Chapter 19
Elara
After a few tough days of training, Elara was itching for a reprieve from Caelan Stormrider—helping her, teaching her .
. . driving her mad with his delicious flirtations.
She might not have believed it if she hadn’t been living it.
Needing a distraction as well as rest, she changed into a simple outfit of a fine linen shirt and loose trousers, then threw her hair into a knot at the nape of her neck.
She journeyed down to the kitchen—Silas a respectful distance behind her—and selected an apron and bonnet from a row of hooks.
After covering her hair with the bonnet, she looped the top half of the apron over her head and tied the rest around her waist. Like this, she was invisible—not a princess, not a warrior or healer in training, and certainly not a doting fiancée.
The kitchen staff were used to seeing her here when she’d had a long or difficult day, so they gave her space and acted like she belonged.
That was part of the appeal. She could silence her mind and wear herself out with simple, physical tasks much less intense than her workouts with Caelan.
Down here, she could finally breathe, the scent of yeast and rosemary filling her lungs with each deep inhale.
She located an enormous pile of dough sitting on a flour-dusted table and began kneading.
The dough was thick—definitely for her favorite coarse brown bread—and provided just enough resistance that beads of sweat quickly formed on her brow.
She jabbed her fists into the dough several times, pretending that it was Caelan’s handsome face.
Satisfied with the way the punches landed, she continued palming the dough like normal.
Training that morning could have gone better.
Cheeks warming, she recalled the look on Caelan’s face as he’d leaned over her prone body on the ground.
Her tailbone had already healed, but she resisted the urge to rub her backside to ease the ghost of the pain.
Her pride had not yet recovered. She punched the dough again, imagining cracking the ever-present smirk on his face.
Elara was thankful for her mentors and their tutelage, but she was exhausted.
She bounced back from the physical demands of her training, but her mind was bursting.
Over the course of the last week with Caelan, she had learned dozens of new combat strategies.
Adding in anatomy and potions sessions with Ursa filled an already-full cup that had Elara feeling like her mind was overflowing.
The lead baker tapped her on the shoulder to let her know it was time for the dough, and Elara, to rest. She found her next victim—a dirty soup pot that needed a good hard scrub.
Elara and Thalia had hidden out together in this kitchen all their lives.
It gave the young princesses a way to escape the pressure of court life and the eyes that always watched them, even in Thalia’s garden.
Elara could almost see her little sister, with her brown hair lighter than Elara’s own black strands, sitting on the countertop and swinging her gangly legs.
They both had their mother’s sapphire-blue eyes.
Elara scrubbed the pot harder, fingers protesting as her knuckles knocked against metal.
When the queen had first found her daughters playing in the kitchen, the servants had scurried away as Elara prepared to defend Thalia from their scolding.
Instead, their mother had tied a flour-coated apron over her shimmering ball gown and showed them how to make her favorite lemon tarts.
The three of them had laughed and taken turns marking one another’s faces with flour.
A tear rolled over the tip of Elara’s nose before falling into the pot with a soft plop.
A broom fell to the floor with a loud clatter, startling her and the others in the kitchen.
Elara turned to discover a figure lurking in the corner near a cluster of mops.
She wiped her soapy hands on her apron and investigated.
As Elara got closer, she realized the intruder was a fluffy black cat.
It emanated a calming aura, and as she approached, a sense of peace washed over her.
She chuckled as she stooped to pick it up. The cat rubbed its small head into her palm before melting into her cradled arms. Elara turned back to the kitchen staff, smiling, and a few of them let out embarrassed giggles, dissipating the tension.
“Does this little one belong to any of you?” she asked. They all shook their heads “no.”
“Come with me, sweetheart,” Elara cooed. “Let’s get you some water and a tasty treat.”
The cat tucked its head under her chin and purred, tickling her neck with its whiskers.
Happy to have claimed another friend, Elara watered and fed the little cat before taking it up to her room with her.
Stoic Silas raised an eyebrow at her new furry companion.
Elara grinned back at him. He shook his head, but the corner of his mouth quirked up as she passed through the threshold of her chambers.
She placed the cat on her bed and changed into her nightgown.
Then she tucked herself under the covers, humming to herself as the cat watched with its glowing green eyes shining in the lantern light.
Once settled, Elara made tsking sounds to beckon it over.
The cat—a female, Elara realized—melted into a puddle of black fuzz on her lap.
“What shall I call you, little one?” Elara wondered aloud.
My name is Lysandra, a soft voice said in Elara’s mind.
Her hand stopped stroking the soft fur.
Great, Elara thought, I’ve finally lost my mind. Thinking I can hear a cat’s thoughts. She shook her head to herself and scratched behind the cat’s ears.
You’re not mad, Elara. My name is Lysandra, and I am no ordinary cat.
Mouth falling open and heart dropping into her stomach, Elara asked tentatively, “Then what are you?” This had to be some sort of trick, maybe an illusion, courtesy of Lady Seraphine.
You’ve seen me before. With a stretch, the cat rose, and its form shifted, its fur turning into sleek black feathers as it became a raven.
I have been here since the Stormriders arrived at the palace, watching you.
Then, with a flash of dark feathers and a low growl, the raven transformed into a wolf-dog.
The bed groaned under the animal’s weight, and Elara was grateful it wasn’t still in her lap.
Elara’s heartbeat pounded in her ears, and she resisted the urge to bolt from the strange creature.
Nothing in her books mentioned shape-shifting animals.
Nothing in the fairy stories of her childhood mentioned them either.
The raven was impossible to forget from the morning after the invasion—and her vision—and she remembered the canine eating scraps at the festival.
Something in her gut told her that Lysandra was here to help her.
Come, the wolf commanded, leaping from the bed and turning back into the cat midair.
Elara pulled on her robe and slid her feet into slippers before following the cat to the adjacent washroom.
Lysandra pressed her tiny paw against a tile, and the wall behind the clawfoot tub creaked open.
Elara’s jaw fell open once more. She’d never seen this hidden door before.
Her fingers brushed along the floral wallpaper, tracing the seams of the opening.
“How did you find this tunnel?” Elara asked.
You think you’re the only talented spy in the palace? Lysandra replied.
Elara gulped, but followed her into the darkness.
The short tunnel let out in a familiar hallway.
Elara straightened the frame of the portrait that concealed the exit.
Her fingertips traced the canvas—it was a painting of her father.
She shoved her longing down and turned back to Lysandra.
The onyx creature trotted ahead, pausing occasionally to turn and check that Elara still followed.
They headed to the library—Elara recognized the path since her own feet had worn a rut in the rug along the route.
Lysandra waited for Elara to open the heavy oak door.
Once they passed through the threshold, the odd pair climbed the gilded curved staircase to the mezzanine.
Lysandra morphed into a raven—the flapping of her wings echoing the fluttering of Elara’s heart—and flew to a shelf that was at least twice Elara’s height. She tapped her charcoal-gray beak against a spine. Here.
Elara found a rolling ladder and pulled it into place before scaling it to retrieve the tome.
Tucking the book under her arm, she silently cursed herself—she’d yet to visit this part of the library and realized she might not have for several more weeks, according to her plan for dividing up the stacks and searching through them.
She planted her feet back on the floor and cracked the book open, thumbing through the thin pages.
The book contained messy scrawling handwriting, unlike the elegant looping letters of the palace scribes. She didn’t recognize the language.
“What is this?”
Not here. The raven circled around another shelf, prompting Elara to jog to follow her once more. Lysandra landed on a desk in front of a tapestry, claws clacking. The sound echoed against the book stacks.
The tapestry looked familiar; the swirling patterns and rich jewel tones felt strangely nostalgic.
This piece and the one depicting the woman and her daughters in the meadow that hid another tunnel entrance likely shared the same creator.
Elara lifted a lamp from the desk to the art and ran her fingers over the fabric.
Her fingertips came away black with dust.
“I don’t think I’ve seen this one before.
” A wrinkle formed between her brows. She knew every inch of the palace—almost better than the king’s guards.
The tapestry stretched from the mahogany baseboards at her feet to the ceiling, thirty feet above her head.
She stared, awestruck by its immense size.
It wove a tale with the colored threads, the shapes and shifts in light depicting various tones to the story.
It began with a tree.
A tree with a thousand curling roots and lush branches against a midnight sky, dotted with constellations.
Below the mighty trunk, the roots braided together to frame the world.
The map spanned the entirety of the known world—the continent of Serendith, the seas, and even the mysterious unknown lands to the southwest.
Each city was marked and colored, with ornate depictions of key landmarks near each of them.
To the north were the Stormspire Mountains, stitched in black, white, and silver—with a large watchtower being struck by a bolt of lightning representing the Celestial Summit.
To the east were the Shadowed Isles and the grand citadel of Veilkeep, a deep cobalt blue.
To the south, the palace of Valoria was stitched in emerald green and surrounded by pops of pink flowering trees.
A glowing orange forge set into the side of a volcano oozing red lava represented their closest neighbor, Emberreach.
Elara’s eyes widened as they drank in the scene to the west. The Verdant Forest spanned at least a third of the continent, far more than any map she’d ever studied showed.
Trees dotted the landscape, forming a protective fortress around a palace similar to her own and a miniature version of the mystical tree above.
Swirls of every color formed floating rings around the tree.
Essence, she thought.
The next panel below made her heart fall into the pit of her stomach.
In that moment, Elara felt transported to a battlefield, the mud squelching beneath her boots, shoulder to shoulder with the other humans holding the line at the edge of the Verdant Forest. Arrows and swords, horses and wolves, druids and humans.
All clashed. Bodies piled up on both sides.
Then another map. The land was now split by two mountain ranges that had doubled in size. The jade-green forests protecting the sacred tree were now black, scorched. The palace there was a pile of ruins, and the rings around the tree were gone.
The Shattering. Elara stepped back, clutching her chest. Never before had she understood the pain that war had caused her world. Now she understood how little she truly knew, that in many ways she was still a child, unlearned and raw.
Father was right, she thought. I’m not ready to rule.
You don’t have a choice, Elara, Lysandra said into her mind. Ready or not, Serendith needs healing. You must find a way to restore peace.
Elara nodded slowly. “Starting with keeping Lord Stormrider away from my father’s throne.”