Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Prince Ryden had not truly believed, until the very moment the words fell from his mother’s lips, that she would actually go through with this madness.
“Please,” he had begged her just that morning, abandoning all pretense of his usual cavalier demeanor. “I am asking you, as your son rather than your subject, not to make a public spectacle of my romantic prospects.”
“Darling, you are a prince,” she had reminded him. “Your romantic prospects were destined for public consumption from the moment of your birth. That is simply the nature of royal existence.”
“But a Crown Court—”
“Furthermore,” she’d added, her expression softening just slightly, “it is unlikely romance will factor significantly into the proceedings, I’m afraid. We both understand what this is truly about.”
Indeed, he understood all too well.
Authority magic—the hereditary gift of the royal bloodline—should have been his birthright in the truest sense.
It should have manifested as it had in his mother, as it had in rulers stretching back through generations: a steady, commanding presence that made others naturally inclined to listen, to follow, to trust.
The magic didn’t compel obedience—that would be tyranny. Rather, it enhanced the qualities that made someone worthy of being followed. It clarified the voice, strengthened the presence, created an aura of competence that soothed tensions and inspired confidence.
In his mother, the magic was poetry. She could walk into a room torn apart by conflict and, through nothing more than her presence and perfectly chosen words, guide opposing parties toward accord.
Her voice carried across vast crowds not through volume but through some ineffable quality that made people want to hear what she had to say.
In Ryden, the magic was chaos.
It coursed through him like a river, sometimes a gentle current, steady and serene, at other times a storm-swollen torrent, surging and crashing with violent force.
Without pattern or warning, it would rise, stirred at times by unchecked emotion, yet just as often for no discernible cause.
In those moments, his voice crashed over all who heard it, sweeping them along in its force.
Not persuaded, not influenced, but commanded, their free will stripped away as surely as if he’d placed chains upon their minds.
The mere thought of it made his stomach twist.
This, then, was the true purpose of the Crown Court.
Finding a partner whose magic could complement his own, create the stability that would allow him to rule one day without becoming a tyrant who commanded through magical compulsion.
Marriage bonds, according to his mother’s exhaustive and entirely confidential research—for there were few who knew of his condition—were the only proven method of achieving such permanent stabilization between complementary magics.
His mother reached the end of her announcement, and the crowd erupted in excited whispers. And of course, at this precise moment, Ryden felt his magic stir restslessly within him. He clenched his hands in his lap. Not now. Not with everyone present.
The air around him began to shimmer, so subtle that only someone looking directly at him might notice.
But his mother noticed everything. She shifted slightly in her throne, and Ryden felt her own magic unfurl like a protective barrier, sliding between him and the assembled crowd with the ease of someone who’d been managing his surges since he’d first manifested at seventeen.
She leaned toward him, her expression never wavering from its regal warmth. To any observer, it would appear she was sharing some pleasant observation with her son. “Your eyes, dear,” she murmured, her voice barely a whisper.
Ryden immediately ducked his head. He knew what she meant—when his magic surged, his ink-blue eyes darkened to something closer to obsidian, an obvious tell to anyone who knew to look for it.
The air around him still trembled with barely contained power, and he could feel the words pressing against his throat, demanding release.
If he spoke now, if he said anything at all, it might emerge as a command that every soul in this ballroom would be compelled to obey.
He forced himself to breathe slowly, counting each inhalation. Four counts in. Hold for two. Six counts out. The breathing technique his mother had taught him years ago, though it grew less effective with each passing Season as his power strengthened.
This was happening. The Crown Court, the supervised courtship, the inevitable selection of a bride who would serve as his magical anchor for the rest of their lives.
He needed to accept it. He needed to find someone suitable, someone whose magic could cage his own.
Then these unnatural surges, which should have stabilized within days of his manifestation but somehow still tormented him years later, would finally subside.
Perhaps it wouldn’t be entirely unbearable, he consoled himself as his magic began to settle. Some of the chosen ladies might prove interesting companions, at least.
Lady Coravelle Aerwynne would certainly be eager to please—perhaps too eager, given her near-swoon at his earlier wink.
Lady Olivienne Silverglen had a reputation for wit that might provide amusing conversation, and her glenwhisper magic could very well prove to be the perfect complement to his authority magic.
At least, that was his mother’s reason for choosing her for the Crown Court.
Then, of course, there were several unpleasant options, most notably Lady Ellowa Brightcrest. Ryden had to suppress a wince at the thought of her.
Both he and his mother knew perfectly well he would never choose her, but her inclusion served other purposes.
The generations-old feud between the Rowanwoods and Brightcrests had only recently begun to cool, like embers finally fading after a long blaze.
If his mother extended an invitation to a Rowanwood without including a Brightcrest as well, she risked reigniting tensions that were, at long last, giving way to fragile peace.
Thoughts of the Rowanwoods had his mind drifting to Miss—no, she was Lady now—Aurelise, and an unexpected shiver raced down his spine.
An echo of what he’d felt during her magical demonstration.
That music … pure magic given voice, no orchestra required, just her graceful hands conducting power itself into heartbreakingly beautiful sound.
He hadn’t been paying attention when she’d first approached for her presentation, too busy maintaining his facade of bored indifference. And then she had been facing away when she began, just another nervous young lady in a sea of silk and expectations.
But from the very first note, she had commanded his attention absolutely.
The memory of it still raised the hairs on his arms. The way the sound had seemed to emerge from the very air surrounding them, how the harmonies had cascaded like water over stone, building and layering until the entire ballroom had become her instrument.
He’d forgotten to breathe, forgotten to maintain his practiced slouch, forgotten everything except the music that had seemed to reach inside his chest and squeeze.
When she’d turned back to curtsy, he hadn’t recognized her at first. A beat later, recollection stirred—Evryn’s younger sister, the one who had performed at a musicale last Season, a little taller now, her features more defined where they had once been softly girlish.
He recalled being unexpectedly captivated by her pianoforte performance then, remembered the whispers afterward predicting her magic would manifest as something musical.
But this? This had exceeded every prediction, every expectation.
“Better?” his mother asked quietly, her voice pulling him from his reverie.
Ryden straightened, realizing his surge had fully passed. The trembling in the air had stilled, his eyes presumably returned to their normal shade.
“Quite recovered,” he said, injecting his usual careless tone into the words. “If you’ll excuse me, Mother, I should circulate among our guests. Find some charming young lady to dance with before I’m condemned to interact solely with your handpicked selection for the remainder of the Season.”
He rose from the throne with intentional languor, as though sitting still for so long had been the gravest imposition. He needed movement, needed distraction, needed to escape thoughts of the elaborate charade that awaited him at Solstice Hall in the days ahead.
Finding Evryn would serve. He could congratulate his friend on Dreamland’s success, perhaps indulge in some harmless flirtation with whoever happened to cross his path.
Anything to avoid genuine emotion. The familiar ache that accompanied that thought settled in his chest. Exhausting, this eternal performance of feeling nothing deeply, caring for nothing truly.
But manufactured emotions didn’t trigger his magic the way real ones might.
Better to play the shameless flirt than risk unleashing a command that stripped away another’s will—or worse, an entire gathering’s—in a way that might end in tragedy.
The weight of past mistakes still haunted him; he would not add to their number.
He spotted Evryn near one of the impossible fountains of cascading butterflies, standing with his younger brother Kazrian just as Mariselle was pulled away by her grandmother to greet someone.
“Evryn!” Ryden called out, falling easily into his public persona as he approached. “The man of the hour! This—” he gestured broadly at their miraculous surroundings, “—is absolutely extraordinary.”
Evryn grinned, clasping Ryden’s offered hand with the easy familiarity of long friendship. “You know full well it’s Mariselle who deserves most of the credit. I merely provided the lumyrite infrastructure.”