Malin – Ceremony #3
“Noor’wyn, our duties are not yet complete.
We must now receive the dignitaries. It will take hours, unfortunately.
The children are not needed, though, and it is your choice if you want Will to stand by your side, but it would mean much to me to have you with me,” Aldrik murmured, the deep rumble of his voice barely cutting through the sudden swell of aristocratic chatter.
His large hand covered hers where it rested on the silver-filigree chair, the warmth of his warrior’s grip grounding her.
“I can’t do that to him. I know how miserable he is at these things,” Malin replied, smoothing the heavy sapphire silk over her knees.
In truth, the anger from their earlier argument still simmered hot in her chest. Standing shoulder-to-shoulder with him for hours, forced to wear polite smiles while ignoring his suffocating rules, would only make her siphon magic spike again.
Around them, the throne room shifted into a chaotic symphony of rustling velvet and scraping chairs as the court prepared for the receiving line. Across the sea of moving bodies, their soul-bond hummed, a vibrating tether pulling her focus straight to Will.
‘Can you please help the kids get comfortable?’ she projected, keeping her mental tone crisp but gentle. ‘Aeladar and I need to be here. You will be happier away from all of this.’
‘Of course, Sparks,’ Will’s response wrapped around her mind, carrying the rich, husky resonance of his voice.
Across the room, the rigid tension in his broad shoulders softened. He offered a subtle wink before turning to gather the children. A ghost of a smile played across his lips, but it was the lingering weight of his hazel eyes that struck her.
As she looked at him, a sudden, sharp ache bloomed in her chest. She wished they could just go back to the cramped kitchen in Media, where she danced with him for the very first time.
Before magic, before politics… before her world changed so completely.
Before the crushing weight of keeping everyone safe built this wall between them.
They took their place in the formal reception line. As cousin and High Lord, Aldrik Rauno was second only to the Queen now, meaning they stood as the last royals before the guests greeted the new leader.
The long line stretched before them like a living tapestry of power.
High Council members in jewel-toned robes blurred together with lords and ladies adorned in ancestral gems, the ethereal light catching on their masks of practiced diplomacy.
The overwhelming scent of a thousand clashing perfumes thickened the air, making it hard to breathe.
On the far end stood Anariel; the silver branches of the ancient crown seemed to pulse with raw magic above her solemn face.
Anariel met her gaze, passing her a faint, grounding smile. Malin would have cracked by now in similar situations, and she marveled at her new Queen’s unyielding strength.
Beside her, Aeladar’s towering presence felt like a fortress. His large, calloused hand settled on her shoulder, the weight deeply reassuring through the heavy layers of her ceremonial silk.
“Remember whose blood flows in your veins. You can do this,” he murmured, his voice like distant thunder.
Still, beneath her composed exterior, doubt coiled in her stomach like a serpent. She only had to survive one more event. One last opportunity for them to judge her before she could finally escape the spotlight.
The suffocating hum of the packed hall pressed against her senses, waking the dark siphon magic dormant in her blood.
The urge to reach out and consume their life forces became an aching, physical demand.
It fed on her anxiety, whispering that a girl raised in the human city of Media could never navigate the labyrinthine politics of the Elven court.
With effort, she pushed it into submission.
She stared toward the massive oak doors. Hundreds of ancient, calculating eyes were waiting just on the other side, ready to dissect her every flaw.
Malin looked down at her hands. They were so vastly different from the delicate features of the Elves around her.
She clenched her fingers into tight fists, ruthlessly forcing the hungry magic back into its cage.
Her heavy sapphire silks felt less like a royal birthright and more like a beautifully spun lie.
Her racing pulse tapped a single, mocking word against her ribs. Imposter.
The heavy doors groaned open. A wave of hushed, expectant whispers washed over the room.
Malin lifted her chin. She desperately fought the urge to summon the fire simmering just beneath her skin. The memory of the blazing tapestries from the last ceremony made her palms sweat, and it took terrifying effort to keep her volatile magic from rupturing entirely.
They might despise her human blood, but as the endless procession stepped forward, a dark thought sparked in her mind. If this court pushed her too far, would there be anything left of their precious sanctuary when she finally let it burn?