Chapter 7 #2
Long ago, in another life, when the world was far different, he’d agreed to help me in exchange for my magic.
He’d given me a few precious years with my parents after he rescued them from a prisoner camp within elven borders.
My mother passed first, just two years after returning to me.
My father followed soon after, but Castien remained at my side all the way until just before the eruption that devastated our peoples.
And then he left the way only he could—without doors opening, without goodbyes. Gone between one heartbeat and the next. There were years I told myself he was dead. I even prayed for it sometimes so I could stop wondering.
We’d been lovers, not mates, as that was not something that elf and Enduar could be.
I stare at the blade until my reflection warps. My face looks older, tired. But behind it—behind the curve of my cheek, in the slant of the obsidian—I can almost swear I see another face. His.
“You left me, and in anger, I asked you to stay away,” I murmur. “I know you heard me. Why can’t you ever obey?”
I set the blade down, but I don’t close the chest yet.
Once, he and I carved a matching circle—half in my home in the old Enduar capital of Iravida, half in his hidden dwelling in the woods.
A reckless link, anchored by equal parts blood and hubris.
When he walked into the shadows, I felt the echo of his heartbeat through the stone.
When I prayed, he claimed to hear my voice through the dark.
We were young enough to think it was love everlasting. Old enough to know it was dangerous.
Now, staring at the knife, I wonder if that old link still exists. If I were to redraw a symbol, would he return to me?
It would take nothing—just a drop of blood, a whisper, a name.
Castien.
I don’t say it aloud. I don’t have to. The thought alone is enough to make my heart pound. The air thickens, candlelight bending. I feel him for the briefest moment—like the press of a hand against glass, like someone standing just behind me.
Alive. Now you’ve cursed me to know that you are still alive.
And then, nothing.
The silence that follows is too deep. I rise, rewrap the dagger, and seal the chest again. The wax reforms beneath my hand, hiding the tremor in my fingers. This time, instead of returning the scroll to the Ardorflame, I place it on one of the shelves and leave.
I need to stop wasting time.
By the time I reach the palace, it is bustling with people. Guards bow as I pass. I greet them, and make my way to the place where the meeting will be held. The corridors hum with soft resonance. The crystals embedded in the walls shimmer faintly.
When I enter the council chamber, the air feels heavy. Most of the members are already there: Fira, Ra’Salore, Ulla, Svanna, Lothar, not to mention the half a dozen others added since our population expanded.
Teo, seated at his queen’s side, rises when he sees me. He looks older than he should at his age—the sleepless kind of tired that comes from balancing duty, early parenthood, and grief. His silver hair has been tied back in a simple braided knot, no crown today.
“Liana,” he says softly. “I thought you were going to be late.”
“I was awake early,” I reply. “But I had matters to attend to.”
Estela stands beside him, her human warmth and divine glow washing over me. There’s gentleness in her eyes, but it’s weighted. Her smile doesn’t quite reach the corners of her mouth.
I know they both worry over Arlet and Vann. It is not easy to lose such close friends.
“When does our guest get here?” I ask.
“She is already here,” Estela answers quietly. “Mrath arrived before the first morning chime of the clock tower. She should appear soon, and then the meeting will begin.”
I study them both for a long moment. They stand close, but there’s distance in the way their hands rest on the table—side by side but not touching. The loss of Arlet and Vann hangs between them like mist.
“I take it she hasn’t brought good news,” I murmur.
Teo exhales slowly. “Still no word of Lord Vann. Arlet should be set to arrive in Shvathemar any day now, if she hasn’t already.
But Vann…” he begins again. “I just keep thinking he is gone. That is the only way Arlet would be separate from him. And…if he’s dead, I can’t think of a way to grieve properly while the world keeps shifting under our feet. ”
His voice cracks just enough. And my heart aches. Vann was his brother before he was his advisor.
Estela glances down, tracing a pattern into the veins that run through the stone table, but the doors open before I can say more.
The crystals along the walls shift hue, pale blues deepening to green—the mark of a magical conduit responding to a stronger resonance.
Interesting. I haven’t witnessed this in her before.
And just like that, Mrath steps inside, followed by a few of her elven guards. All of them are women, members of her Sisterhood who rebel against King Arion.
She doesn’t enter like a guest. She enters like someone claiming a right she was merely waiting to collect.
Her silver-blond hair gleams under the light, loose around her shoulders.
The crown of black thorns on her brow catches the shimmer and glitters faintly, dark as charcoal.
Around her neck is a necklace of loose bones arranged to resemble a skull. Inside the small cage is a steady glow.
I immediately recognize the elven artifact called the Cumhacht na Cruinne, or “power of the universe.” It is believed to be the strongest object an elf can possess. A relic touched by a god.
I take a deep breath, tasting the power radiating off her, and the room stills.
“Welcome again, Mrath. We are grateful for you to be here,” Estela says firmly.
Teo gestures for her to join us, but she’s already moving toward the seat opposite his. The faint scent of outside air follows her, the damp kind that precedes a storm.
She inclines her head. “Thank you. I will be brief. I loathe long meetings, especially when there is much to prepare for with this upcoming wedding.”
Teo’s expression tightens, though his voice remains calm. “Very well. Begin when you please.”
Mrath rests her hands on the table, the dark thorns of her crown catching the light.
“I have come to prepare for our takeover of the Elven Kingdom. As you know, my emissary, Thorne, has betrayed us and defected to the king. He has compromised my careful rise to power, and I will not wait for Arion to take my head.”
Her tone is measured, but there is a pulse beneath it—something alive and ancient, the rhythm of wind through deep caverns. That is new. This must be related to the artifact she now wears around her neck.
Elves recognize their kings by right of power and blood. Mrath is a woman, which is a problem, but she is royal. And now she feels comfortable enough to so openly wear the artifact around her neck?
She is as good as a force of nature.
When we gave it to her, she told us she would need time to unlock the depth of its magic. It seems, many months later, she has done just that. With such an object, she is poised to turn the entire Elven Dominion on its head.
She could be more than a queen if she could unite all the elven factions. She could crown herself an empress.
For the first time, her countenance reflects that future.
The realization makes bumps erupt across my arms. She is worthy of the role. Arion would surely try to kill her if he knew.
“A year ago, I agreed to help you fight the giants in exchange for your support in reclaiming my throne,” she continues. “You refused open war while the queen carried her child, and I allowed it. But I am finished with hesitation. I no longer want a war. I want a coup.”
A whisper of movement stirs the candles, bending their flames toward her as though drawn to the storm gathering in her chest.
Fira shifts, hands clasped together. “A coup against your brother? Isn’t he strong enough to squash us?”
I click my tongue. Fira doesn’t recognize what she’s looking at; she can’t sense the shifting threads of divine magic woven around Mrath.
Mrath’s gaze sharpens, and then she lifts her chin, gesturing to the necklace. “I’m sure you all remember this. It is not the artifact itself, but a key to unlocking it from a hiding place only I know.”
I stare at the object and its glow, wondering where it is, truly .
Mrath continues. “My brother is not the king our god chose. The Cumhacht na Cruinne was forged by divine hands to recognize the ruler by elemental power. When they crowned Arion, he only had the meager rights our father had bestowed upon him. For decades, his hold on the elves has been loosening. He is but a candle compared to the flames of my roaring forge. The people will follow the magic. I am sure of it.”
Teo’s shoulders tense, but he doesn’t interrupt.
“Is there a possibility he could try to kill you while you possess the artifact?” I ask, interjecting myself fully into the conversation.
She looks at me. “An army united against me could still take me down.”
“But surely you possess enough power to just enter Shvathemar and claim your throne, even without us,” I continue, testing her. I want to know exactly what she wants.
She glares at me, lips pressed together.
“What do you all know of the Throne of Living Wood?” Mrath’s voice smooths into something colder.
Teo answers next. “It’s made of the first Elder Tree and has been bound to Doros’s power since the dawn of time. He is the one who dictates the next king.”
“And all others who sit upon the throne found unworthy will burn,” I say. “But clearly, you are worthy.”
She frowns.
“The throne has been corrupted by an interloping god. The same one that has been cursing souls.”
Estela’s face turns pale. “Abhartach?”
Mrath nods. “The demon god.”
Teo steps forward. “Does the court know?”
Mrath shakes her head. “Not really. And those who do fear the power enough to pledge loyalty to a pretender. Arion hides his weakness with ceremony and the favor of his human bride. But I need someone to plant a seed, so to speak. To nudge open the door, just a bit that I might return and cleanse the throne.”
Mrath brushes her hands over the marble table. “If Arion finds out I have the artifact, he will rain down magic and steel upon my Sisterhood. I refuse to sacrifice my sisters for this endeavor. So, I just need to remain in the shadows and keep it safe for a little longer.”
I look to Teo and Estela, finding them both carefully watching Mrath, their expressions telling me they are using their mating bond to speak with each other.
“And you want our people to help you gain access to the throne?” Teo asks.
She leans forward, her smile cutting like a blade. “You already have someone in very close proximity to the throne.”
“Arlet,” Estela breathes.
“Precisely. I am sure, between my people and yours, someone can get a message to her. Something must be arranged, and then that will be my moment. When the god’s rot is banished, it will pass back to Doros. Doros will show that I am the rightful heir, and I will restore balance to the throne.”
Ulla inhales sharply. “You mean to take the seat during the wedding?”
“That is a good question,” Mrath replies, but doesn’t elaborate further.
Estela’s voice is tight. “And the people? You believe they’ll follow you so easily?”
“Like I said, they already doubt him,” Mrath says simply. “He weds a human while the elements turn silent in his presence.”
Her eyes flick toward Teo, catching the torchlight.
“And Arion knows this. He plans to pull every desperate thread he can to keep himself seated. He means to bring back those long exiled, the old war mages, the forgotten killers, the ones who hid themselves when our kind began to fracture. They will all be weapons in his hand that could also be used to prevent my bid for power.”
The temperature in the room seems to drop.
Mrath lets the silence stretch before she adds, voice low, deliberate, “Among them, there is one he seeks a relationship with most of all, the one they call the Living Shadow.”
The words crawl across my skin.
“He believes,” Mrath goes on, “that this assassin—this ghost of the old wars—will answer to him. But I have already found my way to that particular door.” Her smile widens just enough to make my pulse falter. “And when it opens, it will not be his name the Shadow answers to.”
I shift on my feet. She’s been in contact with Castien?
Teo exhales, long and slow, but he doesn’t speak. The room feels smaller, as if the air itself contracts around her words.
Mrath straightens. “Arion’s pride will undo him. His weakness will do the rest.”
“Very well, Mrath. A deal is a deal. We will help you in any way we are able,” Teo says, his hands resting on the table, knuckles pale. He sees the change in Mrath as well. To refuse her would be foolish.
Estela’s jaw tightens as though she’s swallowed something bitter.
Even as a smile blooms on her cold, angular mouth, Mrath’s face darkens. “I thought you would be amenable. Remember, Troll King, I do not forget my allies.”
I sit back, silent, the echo of Castien’s memory moving like cold water through my chest. He is coming back into the light.
Will he try to see me again? Will I be strong enough to bear it after how we left things?
In that moment, one of the Enduar guards enters the room.
“My sovereigns. Lord Vann has arrived on a dragon—” he starts just for another presence to push in behind him.
One clothed in tattered rags, covered with long-dried blood.
The glinting blade of his cleaver sticks up over his shoulder.
His hair is unbound and tangled, and his cheeks are purple from exertion.
He leans against the frame of the door, chest heaving, and groans.
“Vann,” Teo says, exhaling like he is letting out months of tension. “You live.”
Vann looks up, clearly exhausted and possibly injured. Ulla, Teo, Estela, and I begin moving toward him simultaneously.
“They have Arlet.”
“Lord Vann, you look like you are about to faint.”
“I need to leave!” he shouts, and I am taken aback at his outburst.
Mrath lets out an amused sound. “You are not leaving until you tell us everything you know.”
Vann growls, like a feral beast wounded in a corner. “Only if it will be brief.”