Chapter 40 Court of Rumors #2
The banquet that followed was lavish, the long tables stacked with tropical fruits, roasted meats, and sweet delicacies Ella had nearly forgotten. The walls were lit with torchlight that reflected off the tiled mosaics. Courtiers spoke in hushed tones that weren’t hushed at all.
Her father raised his goblet, eyes never leaving her.
“Imagine our surprise,” he said evenly, “when we received a letter from Dravaryn—the last kingdom we ever expected to hear from. And to announce that our missing daughter would be returning home, accompanied by the prince of our oldest enemy. Imagine the pure shock I felt at the plea for asylum, for the safe passage for this man.”
Ella blinked, questions rising as quickly as her irritation. “If you knew he was coming, then why did you try to torch him on arrival? And what letter? Who sent it?”
He leaned forward, studying her face with an intensity that made the whole hall seem to lean in.
“Good to know your demand for truth still lives. I was beginning to wonder.” His mouth softened into the barest smile before he went on.
“Yes, we received the letter yesterday, from a young man on horseback, terribly nervous. Nearly fell off the beast at the gates.”
“Kerris?” she murmured, glancing at Jakobav for confirmation. He gave a subtle shake of his head. Right—not the time. The collision of her two worlds knocked her off balance.
Eryndor continued as though she hadn’t spoken. “The letter was long, elegant, and carefully worded. And then, at the end, there was a note in a different hand.”
He set the goblet down with more force than likely intended, wine sloshing across the mosaic tiles. His voice cracked with more than anger. “It said: ‘Tell Ella that Bryn wants his feather back. Don’t lose it.’”
Shit. Where is his purple feather?
The entire hall went still, every gaze snapping toward her.
“What in the hell is that supposed to mean, Ellandria?” His words rang through the banquet, making courtiers flinch.
Yet beneath the fury, his voice was nearly broken and raw, his fingers braced on the table as if steadying himself.
“Why did I have to hear of my daughter’s return from a courier of Dravaryn? ”
His jaw worked once, his lashes rimmed with tears, and his voice dropped lower, hushed and trembling. “We prayed to the gods for your safe return. When years passed, I began to lose hope. But your mother never lost faith that you’d come home.”
Around them, the banquet carried on—dishes clattering, servants weaving between tables—too loud for anyone to catch more than the shape of their expressions.
His hand shook as it reached across the table, rough as it closed around hers. “And now you’re here. You’re truly here.”
A soft, disbelieving smile lifted the corners of his mouth. He didn’t hide the sheen in his eyes. As a few nobles glanced their way, he straightened and cleared his throat, the mask of the king settling over him once more. But it didn’t hide everything.
Her throat burned, the words tearing free in little more than a whisper. “I’m here now. And I wish she was too.” A single tear fell down her face, and she wiped it away quickly.
Her father had always held himself rigid in public, every emotion tucked behind duty and crown. Yet here he was, letting grief and joy sit openly on his face, however briefly. It struck her that she wasn’t the only one who’d changed over these past years. He’d changed, too.
For this moment, family shone brighter than the kingdom.
Guilt slammed through her, brutal and immediate. She wanted to tell him everything, explain the prophecy and the stakes, but she couldn’t do it here. Instead, she hugged him briefly and said, “I’m so sorry, Father. I should’ve been here.”
He hugged her back fiercely, and for the first time since she’d ridden through the gates, it actually hit her that she was really back in Orchid. She was home.
Eryndor drew a steadying breath, then frowned, his brows knitting as he looked at her. “And how in the world did you come to have his feather? Sounds like Bryn hasn’t changed at all.”
Ella’s throat closed. “You know Bryn?”
She and Jakobav said it at the same time, both half-rising from their chairs.
Her father turned his gaze on Jakobav. Cold. Measuring. “Of course I know him. Do you even know how old he is, boy?”
Jakobav’s jaw clenched, the ink along his forearm stark against the strain as his hand balled into a fist against the table. For a moment, he said nothing, collecting himself before his expression smoothed into something controlled. But Ella knew better.
His voice, when it came, was steady and ironclad. “I know exactly how old he is.”
The two men locked eyes, steel meeting steel, and the tension stretched so taut across the table she worried it might snap.
Ella broke it, her voice measured. “We’re really doing this at dinner?”
Her father’s gaze softened, the fight in his shoulders loosening as he exhaled.
“Of course not, sweetheart. Forgive me. Your return has stirred emotions I thought I’d long buried.
We will welcome your guest. He may stay as long as you wish.
And with the Veil being tested as it is, perhaps it is time to consider all potential allies. ”
The hall exhaled with him, the tension spilling out in a collective rush. Murmurs rolled through the chamber like distant thunder.
“Dravaryn’s heir at her side.”
“Many years gone, and she returns with him?”
“Is this her coronation or her wedding?”
“He looks more like a warlord than a guest.”
“Gods, he’s beautiful.”
“Beautiful? He’s a weapon. Look at those arms.”
Ella forced herself to keep calm, her gaze fixing on her plate, though heat prickled at her cheeks. The Court of Rumors had earned its name long before tonight, but never had it grated at her like this. She searched for a distraction, anything to break the tide.
Jakobav straightened his shoulders, slow and confident, with a half-smile on his face. She was certain he’d heard every word. He let them look, let them call him beautiful, let them call him a weapon, and his smile told them he was both, and more besides.
The tales spread faster than servants could refill goblets, speculation knotting through the air with greedy hands.
Was this a celebration, an alliance, or a scandal turned marriage negotiation?
Courtiers leaned closer to one another, eyes gleaming as though every rumor was a coin to be traded.
Ella straightened her spine and tried to let none of it touch her.
Across the table, her father’s gaze found hers once more. The steel in his eyes had dulled to sorrow, and his expression made her stomach turn.
“How has Orchid fared since I left?” Ella asked quietly. She already feared the answer.
“For a long while, things remained steady, the Threadshifting kept our forces busy but not overwhelmed,” Eryndor said, his voice quieting the table around him. “But recently…that has changed. The breaches are worsening. Threadshifting accelerating. Magic unraveling just when we need it most.”
He drew a slow breath, lines deepening at the corners of his eyes.
“An entire village was lost two weeks ago. A creature slipped the Veil before anyone could reach them. My council fears Orchid won’t last much longer without reinforcements.”
His hand trembled faintly as he lifted his goblet, the wine trembling with it. “At the very least, I will see my daughter wear the crown of Orchid, no matter how brief that reign may be.”
A jolt of panic cut through her—but she forced it down, clinging to the one sliver of hope she had left. The prophecy had spoken of a red sun. And the red sun was still a week away.
Surely that meant she still had time.
Time to understand the relic—Jakobav.
Time to figure out how he might be the key.
Time to stop the Veil from shattering.
She repeated it like a prayer she didn’t quite believe: I still have time.
She tried to cling to faith and fates and prophecy, even as her father sat across from her already resigned, accepting the acceleration of gloom and the inevitability of doom.
However brief her reign might be.
Her fire surged at his words, clawing at her ribs as if it longed to burst free and set the table to ash. Ella dug her nails into her palms beneath the cloth to remain still, forcing her magic back into its cage. Not here. She swallowed hard.
Across the table, Nira met her eyes and mouthed one word for her alone: breathe.
Ella clung to it like a rope thrown into stormwaters, her best friend’s gaze anchoring her even as the news her father had shared threatened to drag her under.
The room clattered with cutlery and wine and rumor, yet all she could hear was the grief hidden in her father’s voice.
She’d come home to warmth, to laughter, even to Bryn’s ridiculous inside joke echoing across kingdoms, and within an hour, politics had stripped it bare, leaving only duty and loss.
Her mother’s shadow lingered in every corner.
Ella folded her hands in her lap, spine unyielding. She wouldn’t cry.
There would be time to grieve later.
If the fates allowed her that much.