethal.
She placed the laurels on his blond curls, and he grasped her hand, kissing each of her knuckles. Shivers raced down her spine with each delicate peck.
When he rose, the audience took up chanting.
“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”
Not in a million moons, she thought. But before she could turn and leave, Caelan wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her into his chest.
“Shall we, Princess?” he asked.
She placed her hands on his chest and pushed, trying to put some space between them. “I’d rather not,” she said, still smiling sweetly for the crowd.
“You really think we have a choice?” he asked, raising a brow.
“Fine,” she huffed. She closed her eyes and leaned in, waiting for his lips to meet hers.
Caelan pressed his lips to hers softly, resulting in deafening applause from the audience.
As soon as Elara tried to end the kiss and pull away, Caelan pulled her hips into his, their bodies molding together, leaving no space between them.
The warmth of his skin radiated against hers.
Her eyes flew open in shock, then fluttered shut of their own accord as he deepened the kiss.
Someone in the crowd whistled, but it sounded so far away.
Caelan tasted salty, and a hint of whiskey swirled between their tongues. His shadow of a beard was rough against her skin.
Stars above, she thought. Her traitorous hands wove into his hair, gripping the damp curls lightly. Strong hands moved from her hips to her lower back, threatening to slide downward . . .
Elara snapped out of it, placing her hands on top of his and pulling them away.
The audience laughed, and dozens of smiles flashed in the crowd.
The couple had inadvertently shown the perfect display of affection—and restraint—to sell their story.
Caelan beamed at her, offering her his arm to escort her out of the arena.
Elara resisted the urge to scowl back at him.
Lightning flashed all around them in a spectacular display, courtesy of the Children of the Sky. The bolts split the blue sky, white-hot and bright despite the afternoon sun. As the electricity crackled around her, Elara followed Caelan’s eyes as they cut to his father, then darkened.
Perhaps we have more in common than I thought. Like a common enemy.