63. Soren
Chapter sixty-three
Soren
ONE WEEK LATER
The doors to the throne room open to reveal a sprawling velvet carpet. Voices murmur and bodies shift, the sounds of an entire kingdom showing up to witness the beginning of a new age. Coral subjects crowd together in the space, the colors of their clothes and scales vibrant against the white-washed walls. Flowers drip from the ceiling in cascading clusters, another of Lady Myrrh’s exquisite designs.
“Are Your Highnesses ready?” Hugo says, clapping a hand over my shoulder. He squeezes softly. I turn to catch his gaze, and he smiles at me with tangible warmth.
A tight knot forms in my throat as I look at him. “Thank you, Hugo,” I croak. “For getting me to this day.”
He squeezes my shoulder once more and releases. “I’m looking forward to seeing you on that throne for good. And you, too, my lady.”
Enna squeezes my hand, and I look at her, pulling strength from the affection swimming in her gaze.
“Thank you, sir,” she says.
I drink in the look on her face. She’s radiant today, glowing from the inside out. Her unruly short hair has been molded into a delicate array of curls on top of her head, woven with beads and diamonds. Her scars have all but faded by now, shrinking into a dreadful memory. She’s here , I remind myself. She's mine.
Since I was a guppy, I’d dreamed of this day, and I’d always hoped it would feel this right .
“Are you ready, Your Highness, or are we going to admire your queenie’s face all afternoon?” The captain stands at the door, holding it open with a ridiculous grin.
Enna laughs, and I kiss her forehead. “Something like that.”
“Off you go now,” Hugo says, nudging us forward.
Enna tugs my hand, and we begin our promenade down the aisle. Her white silk skirts trail behind her in a long train, embroidered with silver thread to match my formal jacket.
My mother waits for us at the top of the dais, holding herself in perfect posture behind the wedding ritual items—one large, glass vase and two smaller golden jars. In her hand, she holds the ceremonial orb and scepter of my ancestors, freshly cleaned of blood after the incident in the vault. On a pedestal to the side, cushioned in pink velvet, rest two delicate crowns.
Enna and I ascend the steps, coming to a stop before my mother. She greets us with a smile, looking first to Enna and then to me. She begins the ritual, lifting the two smaller jars, each filled with sand. “The one on the left represents Enna,” she says, projecting her voice to fill the room. Enna’s sand is black and coarse, reminiscent of the Abyss. The jar of smooth white sand is mine.
“A reminder that we all are from the sand, and to the sand we will return.” She holds the jars above her head, tilting her head back and closing her eyes. Her lips move as she begins to Voice the ancient ritual, calling on the gods to bless our union.
Her song is low and urgent, matching the quickening pace of my heart. A presence trails its icy claw up my spine, and I shiver. Black mist hisses out of my mother’s mouth, pouring into the room. She continues to incant until the entire dais is covered in a thick black cloud.
Ending the spell, her eyes flash open, and she lowers the jars of sand, handing one to each of us.
Together, we lift them, pouring the contents to mix together in the ancestral vessel. They form a speckled pattern as we empty them into the container. When the last of the sand falls from our jars, my mother reaches for our hands.
She places Enna’s hand in mine—rough, scarred. I brush my thumb along the top of her knuckles, and she glances at me—my personal devil. My Wicked.
“Repeat the words of the ritual,” my mother says. “To the sand we belong, and to the sand we return.”
We repeat the words in unison as my mother wraps a thick, satin ribbon around our wrists. Enna’s fingers slip into mine, and I squeeze them, relishing the touch.
“By the power of the gods, I pronounce you joined as one. Kneel to accept these crowns as a symbol of your devotion.”
We sink to the floor, settling onto our knees. The bulb of the scepter touches my left, then my right shoulder, and my mother places a crown on my head, then on Enna's. The metal is cold and heavy, and my scalp tingles at the new weight.
My mother grasps our bound wrists, lifting them high for the crowd to witness. The crowd whispers in excitement, voices rustling like the hush of wind through reedgrass.
“Kingdom of Coral, rise and greet your Crown!”
Then the crowd erupts into applause, and a band begins to play a sweet, happy tune. Rose petals shower the dais.
A petal has caught in Enna’s hair, delicate pink against her sharp features. She rolls her eyes at it, juts her lip out, and attempts to blow it away with a poorly aimed puff of air. It’s the most normal thing I’ve seen her do, and my stomach flutters.
“Does Her Majesty require assistance?” I say.
“Only if the king is willing,” she whispers.
I reach for her, brushing the crest of her cheek, her temple, her forehead, before plucking the petal free.
Her lips match the color of the roses, pink and plump. She parts them under my gaze, and her eyes flood with need. I lean in, inhaling the raw scent of her—a blend of darkness and sunlight—and capture the lips of my queen.