Chapter 2 Beneath the Flesh
BENEATH THE FLESH
Ella reached the wards at last, and the barrier did not break her. It let her in. She took a step and there wasn’t a sound exactly, not a scream of magic tearing the night apart, but something quieter, a hum that curled beneath her skin like smoke.
The ancient wards were meant to repel her, to fling her back, to shatter her mind or burn her from the inside out.
That was the legend, the only warning she had gathered from the townsfolk during her time on the outskirts of Dravaryn’s capital, Draethmar, but instead, the wards seemed to part for her.
There was barely a shimmer in the air, no fanfare, no flash, only a pull, as if the land itself had inhaled and recognized her, opening one eye to let her pass.
She was several steps beyond the barrier when her ears rang, like a bell struck too close, the pressure stabbing behind her eyes.
She pressed her palms hard against her skull, fighting the spin of vertigo until the ache dulled enough to breathe.
When she dropped into a crouch, her heart pounded loud enough to drown the whisper of wind across the courtyard.
She had expected alarms, shouts, anything but the silence that followed, which was somehow worse because it felt intentional.
Cocky Dravaryns.
Her fingers pressed against the cloth above her collarbone, making certain her mark was still hidden. It was, but the unease that tightened her chest made it feel as though the truth lay bare.
The air within the outer perimeter was thicker, laced with residual magic that tasted bitter on her tongue.
The ground emanated power as she looked across the courtyard, sliced into clean, symmetrical divisions: sparring dummies slumped against their stakes, runic circles scorched into the dirt, weapons racks gleaming faintly in the moonlight, each blade waiting for war.
This was where Dravaryn trained its elite, her first glimpse into the mystery of their secrets and the powers their warriors might wield.
She drank it in, storing every detail for later. The air smelled of steel, sweat, and old ash, echoes of countless battles never meant for her to witness. The field was lined with polished obsidian that shimmered like oil in the low light, veins of old enchantments winding through the flagstones.
Beyond the training yard, the castle rose, a vast silhouette carved against the mist, its towers serrated like knives and merciless as if they had been hewn from the very bones of the mountain.
Moonlight caught on its ramparts, turning stone to silver, but there was nothing soft in the sight.
It stood like a sentence waiting to be carried out.
One misstep, and this place would be her ruin.
Even the courtyard carried that same austerity.
Between the wide sections of onyx-laced stone stretched neat squares of frost-covered grass, trimmed and manicured as meticulously as the divisions of the yard itself.
It was a kingdom built on symmetry, on discipline, on cold order that left no room for warmth.
Every line of it reminded her of what awaited inside: power, reckoning, and the chance to prove she could survive them both to find the relic.
To the west, a group of guards stood gathered in loose formation, too far to see her but too close to risk.
Ella moved, swift and silent. She dipped low, hugging the shadows where torchlight failed to reach, each movement measured.
Until it wasn’t.
Halfway across the training grounds, her boot struck a groove in the stone, sending her staggering into a crouch, ribs flaring with the crackle of bruised bone. She bit back a cry, forced her breath to even, and propelled herself forward.
The cloak dragged behind her like dead weight, its hem dark and sodden from crossing the courtyard. Ahead, the neatly sectioned grounds narrowed into a corridor flanked by towering columns of the castle, their carvings twisted into snarling beasts.
She had nearly made it.
The clatter of steel drifted up ahead, followed by low voices. Three guards rounded the far edge of the courtyard, half-laughing, relaxed, and unaware of her. Ella slid behind a pillar, lungs straining as she stilled her breath.
She didn’t want to kill them if she didn’t have to.
But if they saw her Orchid mark flare… The cloak might hide her face if she pulled it tight, but the combination of her royal mark and her eyes might betray her.
Ella had always known she looked too much like her mother, Queen Serenya, especially with her ocean-blue eyes, and these were not mere townsfolk that she could charm or distract.
She wasn’t sure what powers they possessed beyond brute force, and unfortunately for her, the men were massive, towering figures. Ella cursed under her breath.
The men slowed, turned, and then stopped.
One of the guards shifted, his gaze sweeping the shadows.
For one breath too long, his gaze lingered on the pillar where she crouched, and the weight of it settled against her skin.
Her hand tightened on the dagger at her thigh, ready to strike if he took one step closer.
But then he snorted, turned back to his companions, and the moment broke.
A bead of sweat traced a cold line down her neck to the collar of her cloak.
One guard shoved his arm out to halt the others. “High alert, boys.” His chin lifted toward the tower where a crimson flag had been raised, its fabric catching the torchlight. A silent signal, meant to spread warning without stirring panic. “Weapons ready.”
Clever.
Perhaps she had underestimated their castle defenses.
The second scoffed, low and mocking. “Probably just a trainee setting off the outer ring again.”
The first snapped back, voice clipped. “They wouldn’t raise the flag for that.”
“What then? One of the outer wards?” The second sneered. “Impossible. No one crosses those. Not unless they’ve got Dravaryn blood. Or they’re summoned by Jakobav.” His voice dropped. “And someone’s been doing a lot of summoning lately.”
A beat of silence, and then came a third voice, dry and biting. “Careful how you talk about the prince.”
“Just saying,” the second guard replied, shifting his weight. “He seems to be running things. And no one’s told us different.”
“The king is handling trade agreements with Velmire,” the third shot back.
Their voices faded as the men drifted on, oblivious, but Ella had gone still, a knot tightening low in her stomach.
Dravaryn blood.
Summoned by Prince Jakobav.
The words coiled like venom through her chest, and though she cursed silently, it was not the name alone that made her stomach twist. She knew who he was, not the boy prince from faded war tales, but the blade behind Dravaryn’s resurgence.
The one whispered about in border towns, rumored to look more beast than man, forged in blood and shadow like the kingdom itself.
She had been too young to remember the devastation his father had brought, but the stories lingered everywhere.
The Dravaryn king had been brutal during the war with Orchid, and Jakobav would be catastrophic if another conflict ever began.
She had no intention of crossing paths with the prince, not while the prophecy still pulled her deeper into enemy territory, toward something she prayed to the gods was an artifact, a key, something tangible and easy to steal.
Especially if she had any hope of making it out alive.
And she did. High hopes, as a matter of fact, because if she didn’t, she’d already be dead.
She waited, counted to three, and then ran, her steps silent across the stone.
When she passed the last column and reached the inner corridor, the spaces between the pillars narrowed into tighter passageways lit with torchlight and banners bearing the Dravaryn crest. She would not be getting out unscathed.
It was too far away, with far too many torches burning to cross unseen.
That strange magic stirred again, humming from the hidden sigil in her chest, raw and unfamiliar, flaring as if it wanted to be seen. Her vision pulsed at the edges, hands slick with sweat and blood that wasn’t hers. Or maybe it was. Hard to tell anymore.
The practiced smile of a princess, the mask she had perfected and wielded like a weapon more times than she could count, would serve no purpose here, not covered in filth like this.
There was no gown to disarm them, no crown to draw their gaze, no honeyed laughter to turn danger into a dance.
That mask had fooled generals, courtiers, and even more than one would-be suitor into underestimating her.
But here, in a corridor of steel and stone, there was nothing left to hide behind but knives and blood.
The first soldier saw her just as she threw the knife. The blade found its mark, buried to the hilt in his throat, and he dropped with a wet gurgle.
There was no time to hesitate. Another guard had already turned, shouting for reinforcements, and four more surged into the hall.
Three were men, and one a woman whose white-blonde hair caught the torchlight as insignia glinted on their armor.
Ella had spent enough time in Dravaryn now to recognize the more intricate designs that marked them as higher rank than the previous guards.
Ella’s hand closed on her second blade. Longer and curved, it was better for tearing.
She dropped low, momentum carrying her through a sweeping kick that took his feet out from under him and sent him crashing to the ground.
She was already on him, blade slicing through the leather gap beneath his chin.
Hot blood gushed, steaming in the cold.