Chapter 16 Seren
Chapter sixteen
Seren
An intricate pane of glass stretched high above me, the edges hazy in my dream-distorted vision. Ice crystals sparkled across its expanse with a glittering beauty that only enhanced the detailing. Kings and queens and mágikal creatures were depicted in a wash of vibrant watercolor.
Delicate brown hands reached out beside me, long-fingered and sure. I turned, my gaze traveling up the length of the woman’s arms before finally settling on her face. I blinked heavily, swayed. My body fought against me, unwilling to cooperate as I willed the image into focus.
Her full lips pressed together in concentration, and her dark eyes narrowed as she felt along the edges of the window.
Tight brown curls fell across her forehead and into her eyes as she leaned forward, a smile quirking her mouth as a near imperceptible latch swung inwards, admitting her into the palace.
She mounted the stone wall, boots braced on the window frame. Her head swiveled as she ensured her path was clear. When she had cleared the ledge and dropped into the room below, she swung the window shut once more.
“Wait!” I called, but my voice was strangled.
I surged forward, the sudden urge to follow her filling me to my bones. The rainbowed glass closed over me, but my body slipped straight through it, depositing me in a long, empty hallway. Ornate floor runners lined the stone path, and sconces burned low along each wall.
The palace was gilded, the shine of every precious metal and a million glittering gemstones throwing rainbows and light across the walls.
The shining floors were awash in golds and greens, reflecting from the sweep of the heavy brocade curtains.
The sun was near to setting, and the soft orange rays cut through the broad windows at a low angle.
The woman crept through abandoned halls, anger flooding the edges of her vision and creeping into mine. I followed her, unseen as we weaved deeper into the palace—fighting against the roiling fury that threatened to draw me into her.
“All of this wealth and privilege,” she muttered, “taken for granted by those who will never know what it is like to go without.”
She fisted a tapestry in her shaking hand, nails scratching against the gold embroidery with destructive frustration. With a sharp tug, the fabric came fluttering down upon us, and in that one movement, the soul sucking, world upending feeling was upon me.
I blinked through her eyes—drowned in her memories.
Safiya longed for sunbaked days and seabreeze nights. She ached with the loss of her family and her home in Kiaszta Naván.
As the oldest of seven siblings, Safiya had spent more time raising her brothers and sisters than she had defining her own path in life.
When she had heard of the Acsillan king’s summons to mágik users around the world, Safiya had not hesitated to volunteer herself.
She had not hesitated to travel across the sea to Szrestia, the country that had destroyed her life and crushed her heart.
A name echoed through her mind, gripped at her chest, plaguing my own stuttering heart. Alora.
There was pain there, the aching grief of loss, and it was enough to tear me free. I gasped, rubbing my temples against the pain, but I was only granted a moment of reprieve before the waves sucked me back under with crushing force.
Safiya passed the council chamber on silent feet, remembering the first time she had laid eyes on the ornate door. Though years had since passed, the memory was burned on the backs of her eyes. It had been the beginning of her ruination.
She left her entire life behind, riding on the great ambition to make the world a better place.
She had chosen this path for herself. It was the first thing she had ever chosen for herself, and in one indifferent moment, the king and the council dismissed her.
They did not need another earth wielder, they said, and her dream evaporated into smoke.
The council chamber shuttered open, and Safiya was back in the present. She melted into the shadows, heart pounding, but it was too late. She had already been seen.
I wrenched myself free of her, swallowing saliva and bile as I tried not to retch. Her memories, her knowledge, her anger still leaked through the tether between us.
Hesperia Farkas peered at her, squinting her eyes against the dim light. The earth councilwoman paused, face lighting in recognition.
“Safiya Keres,” she said in her low, smoky voice. “Whatever are you doing creeping about the council chamber?”
“Only reliving a nightmare,” Safiya muttered, too low for the other woman to hear. Louder, she said, “What business is it of yours, Councilwoman? Is it your right to question the staff of the crown?”
Hesperia laughed, soft and drawn out. “When said staff might be listening in on classified information? Certainly. Careful, spymaster, we all have our roles to play. It’d be a shame if yours was cut short.”
Safiya narrowed her eyes. Her fingers traced the shape of her blade under the hem of her cloak. I reached for my own sword, but my hands met empty air.
“That won’t be necessary.” Hesperia smiled, the picture of diplomatic perfection. She raised one hand, resting it gently along the swell of Safiya’s cheek. “Ayla needs you, dear girl. She needs you now more than ever. Don’t let her down.”
And then she was gone, a ghost retreating into the unknown.
Don’t let her down.
The words taunted Safiya, ringing in her ears and pulling her back down under the weight of her grief. She could not let Ayla down, not as she had Alora. She would not make that mistake twice.
I clenched my jaw hard, squeezing my eyes shut against Safiya’s thoughts, mingling with my own. Safiya gasped against the pain of it—I choked on it—the jagged-edged knife of memory.
Ayla’s door rose before us, silent and stoic, the present overlapping with the past.
Vibrations rumbled into the earth around us, spilling from Safiya’s shaking palms. She fought to pull them back inside, to trap the darkness where it lay, but it pushed forth against her will.
“Ayla…” Safiya whispered, a plea in her aching throat.
The door shuddered and quaked as her voice traveled to the bedroom within, but she was still trapped within her own mind, and I was right there with her.
I felt the anger and resentment for the king, the prince, and the entirety of this country building inside her.
She burned for something, in the deep darkness within.
Revenge.
She would not rest until she had burned it all to the ground.
The door swung open—the sweetest mercy, the largest pitfall.
“Are you alright?” Ayla asked, concern swimming through the depths of her golden-brown eyes. She drew Safiya’s hands between her own, their warmth so strong I swore I felt it on my fingers—lingering on my palms.
“Not even a little,” Safiya breathed, but even as she said it, the darkness retreated. Ayla chased it away with her golden light.
I tore free, leaning heavily on the door frame. I pleaded with my shaking knees to settle.
Ayla pulled Safiya to the bed and curled their bodies together, rubbing soothing circles on her back.
Safiya’s emotions still buried themselves directly into my middle.
The ache of guilt gnawed at her gut—to lie here with Ayla, the plan to take revenge against her father spinning through her head.
She knew that if she was not careful, the machinations of her plans would crumble to dust around her.
Safiya feared she would throw it all away for the daughter of her greatest enemy.
I pulled away with a final gasp, wrenching the door back open as I turned to flee, but it did not shatter the dream. It only sent me sprawling into the next scene.
Soft morning light blanketed Ayla as she strode down the hall. She wrung her hands together and worried at her lip, drawing me closer with every swipe of her teeth over plump flesh.
“Please, no more…” I groaned. I reached for the sconces and tangled my boots into the carpet runners, but they could not hold my phantom form.
Ayla reeled me in with every shaky breath.
With every warm night spent curled into Safiya’s embrace, Ayla found herself wishing more and more that she was not already betrothed to Lady Emilia Terrance.
The noblewoman was perfectly acceptable—kind and smart and daintily pretty.
She had all the makings of a queen. But it was nothing more than a political match, and the two of them had hardly managed to strike up a friendship, let alone a romance.
Emilia seemed as interested in the betrothal as Ayla, which was to say not at all, though she had never spoken the words aloud.
Her betrothal was a sinking ship the moment she first felt Safiya’s fingers against her own. The first time their lips brushed, she had nearly cried from the relief of holding someone close and knowing it was right. Emilia could never compare to the feelings Safiya had stirred within her.
They had been courting for months, in secret.
It would cause a great scandal if the Acsillan citizens were to discover that Ayla had betrayed her word to Lady Terrance, but she could not bring herself to regret even a single moment of her time with Safiya.
Even more so, she felt herself wanting to take steps forward in their relationship.
It was rare for couples to court as long as they had without committing to each other. Betrothals were often arranged in childhood with strict timelines—this being the only thing that had saved Ayla from a loveless marriage thus far—but those who married for love often did so with haste.
To utter Acsillan wedding vows was to bind two souls together under the light and love of the Goddesses. They ensured that the pair would always find each other, in this life and the next, their souls destined to seek each other out time and again.
I came away, pulse rocketing as I settled back into myself. I felt the jarring weight of another mind upon me, lingering still.
Ayla delivered us to the study, the one I had seen her in before. She rapped upon the shuttered door, blinking against the darkness in this corner of the palace.
“Enter,” a man boomed in a resonant baritone.
“Uncle?” Ayla murmured as she slid into the room. The door closed softly behind her, guided by her hand on the ornate iron knob. She hated the way it slammed when left to its own devices. She hated the way he slammed it, far too often. “I hoped you might have a moment to discuss something with me?”
“Hmm,” the prince grunted. He did not lift his eyes from the letter before him, but his jaw tightened and his fingers clenched around the quill.
“It is only that…” She drew in a shaky breath before forcing the words out. “When I am queen, I wish to marry for love.”
His eyes finally broke from the page as he regarded her carefully.
“My father signed a betrothal agreement, years ago, but I do not love Lady Terrance. I know marrying her would inspire goodwill and strength between the crown and the nobles, yet I cannot help but wonder if I might ask for happiness, too? I fear there is a selfishness within me, to want to put my own heart before the strength of the kingdom, but I only hope to love someone as my father loved my mother, as you loved Princess ágnes. I crave a love worth fighting for.” Ayla squeezed her eyes shut, nausea churning in her belly.
It echoed in my own stomach, and in the unruly beat of my heart.
She was afraid of his reaction, but when she opened them again, she saw only the softness of a man regarding his loved one.
“Of course, Ayla. Consider it done. When you are queen, the betrothal will be broken, and you will be free to choose your partner as you see fit.” The prince reached an ink-stained hand out and patted her own where they lay, pressed flat against the cold wood of his desk.
Ayla let out a shuttering breath, relief flooding her.
She threw her arms around him and cried in his embrace.
Joy speared through me, as bitter as it was sweet, and my heart fractured just the tiniest bit under the weight of it.
It had been so long since I had a family that loved me so.
It had been so long since I had thrown my arms around someone and held tight, love and relief rushing in my veins.
I was reminded again that these dreams showed me everything I wanted and everything I could not have.