3. Chapter 2
Chapter 2
M y cabin mirrors the rest of the ship—dark and damp. A flickering amber glow emanates from a lantern, swaying precariously, the tiny candle within struggling to keep burning. My strife is not so different .
All my life, I have known only The Grove, a sprawling forest in the province of Valorne, a territory once ruled by House Maledannan. And for as long as I can remember, I have never trusted the Fae. In truth, The Maledannan were not as openly brutal as their kin, but they still made it clear—we were to serve them, and their word was law in Valorne.
Mostly, they allowed us to live in peace. Occasionally, they would visit The Grove, sharing their knowledge, teaching we Sisters of the Vine new runes and amplifying the gifts bestowed upon us by their ancestors centuries ago. Ours was a delicate relationship—tenuous at best. The Maledannan were our lords, and we were bound by oath to obey them. But we, The Tenders of The Grove, took the modest magic we were granted and turned it into something extraordinary.
This made The Maledannan nervous.
Suddenly Sisters of the Vine began to disappear, and we would wake in the morning to find parts of the forest culled to nothing but stumps, the ancient Souls that dwelt there lost forever. The visits became raids, children were dragged away in the night to serve in their castles, and soon The Maledannan were just as vile as every other Fae in the Sundered Kingdoms.
So when the human rebellion known as The Legion of Saints rose against them—against all the Fae houses—and The Maledannan demanded we fight by their side… we refused. Their wrath nearly burned The Grove to the ground. So many died—men, women, children—all lost to their rage. Not because of some grand cause, but because the Fae couldn’t bear to share power. The Tenders did not shed any tears when the Maledannan were wiped from the face of the Kingdoms on the last day of the war that would become known as The Betrayer’s Battle.
We had no tears left—all spent grieving our own dead.
I was just a child when it happened, more than fifteen years ago. From that moment on, I vowed to protect The Grove and its people at any cost. We won’t survive another blaze.
Yet, I could never have imagined that the price of our survival would be a marriage to the only Fae House that emerged from the Betrayer’s Battle, while all others lay dead or vanished entirely. And now, to make matters worse, I've just saved the life of a Mordorin who dared call me a traitor.
All I do, I do for The Grove.
When Keeper Tovar struck this bargain, I went along willingly, but now that I am here, amid the Fae, I feel as though I’ve betrayed everything I once stood for.
How can I protect my people when I’m forced to walk among those I swore to fight?
How can my candle keep burning when the vengeful wind wants nothing more than to extinguish my light?
A wave strikes the ship and I stumble into the wall. I struggle to stay upright as the cot in the corner of the cabin calls to me, a refuge I desperately crave. I barely manage a few unsteady steps before I lurch forward, my hand darting out to grasp the edge of a table. A searing pain radiates from my chest, and I grimace, clutching at the spot with a sharp gasp.
Did the Stormwyrm wound me?
With my dwindling strength, I pull at the leather ties of my bodice until they loosen enough to inspect the source of my agony. The skin just above my breast has turned as dark green as swamp moss, with pulsating tendrils creeping from its center. There is no bite, no blood, no sea monster’s poison, and the mark has spawned in the same place as Arax’s wound.
Of course.
One of the first things the Souls of the Forest whispered to me was that everything comes at a price, no matter how good your intentions are. That magic, born from dark or light, was not a natural occurrence in humans. It was a rare and powerful artifact and just like anything of value, whether bought, bartered, or traded, there was always a substantial cost. For The Sisters of the Vine, the price to heal is to absorb the affliction. To suffer as they suffer.
I have healed many times before. A village girl struck with fever. A noble hunter ravaged by wolves. Their pain presented upon my body, just as Arax’s pain did now. It would pass in time, and eventually the mark on my skin would disappear completely, but for now, I needed to sleep, silent and still, like the trees.
I stagger to the cot as the room spins and the pain burns deep. My vision blurs as I reach the bed just in time, falling onto the lumpy mattress as my legs give way beneath me. The waves crash against the ship, rocking me back and forth like a babe in a cradle and I don’t recall the exact moment my eyes close and I fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.
“Jewel. Wake up.”
The words don’t sound real, and I wonder if I’m dreaming.
But then I remember I have never dreamed. Not once.
“We have docked. Wake up.”
My eyes flutter open and I feel as if I’ve barely slept at all. I find Arax hovering over me.
“Have we reached Baev’kalath?” I murmur.
He nods. “The king and queen await you.” His gaze flits over my chest and his face sours as if he’s caught the scent of something rotten. He gestures uncomfortably to where my bosom peeps through my loosened bodice. I bolt upright from the cot and draw tight the leather ties to conceal myself. I notice the mark has already vanished from my skin, and the pain is a distant memory.
“Do you have anything you can change into?” Arax asks.
I shake my head. “This is all I brought.”
Arax furrows his brow, his wrinkles crawling into his hairline, as if a woman not having trunks of clothes is an oddity. But Tenders do not have possessions. At home I have my Sister robes which I wash and wear every day. Even the dress on my back, now stained with blood and soaked right through, is a gift from the village, so that I might look more like a bride than a child of the forest.
I’ve even worn shoes for the occasion.
“Queen Lanneth is easily offended by…” Arax pauses. “…soiled things.”
“This is the bride they bargained for,” I reply, giving the ties of my bodice one last tug that tightens my waist and steals the breath from my lungs. “If I am not good enough, they are welcome to send me back.”
Arax exhales, the exasperation spreading across his face like a rash. “Very well. Follow me. I will escort you to the throne room.”
“The throne room? Right away? But I’m a mess.”
He raises an overgrown brow. “Yes, that much is clear. But King Kaelus and Queen Lanneth wish to inspect you immediately.”
“Inspect me?” I scoff, but Arax does not respond, instead staring blankly ahead.
Is there really a point in arguing?
I am in Baev’kalath, far from the shores of home, in a wrecked ship surrounded by hundreds of winged warrior Fae. So I do as Arax says, but before I follow him out of the cabin, I rush to the table to collect the one other thing I brought with me across the Untold Sea, apart from the clothes on my back.
In a wooden bowl cradled by rich, dark soil, a serpentine vine unfurls, its pale green tendrils writhing gracefully, mottled with delicate white patches. Seven arrowhead-shaped leaves sprout from its twisting form, vibrant and full of life. These resilient vines weave through The Grove, intertwining like the bonds of The Tenders and the Souls of the Forest. My Sisters of the Vine gave me this plant before I left to remind me of home.
I scoop the bowl into my arms, holding it close, feeling its heartbeat against my chest.
It may be the last piece of home I’ll ever have.
I step onto the deck beside Arax, greeted by the howl of the wind and the sound of waves smashing against rock. The ship feels abandoned once more, not a single Mordorin in sight. But then I catch Arax’s gaze, tilted upward, and I follow it to a night sky alive with Fae cloaked in leather and steel, their faces masked beneath their helms as the rain pounds down upon them. Despite the roaring wind, their ebony wings hold steady, unfurled majestically against the backdrop of the stars, a breathtaking sight that sends a shiver down my spine.
Though their eyes hide within the recesses of their helms, I feel their stares piercing through me, weighing and measuring the human who will be their princess. Drenched in my sodden dress, I look less like royalty and more like a drowned rat, an overwhelming sense of inadequacy crashing over me.
The Mordorin do not move or speak. They hover overhead in silence as Arax leads me across the deck toward a ramp lowered onto the dock. His boots thump loudly as we descend, while my ruined silk shoes slosh with water, my feet aching with blisters as I follow.
“Behold the stronghold of House Mordorin. The power in the Untold Sea.”
I look up, and beyond the hovering wall of Blades, the gargantuan black fortress of Baev’kalath rises from the jagged peak. Massive floor-to-ceiling arches and long, sweeping balconies jut out dramatically, centered around a vast courtyard bathed in the orange glow of blazing pyres. Towering spires and ornate turrets stretch upward, vanishing into the thick, gray clouds, which loom like restless spirits, threatening to engulf the fortress entirely.
This place is dark, desolate, and seeps despair.
But somehow it is also the most hauntingly beautiful thing I have ever seen. We humans know of Baev’kalath, but very few have actually seen it. Compared to the other Fae houses, the Mordorin stronghold is the most remote and dangerous to reach. The part of me that craves knowledge and discovery stands in awe. But the bargained bride I have become realizes that this wicked place is now my prison, and soon that na?ve wonderment will wash away, and I too will seep despair.
Arax mutters in Mordorin tongue and his wings erupt from his back and pound the air. He opens his arms to me, and I’m not sure how I’m supposed to respond.
“I will carry you to the castle,” Arax explains.
I frown. “I’m quite capable of getting there myself.”
Arax grumbles irritably. “By all means, spread your wings and I’ll meet you there.”
I reply with an unamused frown.
“The castle is only accessible by air,” Arax explains in one long breath. “You will need to be flown. There is no path.”
I glance at his outstretched arms, unsure if I’m really expected to let him pick me up. I’ve been handled by more Mordorin in one night than I have by humans in my entire life. Taking a step forward, I move close enough for his chain-mailed hands to scoop me up—one cradling my back, the other supporting my knees.
I gasp at how effortlessly he lifts me from the ground, but I catch the way he hisses through gritted teeth as his shoulder sags.
“Are you sure you’re strong enough to do this?” I ask skeptically, reminded that I pulled a tooth the length of his arm from him not long ago.
He swallows his discomfort. “I have been commanding armies and slaughtering enemies since before you were born. I’m sure I can manage carrying a little girl who asks too many questions.”
“Well, make sure of it,” I say curtly. “After surviving that journey, the last thing I want is to fall out of the sky and splatter across the rocks because a surly old Fae dropped me.”
Arax grumbles as he pushes off the ground and soars into the sky.
It feels as if I’ve left my stomach on the dock as he flies higher, clearing the jagged rocks of the cliff face, his wings beating the air with an unworldly power that sends a puzzling shiver through me. I hold my vine close to my chest, while my other arm loops around his neck, the sharp steel of his pauldrons pricking at my skin. But I ignore the discomfort. I’m far too busy pretending that being this high in the air isn’t absolutely terrifying.
I thought my arranged marriage to the Mordorin prince would be the worst thing to happen to me when I left The Grove. But since stepping foot on that ship, I’ve had to share the agony of Arax’s wound, fight a sea monster and now be slung hundreds of feet in the air, all before even setting eyes on my dreaded betrothed.
At last we reach a grand balcony high upon the castle where the Mordorin obviously come and go from. Arax touches down heavily on the wet stone and the rain lashes my skin. I feel the cold creeping into my bones.
“This way,” Arax says, marching forward with his helm tucked under his arm.
I follow him towards the dim light of the castle and standing before the massive structure, I’ve never felt smaller. It is three times the size of The Maledannan ruins that overlook The Grove. Before we enter, I catch the indistinct murmur of voices drifting up from below, their words blurred by the steady downpour. I wander towards the stone railing, inching closer until my eyes find a circle of Blades surrounding a Fae male who kneels dangerously close to the edge of the wall, above razor sharp rocks and the violent swell below.
Another Fae looms behind him, his black shirt clinging tightly to his form, soaked through by the rain. The leather of his trousers glistens, outlining the sinewy muscles beneath, while wet strands of pitch-black hair obscure his face, shrouding his expression. He raises his hand to the stormy sky, and I watch, breathless, as tendrils of smoke weave between his fingers. Slowly, a brilliant silver sword manifests, its shimmer cutting through the gloom. My heart stops in my chest as I grapple with the realization of what is coming next.
With brutal swiftness, the sword arcs down. The kneeling man’s head falls away, his body frozen in a macabre posture. His killer steps forward, his boot pressing into his victim’s back before sending him over the edge. I watch, horrified, as the body tumbles through the air before smashing against the rocks below.
A scream tears from my lips before I can hold it back, and the killer’s head snaps in my direction. From this distance, I can just make out the sharp angles of his cheeks and jawline and the glow of his slate-gray eyes, along with the broadness of his shoulders rising and falling with each breath.
With a deliberate motion, he curls his fingers into a fist, and the silver sword dissipates into tendrils of smoke that drift into the twilight. We remain suspended in that moment, our gazes locked—mine brimming with horror and revulsion, while his reflects a disturbing blend of curiosity and apathy.
“Girl,” Arax snaps. “This way.”
I turn to him. “What was that down there?”
Arax exhales, a rumbling in his chest. “The execution of a coward and a deserter. He fled the battlefield when his brother and sister Blades needed him most. For this, the punishment is death.”
“That is murder,” I strain through grit teeth.
“No. That is Mordorin justice,” Arax replies coldly.
I turn back to the scene, my soaked hair whipping my face, but when I look, the man in black is gone.
“The king and queen wait,” Arax reminds me.
My chin drops to my chest, rain trailing down my chin as I follow Arax through the archway, my gut twisting with disgust. He may not have spoken his name, but there is no doubt in my mind who the wielder of that blade is.
Ruthless. Cruel. The wicked prince of The Mordorin himself. My fated husband.