Chapter 11
Alora
Alora froze in her chair. The hall went deathly quiet, every breath held as Eldrik’s blade gleamed in the candlelight. Argyle Guards shifted, hands inching toward hilts and Calveron soldiers followed suit.
Zuma held the prince’s stare and the Minotaurs beside him braced.
Every person in the room was armed. She too reached into her pocket, the spindle warm against her palm.
Alora’s heart hammered in her chest as the weight of tension was pulled tight. One snip, and blood would spill across the feast, turning the dining room into a massacre.
Lady Zinnia’s laughter chimed like crystal, sudden and bright.
“Come now, gentlemen, ladies are present. Tonight, is meant for peace, is it not?” She tutted softly, her gaze sliding to the prince. “Your intended sits at this table, Eldrik. Do be so kind as to grant our hosts, and their guests, the respect your station demands.”
Eldrik stared at Zuma, the quiet stretching for a breath.
Then Eldrik’s blue eyes met Alora’s, and he grinned as if he was merely jesting. “Of course, my lady. As you say.” He settled back in his chair. “The wine is proving potent.”
Light chuckles went down the table.
Alora quietly exhaled a breath. Her father’s hand slipped from the hilt of his sword. Commander Basile and Admiral Alder did the same.
King Thalion set down his goblet, his smile as thin as parchment. “Let us not dwell on trivialities. We are here for matters of consequence. I am pleased Argyle and Calveron could sit at the same time tonight and bring our conflict to a peaceful end.”
“You’re right,” Alora spoke at last. “I do wonder what matters brought you here, King Thalion.”
Laurent’s fingers dug into her wrist beneath the table, but she pressed on.
“Argyle has no coin, no trade, no strength left to bargain with when our people lay dying. So tell me, what drew your covetous eyes here?”
Shocked silence filled the dining hall. Eldrik’s slow smile widened.
His father merely sneered. He let his voice flatten into something stony and indifferent. “Calveron is a warring court, princess. We thrive on bloodshed and conquest. And like the Hydra, we endure.
“For where one falls,” Eldrik intoned. “Two will rise.”
Their guards standing watch along the walls repeated the phrase, beating their chests six times in perfect unison.
Alora rolled her eyes. “Conquest? Crushing a weak nation beneath your heel must have been a truly arduous feat. My, aren’t you inspiring.”
Thalion’s expression darkened.
He set his napkin down with a quiet finality. “It was a short war, indeed. There is little here to pillage in a country worn thin by sickness. What remains but a daughter’s hand? With this union, Argyle survives under Calveron’s protection.”
As if by premonition, she could already see what this “protection” meant.
A new reign seizing her home, colors stripped away, laws rewritten, her people pressed into the dirt. The Minotaurs enslaved again. The Midlands perhaps spared for a time, but never free. Thalion’s thirst for power would consume them all.
“Without it,” he continued smoothly, “your people will wither beneath the very curse that devours them. It is a simple conclusion, Princess. Bend the knee or watch them break.”
Her chest heaved with furious breaths, rising like the storm outside. She looked for defiance in Argyle’s lords, but every one of them stared at their plates. Even her father flinched, glancing away.
They had already surrendered.
But three met her gaze.
Lady Zinnia, sharp with quiet calculation. Zuma, dark and approving. Caelum’s eyes held hers across the table, unflinching. An understanding passed between them. He would not abandon her, even if the rest of Argyle already had.
In that brief pause, she sensed them waiting for something to change.
Alora had been waiting for change her whole life.
The scar on her finger throbbed rhythmically like her heartbeat. She forced her breath to steady. “My father says you know how to break the Sleeping Curse. Tell us, how do we undo the spell?”
Eldrik chuckled, raising his goblet in mock salute. “That, my lively bride, I will whisper sweetly in your ear on our wedding night.”
Revulsion curdled in her stomach like spoiled milk. Alora’s face burned beneath the weight of every stare. He was revolting. Lower than filth. No man she could ever bestow herself to marry.
Sinking back in her seat, Alora let the remainder of the night blur on, each course and toast dragging her further into suffocation.
At last, the dinner broke in the late hour.
Lords and ladies excused themselves one by one.
Caelum lingered a moment, but Alora stayed rooted in place, nudging a lone pea across her plate as the servants cleared away the dishes.
Soon even he was called away by his father, until she sat alone at the long table.
A servant plucked away her plate and fork. Meager trivialities taken from her, much like everything else in her life.
“Is this my fate?” she muttered to the air.
“What is fate but an illusion that imprisons us within walls others have decided?”
Alora blinked, startled. Lady Zinnia stood beside her, pink eyes luminous in the candlelight. She thought her godmother had already taken her carriage back to the Midlands by now.
“Is that why you are no longer with the Spring Court?”
The Thornbearer hummed, lifting a finger so a butterfly of light could rest upon it. “Ah… that was an age ago.”
So it was true.
“Why did you leave Arthal?”
Zinnia’s gaze drifted around the hall as though seeing past it to another time.
“For the same reason most people leave their home. In pursuit of an uninhibited life.” Her eyes slid back to Alora, her gaze gleamed with meaning.
“Such are the ways of kingdoms. Men will seek to use us for our gifts, moving us like pawns in a game where we are not afforded a turn. So tell me, princess, do we attempt to play, or do we forfeit?”
Alora’s jaw tightened, fire smoldering in her chest. No, she would not forfeit. Not to her father. Not to Calveron. Not to anyone who thought to bind her to a fate she had not chosen.
Seeing the answer in her eyes, Zinnia smiled. Her fingers brushed a stray strand at Alora’s temple, adjusting the jeweled hairpiece. “Go with grace.”
It was a blessing and a warning both.
As her godmother swept from the room, her retinue trailing like a silken shadow, Alora’s resolve hardened. She would find her own way in life, even if that meant making a deal with the darkness itself.
Alora rose, shoulders straightening. She left by the southern hall, her guards trailing, but a single look dismissed them. Her steps rang sharp in the quiet, carrying her toward the doors marked with Argyle’s crest.
She lifted her hand and knocked lightly, then entered.
The study smelled of parchment and smoke. A fire crackled in the corner hearth. Books lined the walls, towering and silent. The scratch of a quill and rain thrumming against the windows filled the room.
Laurent sat hunched over the desk, half-buried in scrolls and sealed letters. His crown lay askew among the clutter, and without it he looked… smaller. The streaks of gray in his hair looked white in the low light, his shoulders sagging beneath the velvet mantle of his office.
He spared her a quick glance. “Daughter, leave me to my missives. I have much to prepare for. Holdings to transfer.”
For a heartbeat, Alora wavered. She had not seen him look so tired and worn, as if the crown itself had been devouring him from within.
Yet pity soured quickly to anger. Tired or not, he had abandoned her for a new family, then summoned her home to barter her away.
She couldn’t endure it any longer.
“If there were another way to save Argyle…” Alora murmured. “Would you take it?”
Something in her tone made him lift his head. Laurent studied her for a long moment before exhaling a weary sigh. “I know this is not what you wanted, Alora. But the crown serves the people. Your duty is for them. The date is set. You and Prince Eldrik will wed in a week’s time.”
He returned to his writing, dismissing her again. The simple action was like a thorn driven into her chest.
Alora swallowed, moving closer. “Do I truly mean so little to you?”
Laurent straightened slowly, guilt flickering in his eyes.
“Submitting to Calveron now will not bring peace and you know it. Yes, we have a duty to our people, but duty does not have to mean giving away your only daughter—”
His fist slammed on the table. “Do you think I want this? Alora, believe me when I say I wish there was another way. But we cannot win this war!”
She flinched from his shout but set her jaw. “If… I found a way,” she said quietly, “Would I still be bound to marry?”
“The Seven lift me,” he groaned. “Alora—”
“Please.” Her voice broke. Her hands curled at her sides until her knuckles ached. “Would I be free to live the way I wish?”
He hesitated.
Alora stared at her father earnestly, begging him to care about her for once. The little girl in her pleaded not to be thrown away again.
Her father exhaled a breath. “Should the Seven be so kind as to bless us with such fortune, and you truly could stop Calveron… then you would not be forced into marriage.”
Her heart surged with a spark of hope. He frowned down at the documents in his hand, done with the conversation.
“Do I have your word?”
He waved his quill dismissively. “Yes, I swear upon the Gates.”
She gave a single nod and turned to go.
“What could one girl possibly do to stop an army without one of her own?” Laurent scoffed feebly, half chuckling, as if the idea was an absurdity. He shook his head, weary and resigned. “This is the Fates have given us, Alora. The gods will not help us.”
She faced him, her voice low but unyielding. “Then perhaps a demon will.”
Laurent stared at her, taken aback. The rain hammered harder against the windows. Lightning flashed outside, thunder rattling the glass. Candlelight sputtered and shadows danced over the walls, stretching like serpents above his head.
“What are you saying?” he asked quietly.
“You may have given up,” she murmured. “But I will not abandon Argyle to die… the way you did Mother.”
Her father froze, exhaling sharply. The quill slipped from his fingers and ink splattered across the page. He stared at her, but no defense came.
And Alora walked out.