68. Mind the Manners
The air was thick, and her limbs were numb. Lyra stood alone—breathing. That’s all she could do.
Everything pressed down upon her. To stand and fight for the world felt like learning to run before you could walk.
And she knew exactly what that felt like.
A song wove through her veins; something was calling to her. But it wasn’t the land—it was the sea. It called to her; it needed her.
Something was happening in Atlantis, and she could feel it like an oppressive cloud ruining an otherwise sunny day.
Birds sang and leaves rustled, pulling her back to the present. The scent of earth and moss and sunshine seeped into her bones, and she sighed.
“Lyra,” Maelys called. “Are you alright?”
“Just a moment!”
Lyra traced her finger down the trunk of the nearest tree. The roots of this tree reached the roots of the next and the next, an underground network that sprawled across the entire realm.
“I need your help,” she whispered to the tree.
“If you’re listening and grant wishes, I need all the luck a girl could get.
” Lyra closed her eyes and pressed her brow against the bark.
Tiny white petals floated down from its branches and gathered on her hair and eyelashes.
She fluttered her eyelashes and wrapped her arms as wide as she could around the tree.
“Give me strength. I do not want to fail.”
Lyra stepped away from the tree and headed back to the carriage, throwing one last look over her shoulder. She could have sworn she saw the tree lean towards the one beside it.
“Is everything well?” Maelys asked, walking towards Lyra and pulling her horse behind her. It whinnied and stomped when Maelys stopped.
“As well as it could be,” Lyra muttered.
Maelys reached out, gripping Lyra’s fingers. “We’re all here for you.”
“Thank you.”
Lyra clambered into the back of the carriage. The enchantment pulled it along behind Wilder. Maelys and Ridge flanked either side, and Dust, Oak, and Otto brought up the rear. Lyra watched as the orderly groves turned into orderly bushes resembling a large hedgerow on either side.
The bushes gave way to circular patches of flowers. Circles are not natural in nature. And perfect ones were a strange sight to behold.
Hanging out of the side of the carriage, Lyra watched as Wilder unstrapped his sword from his waist and attached it to the saddlebag before digging around in it and pulling out a cape of emerald green.
Throwing it over his shoulders, she watched as the sun refracted off the fabric, casting rainbows all around him.
He was a visiting royal, and now he looked the part. As if he could feel her watching, he turned to look at her.
His gaze lingered, and she felt the heat bloom high on her cheekbones.
“I’m not allowed weapons. It’s part of the treaty,” he murmured.
She didn’t listen to his words; it felt intimate—that stare, like he could see every part of her as clearly as if he had crawled between her legs again.
Free from his gaze, she took a deep breath and stared out at the castle that loomed on the horizon. It was like something out of an ancient fable. Towering battlements, gothic windows, and clumps of dangling purple flowers.
Wisteria—that was the vine that wound up the watch towers.
She could smell the floral fragrance from here. It was lovely as it floated towards them on a gentle breeze. Wilder raised a single hand in front of him, and only then did she realize he was controlling the wind.
“That’s my favorite part,” Maelys said beside her. “The fragrance. It’s inviting, isn’t it?”
“Mhm,” Lyra replied.
“Keep your wits about you here. The elves of the Mannereds are a different sort.”
“How so?”
The clomping of hooves reached her ears, and she saw a group of five horses with glittering riders heading towards them.
“You’re about to find out.”
The troop of riders reached them, and Wilder halted their procession. Lyra couldn’t help but stare.
Stunning. Every single rider looked as if they were hewn from granite. Strong, chiseled, and extremely attractive. There weren’t any flaws to behold among the five of them.
Three had hair the color of spun gold, one the richest chestnut, and the last had hair that shimmered like a blackbird’s wings. Each of their eyes gleamed with keen intelligence, but more than that, they resembled jewels. Sapphire, emerald, and amber.
It was unnatural, that beauty. Bows of ash wood were strapped to their backs, and silver pommels of swords rested on their sides. Their uniforms were white as the puffy clouds overhead. The insignia of a thistle was embroidered on their chests.
These weren’t just any guards, but the Queen’s guards.
The black-haired elf slid off his mount and into a quick bow as he noticed Wilder’s briar crown. His skin rivaled the night sky, and Lyra was enraptured by his beauty.
“We’re here to escort you, Your Highness.” The rich timbre of his voice rumbled as the clopping of the hooves had.
“Word traveled quickly, I see,” Wilder responded.
“A missive arrived early this morning from the High King. Queen Titania is pleased to welcome Princess Lyra.”
His eyes shifted to Lyra, and she didn’t squirm under his gaze like she did under Wilder’s. For all the beauty this male possessed—it was empty.
Wilder nodded, and the guard hopped back in the saddle.
“Was there trouble on the way? We expected you sooner.”
Again, Wilder nodded. “Wulvers.”
The guard brightened with the news. “I’m sure that would be no trouble for a Prince of your skill. How did you kill them?”
“It was Lyra who killed the alpha.”
The guard turned to gape at her. “How?”
Lyra gave him a bored look. “He made me angry.”
Maelys and Ridge chuckled at the horrified expressions from several of the guards. But not Wilder. He gazed at her with something akin to pride.
They traveled silently to the castle. It differed greatly from the Wilds. There was no sprawling city to travel through before you reached the entrance.
From Lyra’s vantage point, she had no idea where the elves of the Mannereds made their homes, but what she couldn’t see was the city behind the castle and the cottage-style homes along the cliffs.
Cliffs that stood like stewards against the sea.
She had read about it long ago, but never dreamed she would one day see it.
It was a jagged line that marked the land from the sea. An ancient game of tug-of-war that would know no victor in the end. Lyra thought she heard the faint crashing of waves against the stone, like the ocean was knocking for entry.
“The queen waits in her throne room.”
Wilder nodded as they crossed through the pearly gates. This close to the sea, Lyra noticed that the details of the castle reflected its relation to the water.
With a deep inhale, she relished the salty air. So close—she was so close to the water, and her blood hummed.
“Can you taste the salt in the air?” Otto asked.
“I can,” she whispered. “It tastes like home.”
Trumpets sounded their arrival, and Lyra raised her chin. The clatter of hooves and the creaking of the wheels against the smooth stone ground fell away. It was polished to a near-mirror shine. Everything was pristine, perfect, almost. It was overwhelming.
Large oak doors carved with filigree and wisteria blooms opened, and a short stairway rose ahead as light speared through the doorway like a shot arrow.
The carriage halted, and as the others dismounted, the guards led their horses away. Wilder opened the carriage door and offered her a hand.
A vice tightened around her chest.
“Legs?” Wilder asked, his brow furrowing.
She placed her hand in his, and he gave her a gentle squeeze.
“Nervous?”
“No,” she snapped, raising her chin to look down her nose at him.
“Are you cold then?”
“What’s with all the questions?”
He leaned closer so that only she could hear. “Your hand is trembling.”
Lyra gripped him tighter.
“Is not.”