Chapter 66 Elowen
ELOWEN
We leave the inn without speaking.
The morning air is cool and faintly damp, carrying the scent of stone and distant smoke as the King’s City wakes around us.
A pale gold light spills over the rooftops, catching on banners and tiled spires, and for a moment everything looks almost…
peaceful. Like nothing in the world has ever gone wrong here.
It feels like a lie.
Theron walks beside me, close enough that I can feel the heat of him, but he doesn’t reach for my hand the way he did last night.
Doesn’t brush his fingers against mine or pull me close or murmur anything low and amusing in my ear.
He’s silent, his expression shuttered, his jaw tight.
I feel nothing but determination from him to see this final quest through to the end.
So I match him. If he wants silence, I’ll give it to him.
We make our way up the winding road that leads to the castle, its gray stone walls rising higher and higher above us as we climb. The path curves gently through the heart of the city, passing through streets already alive with merchants setting up their wares and craftsmen opening their shops.
A glassblower coaxes a glowing orb into shape at the end of a long pipe, the molten surface swirling with colors like captured sunset.
A blacksmith hammers rhythmically at a piece of red-hot metal, sparks flying like fireflies into the air.
A woman sits behind a stall of embroidered cloth, her fingers moving deftly as she adds a line of gold thread to a deep blue shawl.
The world is waking…and we walk through it like ghosts.
I can’t help comparing it to last night.
The memory comes unbidden—lantern light glowing warm and soft, laughter spilling from my lips before I could stop it.
Theron’s hand wrapped around mine, his thumb brushing over my skin as though he couldn’t help himself.
The way he looked at me, like I was something he wanted. Something he cherished.
The way he kissed me.
My throat tightens.
I force my gaze forward, focusing on the road instead of him. On the slow curve of it as it winds upward toward the castle gates. On the steady rhythm of my steps.
Why does he think we can’t be together?
The question rises again, sharp and insistent, but I shove it down.
I’m not asking—not again. If he wanted me to know, he would have told me.
Instead, I pick up my pace slightly, as though I can outrun the ache in my chest. I should be hurrying. I should be eager to get this over with—to reach the King’s Court, to find a quiet corner, to cast the spell and go back to before everything went wrong.
Before him.
But instead of walking faster, I find myself slowing.
Each step feels heavier than the last, like my body is resisting even as my mind insists this is what I need to do. The castle looms larger ahead, its gates open wide, guards standing watch as people stream in and out.
I remind myself again I should hurry but instead I slow and look around, looking for a distraction.
On the side of the road, a small crowd of children has gathered in a loose semicircle around a brightly painted puppet stage. Their laughter and excited chatter drift toward me, cutting through the tension that’s been coiled tight in my chest since I woke.
I stop without meaning to and Theron halts beside me, his presence solid and warm at my back, but he doesn’t say anything as I turn toward the little performance.
The puppeteer stands behind a low wooden stage draped in red cloth, his hands hidden as strings rise and fall, bringing the marionettes to life. A small drum taps out a rhythm as he begins his tale, his voice rising and falling with practiced ease.
“So it came to pass that the Old King wished to give up his throne,” he says, and an old man puppet shuffles forward to sit upon a carved wooden seat. “And so he called his son—the young prince—to kneel before him.”
A handsome young puppet appears, bowing low.
The Old King gestures grandly, pointing to the crown atop his head. The children lean forward, eyes wide.
“But the Old King said, ‘First you must marry and have an heir of your own. Only then can I give you my throne and crown.’”
The young prince puppet nods eagerly, and the children giggle.
“And so,” the puppeteer continues, “the young prince fell in love with a beautiful princess, and they were wed.”
A delicate puppet in a bridal gown joins the prince, and the two bow to each other, smiling as the children clap.
“In due time, the royal couple had a child,” the puppeteer says, and a tiny baby puppet is lowered into the princess’s arms. The children cheer, some of them bouncing with delight.
“All seemed well in the kingdom. The Old King prepared to pass down his crown, and joy reigned in every corner of the land…” The puppeteer’s voice darkens. “But little did they know, the King’s sorceress had been watching and waiting for her chance.”
A new puppet sweeps onto the stage, cloaked in black and purple. The children boo immediately.
“She desired the prince for herself,” the puppeteer goes on, “for she knew that if she wed him, she would rule the kingdom through him and bend it to her dark will.”
The sorceress puppet reaches for the prince, but he turns away, shaking his head. The children cheer again.
“Spurned and furious, the sorceress swore revenge. She waited until the royal family traveled to a distant village…and there she laid a terrible curse.”
The stage seems to darken as the sorceress raises a single finger, pointing it toward the prince, his bride, and their child.
“A killing curse!” the puppeteer cries.
The children gasp.
“With her dark magic, she struck them down—both the prince and his lovely bride fell, their lives stolen in an instant.”
The puppets collapse as though their strings have been cut, and a hush falls over the watching children.
“But what of the prince’s son?” the puppeteer asks softly. “The heir to the throne?”
He pauses, letting the silence stretch and I feel my heart fist in my chest.
“Some say he perished alongside his parents, his tiny body consumed by the sorceress’s fire.”
The children boo and hiss at that, their faces pinched with dismay.
“But others say…” He lowers his voice conspiratorially. “Others say his innocence shielded him. That the curse could not touch one so pure.”
A murmur runs through the crowd.
“He vanished,” the puppeteer continues. “Lost to the world. And though the Old King searched for years, he never found his grandson.”
The other puppets are whisked away, leaving only the Old King sitting alone upon his throne, his head bowed in grief.
“Yet hope remained,” the puppeteer says. “For a prophecy was spoken—that one day, the Lost Prince would return.”
I find myself leaning forward slightly, my breath catching as the familiar words begin.
“When blood calls blood and truth stands tall,
The hidden heir shall heed the call.
Through shadowed path and time’s cruel seam,
He walks at last from whispered dream
No crown upon his brow at first
No gold to mark the royal birth,
Yet heart to heart and soul to bone,
The King shall know him as his own.
And when the lost is found again,
Joy shall return to heal the land.”
The children clap and cheer as a young man puppet enters the stage, and the Old King looks up, rising from his throne. The two embrace as the curtain falls, ending the show on a hopeful, happy note that lightens the heart. At least I know it lightens mine.
The Lost Prince is an old tale but it’s based in truth—everything really did happen just as the puppeteer said, though some say the King’s son and his wife were killed by a plague and others say it was a mysterious poison.
But either way, their son—the Lost Prince—vanished and the Old King has been without an heir ever since.
For a moment, I just stand there, caught in the lingering spell of the puppet show. Then the world rushes back in—the noise of the street…the murmur of voices…the weight in my chest.
I let out a soft sigh and turn to Theron.
“Sorry. I just love that old story.” I hesitate, then add quietly, “It’s so sad, don’t you think? That the Old King lost his son and daughter-in-law and his grandson all at once?”
Theron shrugs, his expression unreadable.
“It’s just a fairy story for children. Come on—we need to go.”
I flinch inwardly, the fragile warmth the puppet show stirred inside me snapping like a thread pulled too tight. Of course he would dismiss it. Why wouldn’t he?
Why would he care about stories of love and loss and hope?
I swallow hard and nod, turning away before he can see the sting in my eyes.
“Right,” I murmur. “We should go.”
I quicken my pace, heading up the hill toward the castle gates, my skirts brushing against my legs as I walk faster and faster. The crowd thickens as we near the entrance, people pressing forward to enter the Court on this Day of Grievances.
I don’t look back and I don’t slow again.
If I stop, I might think too much. I might feel too much. I might do something foolish, like turn around and ask him why he feels the way he does or why he thinks he can’t have me.
I can’t afford that—not now. Not when I’m so close to ending this.
So I keep going, my eyes fixed on the towering gates ahead, my heart aching but determined.
I will do the spell.
I will go back, and I will forget him and all the heartbreak I’m feeling right now. I won’t even look at him again. I keep my eyes determinedly forward, looking for a good place to do the Time Weaving spell.
That’s why I don’t see what happens to Theron when we pass through the gates of the King’s Court.