Chapter 24 #2
The prophecy had warned her that the queen’s death would be the spark, the blaze that would drag her into the light.
Ella’s rise was never meant to be born of ambition but of necessity, and now it was the cruelty of the fates that her mother was the tinder destined to ignite it all.
Jakobav didn’t turn toward the whispers, didn’t betray her with so much as a twitch of recognition. Instead, he set his cup down with quiet care and smoothed his features into stillness, a choice she recognized instantly, and hated how deeply grateful it made her.
He leaned closer, near enough that the warmth of his presence brushed her skin. His gaze went from her mouth to the whitened grip of her hand, before returning to her eyes.
“Ella,” he said, her name shaped as both question and vow.
It landed as grave as the prophecy itself.
She couldn’t move. She only stared at him, caught in the echo of tavern gossip and the terrible weight of what it implied.
Pity surfaced in the set of his expression, wrought with sorrow, scraping along her nerves, loud and unwelcome.
Ella’s breath hitched, her throat tightening until the words tore out of her before she could stop them.
“Don’t ever look at me with pity,” she whispered, raw and furious.
He didn’t bite back, didn’t bristle at the anger in her voice. Instead, he reached across the table, fingers brushing the inside of her wrist in a cool, grounding press that quieted the chaos inside her head.
“I understand,” he said, voice even, neither resigned nor uncertain but chosen.
His hand lingered before slipping from her wrist. He didn’t rise. He eased back into his chair, as if declaring that he would follow her lead and stand wherever she chose to stand, whether she remained at this table with her drink or left for the loft above.
The tavern carried on around them, a low hum of laughter and clinking mugs, and the sound grated against her rawness.
It unsettled her to hear such mirth after the whispers of her mother’s illness, even though she’d known for years that the prophecy foretold a sudden sickness that would force her to take the throne.
Knowing hadn’t lessened the sting.
She let her gaze roam for distraction, catching the scrape of chairs and the thick curl of smoke still unfurling from the far corner.
Her own mug sat empty, and she slid it across the table before pushing to her feet.
Without a word to Jakobav, she brushed past him, her steps carrying her toward the bar.
She told herself she needed more ale, though perhaps what she needed was a moment of space, and either way, she welcomed the distance.
One of the men who’d been smoking in the shadows all evening shoved his chair back and rose, the wooden legs dragging harshly against the floorboards. He cut across the room with a crooked smile that never touched his eyes.
“You look familiar,” he said, his voice slick with drink.
Ella turned, mug in hand, her reply immediate. “No offense, but I really doubt that.”
His grin widened, teeth catching the light, a flash too calculating to be friendly. “That’s a bold tone for such a pretty girl. Why don’t you trade that mug for something stronger?” He tilted his head toward the smoky corner where his companion lounged in the haze, watching. “Come sit with us.”
Ella set her drink down on the counter with a calm that belied the pulse thudding in her throat. “Well, in that case,” she said, her voice cutting clean through the noise of the tavern, “I do mean offense. Fuck. Off.”
The man’s posture shifted at once, his smile vanishing. He leaned closer, the air around him thick with the stench of wraithleaf smoke, the black in his eyes dilating until his gaze was all pupil and malice. “You won’t say that to me again.”
Ella stepped forward, reckless defiance tightening every line of her body.
She gave a mocking smirk as her hand dropped to the dagger strapped against her thigh, fingers brushing the hilt with slow, unmistakable promise.
“I wouldn’t have,” she said, her tone sharp enough to draw blood, “but now I absolutely will.”
His hand shot toward her throat, fingers curled like claws—but it never reached her.
Jakobav caught the man’s wrist mid-lunge, his grip iron.
In one brutal movement, he slammed the man’s hand onto the bar, the crack of impact splitting through the tavern like a struck drum, wood groaning beneath the force.
The man staggered, his expression twisting with pain as Jakobav’s shadow swallowed him whole.
“For someone so familiar with smoke,” Jakobav said, his voice low, steady, and colder than steel, “you should know better than to play with fire.”
“Relax,” he slurred, eyes gleaming with something insidious. “I didn’t realize she was spoken for. Maybe you wouldn’t mind sharing. Don’t princes like to sit back and watch?”
In a single, merciless motion Jakobav shoved the man against the bar, one hand fisted in his hair to hold him down, the other pressing a knife against his throat. The edge caught the light, a glint of promised ruin.
The tavern stilled around them.
The bard stopped playing music, the scrape of chairs ceased along with the shuffle of boots, and the tavern chatter faded into complete silence.
Ella’s breath lodged in her chest.
They were making a spectacle, and yet some strange part of herself couldn’t look away.
From the smoky corner, the second man rose, his body tense, but he didn’t advance. He only watched, like he was weighing the knife’s gleam, the predator’s stance, the inevitability of what was about to happen.
Jakobav’s grip tightened. His voice dropped into something darker, almost ritual. “Hope you’ve made peace with the old gods.” The blade shifted, the moment on a razor’s edge.
For a breathless instant, the tavern didn’t exist.
There was only Jakobav, the man bent beneath his grip, and the way violence seemed to breathe from him as naturally as air.
Ella should be afraid, tell him to stop before he crossed a line they couldn’t uncross, but her body betrayed her and her lips refused to shape the words. The sight of him, all power and absolute command, struck something deep and unfamiliar inside her.
It was terrifying, yes, but it was also magnetic. The part of her that had always bristled against chains now ached at the knowledge that, for once, someone had chosen to wield their fury on her behalf.
“Jake. Stop.”
The command came firm and unshaken, and Cathea appeared at the bar with a mountain of a man looming at her side. Her eyes, keen and knowing, fixed on Jakobav.
He didn’t release at once. The man beneath him groaned, sweat streaking his temple as the knife pressed a breath too close.
Then the steel kissed flesh. A bead of blood welled at the man’s throat, bright against the dull gleam of iron, and rolled slowly down, proof that Jakobav was not bluffing, that the next breath could be his last.
“That’s enough,” Cathea said, loud and firm, yet calm as still water.
Only then did Jakobav relent, pulling back with agonizing slowness. The man sagged, gasping, and his companion rushed forward to haul him upright.
Together they staggered toward the door, vanishing into the night without a backward glance.
The tavern noise began to stir again, unease humming through the rafters, but Cathea’s focus never left Ella. She wiped her hands on her apron, her expression unreadable, and said with pointed politeness, “It was lovely to meet you, dear. But I think it’s best if the two of you head upstairs.”
Jakobav drew in a deep breath, his gaze fixed on Ella, watching her intensely, as though he expected her to splinter beneath it all. She was not that fragile, only shaken by all that had just collided around her.
“She’s right,” he said at last, his tone firm but gentle. “We should get some sleep. The sooner we get our answers, the sooner we can return to the castle. I need to check in on how well Bryn has managed to fix up my friends.”
He was likely trying to distract her by wielding the word she’d used, but she couldn’t speak, couldn’t even move, still stunned by the revelation of her mother’s health.
Jakobav’s voice carried her forward.
“Bryn is probably making a mess of the infirmary…and eager to see how we’ve managed.”
She gave a small nod as her body remembered what her voice could not, taking one last look around the tavern.
The fire cracked in the hearth, sparks leaping toward the rafters.
Cathea’s black-rose pendant caught the glow of torchlight, while the smell of wraithleaf smoke lingered faintly in the air.
Ella’s eyes followed Jakobav as he turned toward the stairs, his steps unhurried, leaving her thoughts to twist into a knot pulled taut by too many threads at once.
No, this was good. This was the push she needed. She hadn’t come here to crumble beneath the news she’d long expected, nor to let herself unravel over the brutal reality of finally hearing it aloud.
She wouldn’t linger on why Jakobav seemed to understand instinctively what she needed in that moment, or why he’d defended her so fiercely, nor would she try to untangle the pull between them that only grew tighter with every hour.
And she definitely wouldn’t chase the question of why they both carried forbidden gifts, power unblessed by the soil of their birth.
Ella was here for one purpose alone: to fulfill the duty laid before her by the fates. For the crown she had never asked to wear, but would take all the same, because it might save her people, might save the mortal realm itself.
And if the last weeks had taught her anything, it was that the Veil was bleeding, and such a wound would wait for no man.
She would return to Orchid soon.
Even if it broke her.
Even if it meant leaving him behind.