CHAPTER TWO
Elysia
The parchment trembles in my hand, though not from weakness or fear, but from rage. It has a way of making even the finest vellum feel as though it should catch fire beneath my very fingertips.
The words glow faintly, seared into my mind long after I’ve finished reading them.
Submit. Yield your will. Defiance will be treated as treason.
I laugh a brittle, humourless sound that cracks in the stillness of my room. “By your word, so it is decreed.”
Of course, The Council’s words have always been law.
Law enough to bleed my father dry on the battlefield, law enough to demand my obedience in the name of duty, of Celestria, of the people.
They always cloak their cruelty in honour.
I lower the summons, placing it on the desk beside my half-read books and scattered diagrams. My fingers itch to burn it until the words vanish into embers, but the magic woven into the parchment coils around me like a serpent.
Destruction would not erase the command; it would only make my defiance louder.
And defiance means death.
Bind or die.
I swallow hard, the words settling heavy and suffocating in my chest. There are fates worse than death, and this feels like one of them… but if I refuse, my research and countless efforts to find the truth ends here. Any hope of a cure could die with me.
I sink onto the edge of my bed; the blankets cool against my skin as I stare out the window. I start undoing my plait, letting the curls loose and releasing some of the tension building in my head, fidgeting with the ring my mother gifted me at birth.
A small, tear-shaped crystal pendant of lunalith, veined faintly with azure.
The moon hangs low, spilling silver across the river that threads through the kingdom. The water glints like scattered gemstones, reflecting the soft luminescence of the plants along the banks.
Soul-Binding.
Just the name is a blade pressed to the throat. It diminishes boundaries, erases the walls you build around yourself, and drags you screaming into someone else’s soul.
And they have chosen him.
Kaden Reinheart.
Even the syllables of his name weigh in the air.
He has stalked the edges of rumour for years now, a weapon The Council shaped from childhood.
Broad-shouldered, muscled like the warriors in old murals, built for battle rather than subtlety.
His hair is black as ink, often damp from sweat…
or blood in the stories told of him. His eyes, a striking pale green, are said to strip pretence from anyone who meets them, as though he can see straight through flesh into whatever lies beneath.
Some call him handsome, others unsettling.
To me, he sounds like a threat sharpened too finely.
He’s a cold, unyielding man who calculates victory as though it were arithmetic, a man who seems less human the longer you watch him.
And this is the man they would bind me to.
A shiver traces down my spine, though whether from anger or the faint echo of possibility, I can’t tell.
The Council isn’t blind; they know how much power I possess.
My parents were Selene and Eryon Morningstar of the Emberfall line. My mother was a High Mage of The Council, and my father was their warrior mage. Their own soulbond gave me a gift that terrifies The Council even as they try to smother it.
I can call fire from the air, shatter wards meant to hold armies at bay. I have burned streets to ash in practice and cracked stone by simply looking at it. If I lose my focus, the very air warps.
Magic answers me as if it knows my name.
And yet, even with all my strength, they think me incomplete.
They think I need him.
No, they want me bound.
They want the unfathomable force of my magic fused with his, two powerful bloodlines woven into something that can crush armies and bend kingdoms.
Together, we would be unstoppable.
That is the true reason for their urgency.
Not plague. Not salvation. Pure unadulterated power.
My gaze drifts back to the summons. Its pale vellum gleams faintly in the candlelight, the wax seal broken but still bearing Celestria’s emblem. I want to fight, to rage until the walls themselves bleed magic, but I’m too exhausted to give into my rage tonight.
Instead, I force myself to move through familiar motions to reclaim the slightest shred of normalcy.
I slip out of my cream, off-the-shoulder cotton dress.
It’s heavy with the scent of the market, lingering smoke, and spices clinging to the fabric.
I pull on a soft sky-blue linen nightgown, worn thin with years of use.
My hair tumbles in silken sheets down my back, dark blue threads shimmering beneath the candlelight.
Walking into my bathing chambers, I lean over my basin and splash my face with cold water, the cool liquid instantly fizzling out the rage burning beneath my skin.
I stare at myself in the mirror, my eyes seemingly hollow and haunting.
They are my father’s eyes and undoubtedly my favourite feature about myself. My other features are what people would deem as traditionally beautiful… but none of them compare to the eyes I inherited from my father.
I walk into my small kitchen nook and set water to heat over the hearth, the fire sparking obediently at a flick of my wrist.
A few moments later, the kettle whistles low, and I pour the steaming water over a pinch of dried moonleaf and rose tea. The fragrance rises at once, sweet and calming, wrapping the room in softness.
I cradle the mug in both hands and breathe in the warmth. The tea tastes faintly floral, with a whisper of bitterness at the edges.
Carrying it back to my room, I set the mug on my bedside table and slip beneath the midnight-blue blankets. The canopy above my bed sways gently with the draft from the half-open window.
I sip slowly, each swallow grounding me and tethering me back to the life that is mine, not theirs.
I briefly consider walking to Cole’s, summon in hand, just to rant about The Council’s latest demand. But I stop myself.
Cole hates soul-binding almost as much as I do, calls it a gilded leash for those too blind to see the chains. The last thing he needs before leaving for training is my anger weighing on him. He deserves a clear head… not my fury spilling into his last night home.
I continue sipping on my tea, and by the time the cup is empty, the weight of exhaustion pulls me down.
I place the mug aside and curl onto my side. My dagger resting on the pillow next to my head, runes faintly aglow, as though it too, keeps vigil.
The last thing I see before sleep drags me under is the moonlight spilling across the floorboards.
Unyielding. Beautiful. Untouchable.
Sunrise finds the kingdom pale and cautious, like someone who’s been roughed up and is still checking the shadows for any lingering threat.
I wake to that unsettling feeling that only The Council could provoke. For a moment, I stay still, listening to the house breathe, the hearth lighting up in the kitchen, the faint hum of the runes in the walls.
Then the day demands me.
I take the longest, most relaxing shower I allow myself, warm water clearing the residue of sleeplessness and past nightmares.
The tiles retain a residual glow from the rune beneath my feet, powered to keep the room warm. I let the water run down my shoulders, revelling in the way it eases the ache along my back. The smell of roses perfumes the air, the scent that reminds me of my mother.
Reluctantly stepping out of the warm stream, I grab my towel and wrap it around myself, then dress in a simple shift for breakfast.
I move through my kitchen with ease as the kettle sings, then pour boiling water over another pinch of dried moonleaf and rose. As it steeps, I watch the steam curl into miniature spirals as I wave my fingers, magic vibrating from my fingertips as I create floral shapes with it.
The first cup tastes of resolve. The second is for courage, though nobody gave me the choice to be brave this morning.
I sit by the windowsill, sipping my tea and chewing on some toast. Breathing in the smell of roses and morning air and forcing my mind toward the calculation I have not yet wanted to make.
Soul-binding is an old art; The Council wraps it in ceremony and hymns because that’s how they make shackles look like jewellery.
For the people, a bond between Kaden Reinheart and me might give the kingdom a chance. Two powerful bloodlines intertwined could amplify our reach, layer our senses, and funnel enough raw will to seed a cure.
Tea finished, I stand and lay out the ceremonial dress.
It is a thing of strange beauty, a soft and almost translucent white threaded through with a faint silver-blue that matches the gleam at the edge of my dagger.
The bodice fits me like a second skin, with a square neckline tailored to the peak of my breasts, cinched at the waist so the skirt can spill and flow without getting in the way when power flares.
The sleeves are long and slit for movement.
The satin glides over my shoulders as I slip on the dress; the bodice hugs my ribs, and the skirt falls to my ankles, allowing my boots to peek out when I walk. A detachable, lightweight cape sits on my shoulders.
It is both ceremonial and practical. A design that honours ritual while not strangling muscle or breath.
Waving my hand, I use my magic to tie the satin ribbons at the back, pulling the fabric in slightly at my waist so the fabric pools around and down from my hips.
Still using my magic the way my mother taught me to, I summon a gentle wind, twining it through my hair at my request, lifting and teasing the dark strands into delicate curls.
With a thin and practised flick, I weave silverthorn vines through my hair.
They climb like pale fingers, white leaves glinting at intervals.
When finished, I look like someone the moon might recognise as kin.
My dagger rests sheathed at my thigh like an old heartbeat, the slit in my dress cut just high enough to grant easy reach should circumstance demand it.
Cole has likely already left for Celestrian Academy by now, which means there’s no way to warn him of what’s coming. By the time he returns, the binding will already be done… my fate sealed and my freedom shackled.
The door has barely closed behind me when transport arrives, a wooden carriage that floats a finger’s breadth above the cobblestone, swirls, stars and constellations carved into the wood and Celestria’s crescent moon adorning the top of the carriage.
A stout little man in a coat of muted plum steps from the carriage and gives me a bow so deep I think his spine might snap. His face is smooth and practised, the kind of face designed by a committee to inspire respect.
“Miss Morningstar.” He says, voice varnished with practice. “The Council thanks you for your…” He hesitates, hunting for the proper word, “cooperation.”
“How generous of them,” I say, the sarcasm tasting like honey on my tongue.
I step into the carriage with reluctance, the envoy waiting until I am seated before sliding in next to me, tapping twice against the carriage door. The carriage hums as runes engage, and we lift from the ground, moving with a smoothness that could lull a child.
He tries conversation as we glide past the market stalls and towards the luminous forest separating the heart of Celestria from the Tower.
“The soul-binding ceremony will be quick, elegant even. The Council values your contributions, Miss Morningstar. We are honoured to have you.”
“I’ll be sure to sleep easier knowing I am so very honoured.” I deadpan, rolling my eyes and fidgeting with my ring.
For a long stretch, he says nothing. Celestria slides by in shifts of blurred light and stone, the Tower looming like predatory architecture. Trees glint, and rays of sun bounce off the morning dew collected on their leaves; the river shimmers and pulses like a deep blue vein.
I watch it all with a distanced and clinical gaze, feeling the straps of the quickly approaching ceremony like a tightening band across my ribs.
I am not sure how long it has been, but at some point, the envoy speaks again.
“Your dress is exquisite. You have truly outdone yourself. The way it fits and drapes over your form is quite flattering.”
I glare at him, my eyes unamused at the attempt at small talk. “This dress would flatter a corpse if stitched right.”
He chuckles like he thinks we’re sharing a joke. Then, with the kind of entitlement only the Tower breeds, he lets his hand fall onto my thigh. Fingers grazing silk where they have no right, resting like a putrid varnish of assumption.
It takes less than a breath for me to act.
I slide my hand down under the slit of my dress, unsheathe my dagger with the precision of someone who has done it a thousand times, and press the blade’s cold edge against his throat. The runes along the hilt flare like a captive moon as a small drop of his blood licks the blade.
“Try to touch me again.” I whisper, my voice low, “and I will cut your neck clean where you stand. I’ll bring you to the edge of death and let you hang on the breath of it, only to weave the blood back into you and do it again, and again, until you beg me for the mercy you stole the right to assume. ”
The carriage hums on, silent but for his ragged breath, his pulse hammering under the edge of my blade.
The man pales, his face going chalk white as he nods, voice a dry rustle. “Of course, Miss Morningstar. Understood.”
His fingers tremble as they retreat, leaning his body away from my blade and further into the corner of the carriage.
We glide the last few measures in silence as the Tower’s gates open like a hungry mouth.
Up close, it’s hauntingly breathtaking.
Dark, ancient and beautifully fractured stone forms the bones of the structure, each crack kissed by time rather than decay.
Moss and lush green vines creep lazily across the walls, threaded with clusters of small, faintly luminescent blue and violet flowers that glow like captured stars.
From every balcony, greenery spills downward in living cascades, and tall, arched windows run the length of each wall, their panes engraved with swirling patterns.
The envoy waves a shaky gloved hand as we come to a stop, and the door swings open. He offers me a bow that is now thoroughly civil before scurrying off to speak to another Council member. A few moments later, another Council envoy greets me, his eyes soft.
“Please come with me, Miss Morningstar. I will escort you to the ceremony within The Binding Hall.”
He gestures towards the entrance of the Tower before leading the way. I hesitate for just a second, my heart beginning to lodge in my throat, but then my feet are moving, and before I know it, I’m standing outside two dark oak doors that lead to my eternal damnation.
They are taller than any temple arch, carved with swirling patterns that seem to shift if I stare too long, like smoke caressing its surface, twisting into shapes half-formed.
I might have called them beautiful once, if I didn’t know what waited behind them was about to burn the fragile, threatened remains of my sanctuary to ash.
Smoothing my hands down the satin of my ceremonial dress, I take in a deep breath, trying to calm my rattling nerves.
The envoy turns to me, holding out his hand and bending slightly, “Miss Morningstar, I am to escort you to the ceremonial altar now.”
I want to tell him exactly where he can shove his courtesy, but the plague continues to spread, tearing through families faster than we can count the dead. If more power is the key to finding a cure, then binding myself to Kaden Reinheart is a sacrifice I will endure.
Not for The Council but for the people.
Taking in a steadying breath, I place my hand in his as the doors part with a creak of ancient hinges. The air rushes out, cool and fragrant, and I step into another world.
Pale grey stone makes up the room, each brick polished until it appears to glow faintly from within.
Pillars made of the same stone span across its length, three on each side. Each pillar carved into the likeness of fae beings whose features are so fine they might almost breathe. Each holds a basket that overflows with water, the streams trickling downward in an endless cascade.
The floor beneath my feet is black as ink, speckled with what looks to be star-iron, giving the illusion of twinkling stars with every step.
At the end of the hall sits a raised platform, chairs positioned atop it for the High Council.
Behind it, a large stained-glass window adorns the wall, depicting the first binding.
The light that streams through it is fractured into shards of silver and indigo, bathing the altar in shifting radiance.
It appears the hall has been decorated for the binding ceremony.
Chairs draped in white silk, tied at the middle with glowing starbane.
Firefly-lanterns float in the air, drifting lazily and glowing amber-gold.
Woven garlands of white roses, moonlilies, and silverthorn vines spiral down from the vaulted ceiling, releasing a fragrance so sweet it coats the air like honey.
The effect is almost romantic.
Almost.
The altar itself is circular, raised atop the platform, carved of translucent crystal with the same florals twisting around the frame. A violinist sits in the left corner playing a calming tune, a stark contrast to the way my heart rapidly beats inside my chest.
Amidst my awe, I hadn’t quite realised the sheer amount of Council members and those alike sitting upon the draped chairs, all here to witness the ceremony… and there, standing at the altar's centre, is the most beautiful man I have ever seen.
Kaden Reinheart.
My heart stutters at the sight of him.
He wears a tailored three-piece suit of midnight black, its sharp lines flattering his muscular frame. A black tie blends against the darkness; a single matching handkerchief tucked neatly into his breast pocket.
His hair is dark as ink and caresses his high cheekbones, and a small star-shaped piercing dangles from his left ear.
The closer I get, the more I realise his eyes aren’t entirely green, not really.
One eye gleams a pale green, while the other is threaded with veins of turquoise, catching the light in shifting blues that make it seem alive and changing, a different coloured eye entirely.
They are truly breathtaking, and gods do I hate myself for admitting it.
The envoy finishes leading me to the altar, releasing my hand with a flourish as Kaden steps forward, reaching out and taking my hand in his. His fingers close around mine, and a shiver shoots up my arm, warm and oddly familiar.
He bends, brushing a kiss against the back of my hand with mocking softness, cedar wood and cinnamon overwhelming my senses.
“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Elysia darling.”
His voice carries an old-world refinement, as though he learned his words in marble halls rather than battlefields. Each word is equally soft and intoxicating, and when he purrs my name, it feels like velvet against my ears.
A voice like that shouldn’t belong to someone so evil.
I force a smile that feels sharp as glass. “I’d be inclined to say the same, but unfortunately that would make me a liar.”
His grip on my hand tightens just a fraction as he stands back up straight, eyes gleaming with amusement… or a warning?
“Charming,” he murmurs.
Before I can snap back, the violinist’s melody fades, and a hush falls across the chamber as The Council files in through a side door, their ceremonial robes dragging like liquid shadow.
They take their places in silence, their gazes heavy and unblinking. The Binding Hall shifts then, the air thickening as the weight of the fast-approaching ceremony creeps up on me.
This is no mere vow.
No pretty exchange of rings and words.
This is magic reaching for us, preparing to entwine flesh, thought, and soul.
I stand at the threshold of eternity, and all I want to do is run.