Chapter 28
Caelan
Caelan punched the stuffed dummy, savoring the crunch of his knuckles against the stiff canvas.
The force of the impact launched the dummy backward, the energy traveling up his arm and into his shoulder.
He let out a huff and shook out his well-battered hands.
He’d been at it for hours, training in the room his father had set aside for the purpose.
Sweat poured off him, drenching his shirt.
With a frustrated grunt, he tugged at the cloying fabric, ripping part of the hem as he yanked it over his head.
He wadded it up into a ball and flung it across the room with all his might.
But the shirt, light as a feather, unfurled and drifted to the floor just a short distance away, mocking him.
Losing the baby had overwhelmed him with grief for himself, but especially for Elara. He didn’t know how to help her—how to fix the problem. There’s nothing there to fix. His inability to help her gnawed at him; once more, he felt the bitter sting of powerlessness.
Caelan had intended to tell Elara the truth, but the image of her fragile form, the fear in her usually bright eyes, had stopped him cold—he couldn’t risk losing her.
The impact of his words, the potential for shattering her world, had silenced him.
Eventually, the weight of loss and grief would become too much for her to bear.
She’d lost her home and her freedom—and her kingdom was slipping away.
She was resilient, yet he knew if she found out what he’d been keeping from her, she—and their relationship—might never recover.
The door creaked open, and one of his father’s men entered the room, his armor clanking. “Excuse me, Captain Stormrider,” he said, casting his gaze to the tile upon noticing Caelan’s bare back. It was uncommon for sigils to be on display, and the size and intricacy of Caelan’s were intimidating.
“What news?” Caelan asked.
“Your father has requested your presence in the throne room. Along with the princess,” the man said.
Caelan’s eyes bored into the man’s. “Why?” he asked through gritted teeth.
“Uh, I . . . I don’t know, sir.”
Caelan gave the man a once-over, noting the slight trembling in his knees. “He’s in a sour mood today, then?” A chuckle rumbled in his chest, a low, warm sound intended to lighten the mood.
The man nodded fervently. “Indeed, sir. Forgive me. He said you are to attend to him urgently.”
“Then I better get cleaned up. I don’t want to offend him. Or my lovely bride.” He winked.
The man smiled, relieved, and scurried off.
A deep frown creased Caelan’s face. Father knows about the baby, he thought.
With a swift movement, he grabbed his scabbard, the cold steel a stark contrast to his sweating palms, and hurried from the room.
Primped and polished like a prized stallion at auction, Caelan paced just outside the throne room.
Elara arrived, a vision in a flowing midnight-black gown.
The color—and the shadows under her eyes—spoke of mourning, but the shimmering gossamer fabric and stylish cut of her dress made it appropriate attire for beguiling a warlord.
The sapphire necklace he’d given her glittered on her neck.
“Brace yourself,” he whispered. He took her hands in his, pressing a light kiss to the knuckle of her ring finger.
“What does he want?” she asked, voice hoarse from another day of crying.
“I’m not sure,” he lied. “But whatever it is, he’s angry.”
Elara’s eyes widened, but she nodded and squared her shoulders. “There’s nothing else he can take from me.”
If only that were true, my love. Caelan pulled her hand, positioning her at his left as he wrapped her arm around his. He placed his right hand on the cool bronze of his sword pommel as a footman announced their arrival, and they walked into the throne room.
Lord Stormrider sat on the king’s throne, his eyes blazing with fury. A deep scowl was set into his face, and his hands gripped the gilded chair so tightly that his knuckles were white.
A primal fear washed over Caelan, making the hair on his neck stand up straight as his body tensed, ready to react to the threat. The doors swung shut behind them with an ominous thud, leaving them alone with his father.
“Well, well, if it isn’t the happy couple.” Lord Stormrider sneered at them. The sharp, warning edge in his father’s voice roused his protective instincts. Caelan released Elara’s arm, and he edged in front of her.
“Indeed, we are happy, Father. I thought you would be thrilled. You are getting what you wanted, after all. We are willingly uniting our houses, and our family is gaining both power and influence through this union.” Caelan spoke formally and with a false sense of calm, his voice steady and even while his pulse quickened.
“You stupid, insolent boy!” Lord Stormrider rose from his perch. “And you,” he hissed, pointing at Elara with a crooked finger. “You useless whore.”
Now Caelan was fuming, his face hot and his fists clenched as he stepped between his father and his fiancée.
“You have nothing to be concerned about,” he said through gritted teeth, trying to keep his temper.
“We will do our duty and produce an heir when the time is right.” He ignored the tiny gasp that escaped Elara’s lips.
But his father, consumed by rage, was beyond the reach of reason.
In a flash, Lord Stormrider summoned icy shackles, their chilling grip freezing Caelan’s boots to the stone floor, trapping him.
Lord Stormrider turned his attention to Elara.
Caelan watched in horror as a torrent of water, roaring and churning, headed straight for her.
The gush hit Elara in the chest and covered her mouth and nose.
Caelan’s own throat and lungs burned as he watched her drown.
He couldn’t move, couldn’t melt the ice—he hadn’t even known his father was capable of ice magic.
He clutched at his chest, unable to breathe.
Dark spots clouded his vision as he struggled to maintain consciousness.
The weight of his inadequacy crushed him, a leaden silence settling over his soul as she slipped further away.
He barely heard Lord Stormrider continuing to berate Elara as her head smacked the floor with a sickening crack.
The sound was enough to snap him out of his episode.
With the force of a typhoon, Caelan became a blur as he pulled his feet from his trapped boots and raced to save her.
He redirected his father’s water toward the sky, causing a misting rain to fill the room.
It mirrored the storm now brewing inside him.
Elara sputtered, coughing up gushes of water.
She remained on the floor, her ragged breathing filling the quiet room, as Caelan locked on to his father.
The fire in his veins was matched only by the ferocity of his assault; Caelan’s blasts grew faster, more violent, each one a destructive wave.
Elara watched, face pale and eyes wide with shock, and a small corner of his mind noted her expression.
He didn’t blame her. Every other time she had seen his power, it had taken on his signature cocky, playful sort of energy.
This was different. This was pure hatred, a lifetime in the making.
Lord Stormrider held his own against his son, and Caelan would soon lose, as he always did.
Another torrent of water struck him in the chest, and he felt a popping sensation.
Cracked sternum, he thought. His adrenaline kept the pain at bay, but his breaths became shallow and labored.
He tried to maintain his balance, but the force of his father’s blasts had him reaching to shield Elara, then stumbling backward.
He barely regained his footing without his boots on.
“Please,” he rasped. “Leave her be.” Caelan raised both hands, summoning a wall of water, a tidal wave of a shield to keep Elara safe from his father’s wrath. His arms and shoulders strained with effort, sweat mingling with the salt water dripping from his hair.
He watched in horror as his wave crystalized into ice, then shattered.
Caelan crumpled to his knees, exhausted and emotionally drained. While he was younger and faster, his father had more power and experience. The apprentice could not surpass his master. The angry son could not beat his abuser.
Elara dragged herself to him and draped her body over his. His father would be insane to push them any further—to risk his ultimate plan failing. Instead, Lord Stormrider walked past them, his face eerily calm once more.
“I take it I’ve made myself clear, boy?” He didn’t turn to Caelan, or wait for his son’s response. As if nothing at all had happened, Lord Stormrider sauntered out of the throne room.
He’s lost his mind . . . again. Caelan had lived his whole life alongside his father, a man perceived by others as a formidable figure with an exceptional intellect.
Little did those people realize that the father, just like the son, was broken inside.
They’d never been the same after Caelan’s mother passed.
Lord Stormrider’s anger had recklessly jeopardized Elara’s life.
Caelan knew now, beyond any doubt, that Elara was the key to his father’s prophecy.
The loss of her pregnancy must have cracked something deep within the man’s careful facade.
While his father had remained composed thus far, Caelan suspected that the pressure was building as the wedding approached.
His father’s desires were finally within reach after decades of careful planning, only to be sabotaged by his son’s careless behavior.
Caelan hoped that this would be the last time he’d lose a battle with his father. He heard his father’s voice echo in his mind, a phrase he’d heard all his life. You are powerless. Do not displease me again.
Caelan felt the weight of Elara’s body crushing his, shielding him from his own father.
Of its own accord, his hand found its way to her neck, brushing away her drenched locks, his thumb caressing her jawline.
Her skin was a sickly gray, a color he had seen many times on waterlogged sailors recovering from near-death experiences at sea.
From the looks of what she’d coughed up, Elara had inhaled the equivalent of half the narrow sea herself, courtesy of his father’s magic.
He reached around to the back of her head, his fingers brushing against something warm and sticky; when he pulled them away, he was surprised to see glistening red. The smell of iron and salt water tinged the air. Well done, my love.
Clearly, Elara had made the connection that she needed to control her essence affinity.
Her ability to sustain her injuries—instead of her magic automatically healing them—had allowed them the luxury of their secret.
His father may have known about the baby, but he didn’t know about her power.
He didn’t realize why Elara was the key to the prophecy—the key to his plan.
At least we still have that advantage, Caelan thought.
Between Elara’s combat training and her ability to heal, they might stand a chance if it ever came to a battle.
Elara breathed heavily, still shaking. Caelan’s gut twisted with guilt—he should have stopped this long ago.
He knew her pain would only worsen and that soon he would be revealed as the cause of it all.
But loving her felt like sailing a small sailboat on a stormy sea—a beautiful, terrifying, and exhilarating sensation.
She was the breeze on his face, allowing him to feel the world fall away to sweet freedom.
He imagined that loving her was the closest thing in the world to flying.
But I wasn’t flying at all, he thought. All this time I’ve been falling. And dragging her down with me.
Defying his father was impossible, like trying to capture smoke in his bare hands—every time he drew close to grasping victory, it slipped through his fingers.
The room closed in around him as shadows clouded the edges of his vision, creating a bloodred halo around Elara’s heartbreakingly beautiful face.
He saw the familiar crinkle between her brows, a deep furrow of worry etched across her forehead, before his world went dark.