Chapter 16
Alora
The streets of Argyle thundered with triumph.
Torches blazed in every hand, their light dancing across the kingdom’s colors.
Children ran ahead scattering petals, and fireworks split the sky in blooms of green, gold, and blue.
The people roared their joy, crying the names of their king and princess, voices rolling like a tide.
Alora forced herself to smile, to raise a hand from the reins as they hailed her.
But their jubilation rang hollow in her ears.
For every cheer, she heard the memory of screams. For every petal, she tasted the ash of Calveron bodies left to burn on the beach.
Pulled behind their procession were covered wagons heavy with Argyle’s dead.
The city rejoiced, while she carried a cargo of waiting grief.
At last, the castle loomed, its gates open wide and torches lining the courtyard. Waiting there stood the Duchess of Stormwatch, straight-backed though her hands twisted in her gown, her daughter beside her. Hope burned too brightly in their eyes, and dread hollowed Alora’s chest.
How would she ever break the news to Theia and her mother?
Laurent dismounted first, marching for them. Alora needn’t hear his words as he spoke, the dreaded truth was in the way the Duchess clutched his arms as though to hold back fate itself.
Her scream rang through the courtyard. The Dutchess fell to her knees, weeping into her hands. Laurent bent beside her, steadying her.
Theia’s denial came in broken gasps. She shook her head, staggered a step back, then fled into the dark castle.
Caelum remained on his horse as if carved from stone, his eyes blank, his face unreadable. He might have been lost in his own grief, but the indifference snapped Alora to her senses.
She quickly climbed down her saddle, cloak catching against the stirrup. Alora’s boots slapped against the stones as she ran after Theia, calling her name.
She lost sight of her but followed the faint echo of Theia’s weeping to the east wing. She found her at last on the window seat, curled in upon herself, her shoulders shaking.
Beyond the glass stretched the sea, its black waters still glowing with the wreckage of burning ships, while above, fireworks burst in radiant blooms, as though the world itself could not decide between grief and celebration.
Alora’s stomach knotted with sorrow and guilt. This victory had not come without cost, and it had fallen on many families tonight.
She crossed the chamber in a rush and sank beside her friend, gathering Theia into her arms. Theia crumpled against her, sobbing, fists clutching Alora’s gown as if to anchor herself.
“I’m here,” Alora whispered, her own eyes burning as she held her tight. “I’m here.”
And so she stayed, silent as the night raged beyond the windows, carrying her friend’s anguish as though it were her own.
“I am so sorry…” Alora whispered when her cries fell silent.
Theia rested on her lap, silent tears rolling down her temples as she gazed at the seas.
“Few men… are granted so fitting an end. To die as master of his own fleet, claimed by the sea he loved…” Her voice broke and her shoulders shook.
“My father’s journey ends here and now he sails the river of souls through the Gates for his next venture. ”
Alora’s chest ached. “Admiral Alder and all who fell tonight, their deeds will be spoken of in songs, if not in prayers. He will be remembered for standing until the sea itself embraced him.”
Theia shoulders shook as she sobbed.
Alora curled with her on the window seat, embracing her tightly until Theia cried herself to sleep.
The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting long shadows across the tapestries on the walls. Alora leaned against the window frame, watched the steady light of the mirrors on the towers. The city had at last gone quiet before dawn, leaving her to weight the cost of her victory.
She had done it.
She had won.
“I saved Argyle, Mother,” she whispered faintly, her breath fogging on the glass. “Did I do the right thing?”
Child’s laughter echoed faintly down the corridor.
Alora lifted her head sharply, careful not to jostle Theia. She glanced toward the door, waiting, listening… Nothing.
She shook her head and settled back down. The castle was surely haunted.
Alora let her eyes fall shut. She was too tired to think more but rest likely wouldn’t come tonight. A new future would arrive for Argyle tomorrow.
Alora…
She gasped at the stroke against her cheek.
A man stood beside her, tall and draped in the night. Her heart thundered in her chest. She couldn’t see his face, but the black hair spilling over his shoulders and the red eyes glowing softly like embers. Shadows licked at his arms, curling around his broad shoulders.
She stared mutely, unable to move, the world thick and muffled around her as though she were caught underwater.
Then he bent close, his voice curling through her bones like smoke. Wake up.
Alora’s eyes flew open. For a heartbeat she couldn’t breathe, shadows still dancing at the edges of her vision. A dream. It must have been a dream. And yet her cheek still tingled where he had touched her.
She jolted upright as the sound of shattering glass rang from the hall. Smoke flooded her nose, screams tearing through the corridors.
“Theia,” Alora shook her awake. “Something is wrong. Someone is in the castle.”
She stumbled to her feet, and both rushed to the door. But it to burst open and Calveron soldiers stormed inside, seizing them.
Theia screamed as they pinned her to the wall, twisting her arms.
“Release her!” Alora shrieked, struggling against the soldier. Her sword, she’d left it propped by the window.
They dragged them through the halls and down the stairs.
The castle guards fought all around them, cut down swiftly by their enemies.
Blood pooled on the floors, cries echoing in Alora’s ears as servants fled for their lives.
Fires raged outside the windows through the kingdom.
Argyle’s banners burned in the grand hall.
Her vision blurred with tears as she tripped over a stable boy’s body with an axe in his back.
The thick stench of blood and burning velvet filled her lungs. Theia screamed for her mother in the mayhem.
The soldiers dragged them into the throne room. It was filled with lords and nobles, cowing in the edges of the room. The High Priestess Isolde clutched her sash as she desperately prayed.
Her father knelt on the velvet runner before the dais steps. The queen beside him.
And upon the throne sat the one fae she thought to never see again.
Prince Eldrik.
His long coat was bloodstained and scorched, his hair damp. Behind him stood Calveron soldiers, and hundreds more were outside, maybe more by the sounds of battle beyond the gates that shook the walls.
A soldier tossed Theia against her mother among the crowd and Alora was forced to her knees beside her father.
“Well,” Eldrik said, his voice deceptively calm. “You have certainly spat on the goodwill of my House. Not only did you slaughter my father when he could hardly stand, you sank my fleet.” He clicked his tongue in annoyance. “Ships are rather expensive.”
“Eldrik—” Laurent tried to rise but a soldier kicked him in the stomach, and he bent, coughing.
“Stop it!” Alora cried.
“I don’t care for begging. Especially not from those who have wrong me.” Rising, Eldrik slowly climbed down the stairs, footsteps echoing in the room. Yet he didn’t look angry. He looked pleased. “We had made peace, Laurent,” he mused. “And you broke it. Now I aim to break you.”
Alora’s entire body trembled at the glee in his eyes. “If you touch him—”
“You will do what, exactly?” Eldrik said, glancing toward her. “Though we truly held no contest against your mighty dragon and his demons, but then you sent him away.” A slow cruel smile cut across his face. “Ingenious thing those mirrors. Thank you for leaving them for me.”
She clenched her teeth, shaking in place. Her trap against Rune … now worked against her. Even if she called for him now, he couldn’t help.
Why, why had she not confirmed the prince’s death?
“Really, a princess has no place at the war table.” Eldrik crouched in front of her, sneering in her face. “Did you truly believe the full extent of Calveron’s forces had been on your shores? We are the greatest court in Arthal. We are thousands in number, and tonight, your people will fall.”
Outside the city rumbled with explosions.
Alora bit back a sob. “Please don’t do this.”
Eldrik turned to her father. “Can’t say I’m disappointed in this turn of events. I had wanted to crush your little pathetic army and plant your head on the walls. My father chose diplomacy, and it cost him. I will not make the same mistake.”
He drew his sword. The queen squeezed her eyes shut. Laurent looked to Alora, his gaze shadowed by sorrow and something else. Acceptance and a silent apology.
“Close your eyes,” he said softly.
“No, please,” Alora wept, straining against the soldier’s grip. She trashed, her cries frantic as the prince lifted his sword. “Please, Eldrik. Please don’t! No!”
The blade flashed.
Her father’s head struck the stone floor with a sickening thud. Blood splattered and his crown rolled past her knees, echoing like a death knell.
Alora screamed.
She folded over herself, holding her stomach as though the blow had cleaved her in two. The nobles watched silently, cowering in the corners.
Eldrik grabbed a handful of Laurent’s hair and lifted the head into the air. Firelight shone in her father’s blank eyes, scarlet dripped from his severed neck.
“Where one falls!” Eldrik bellowed.
“Two will rise!” his men thundered back, pounding their breastplates six times in perfect unison.
The sound rolled like a storm-thunder through the hall, drowning Alora’s cries.
Then Eldrik leveled his bloodied blade at the Queen’s neck. “Do you yield?”
Delphi trembled, her complexion pale, but her gaze fixed blankly on the throne. “We yield…” she said hollowly. “Take her to Arthal. She’s yours.”
Alora hardly reacted. She was not surprised her stepmother had bartered her away with a single breath.
Eldrik’s laughter boomed in the chamber. He tapped the blade against the steps like a gavel. “At least one of you has kept their head.”
The Calveron soldiers roared with laughter. Alora shuddered at the horror of it, her chest heaving for air. The world closed in on her, pressing into her bones like the cold floor.
“There, there, my sweet,” Eldrik crooned, stroking her cheek with bloodied fingers. “To the victor goes the spoils.”
She wrenched free with a feral hiss, tears streaking her face. He chuckled and tossed Laurent’s head onto a silver platter a soldier held out, and it landed with a wet splat. Then they hauled Alora to her feet.
Picking up her father’s crown, the prince climbed up the steps.
“We wed tomorrow at sunset,” Eldrik declared. He placed the crown on and sprawled upon the throne. “Argyle has a new king now.”
Alora’s screams of rage echoed off the walls of the castle as she was dragged from the throne room. All around soldiers laughed as they ransacked the castle, tearing down flags, breaking furniture, dragging ladies into rooms. Her vision blurred as they hauled her past her father’s portrait on fire.
They Alora into her chambers and locked the door. Her legs gave out as she collapsed to the floor, sobbing.
She should never have left the Midlands.
These were the consequences of her choices.
And she had to face them alone.