Chapter 42 The Prism
Chapter forty-two
The Prism
“She is our daughter, Scottrell.” The harsh whisper came from the beautiful Queen.
Her short, soft grey hair was curled away from her face, the first signs of aging showing in graceful lines around her eyes.
Her wings, as white as Adara’s, but with longer, spiked opal talons on the tips, snapped shut behind her as she paced the royal bedroom.
Dressed in a simple pearl and silver gown, the Queen was ethereal, but the light from her green eyes was gone–replaced with grief and fear.
The King sat in a lush red and gold armchair against the window, where the soft light of dusk was beginning to filter into the room.
His dark hair was short, cropped close to his skull, a simple golden crown atop his head.
He rubbed his face with his hands, both covered in intricate, wave-like tattoos that fluctuated with the movement.
With a deep sigh, he slumped deeper into the chair and removed the crown, tossing it onto the low table beside him.
His mate turned again and began pacing towards him, twisting the sleeves of her dress between her hands.
“Elera, I don’t know what else to do. All these years we dismissed Adara’s interest in spell books as an innocent curiosity. We should’ve paid closer attention.” The King reached out a hand to the pacing Queen, beckoning her closer to the armchair he occupied.
The Queen gave her mate a droll, flat look, but closed the distance between them–just out of reach of his extended hand. “If Esmeray is right–and that is a big ‘if’ considering her track record–the spell book needs to be destroyed.”
“It’s a part of our ancient fae heritage,” the King started, lowering his hand, his fingers curling into a loose fist. His blue eyes flashed. “It should be preserved for historians.”
“Fuck your heritage,” Queen Elera spat, her snow-white wings flaring out from her sides. “Those spells are killing our daughter.”
“Then we take them away and lock them up someplace even Adara cannot find.”
“What about Esmeray?” Queen Elera took a step closer to King Scottrell.
“What about her? She’s soul tied to Commander Keerian whether we like it or not.
Carra decided her fate as Queen on High.
I say, we take away the book from Adara, and confine her to her room for tomorrow’s celebration of Esmeray and Keerian.
Once she's had time to come to terms with her new position, we will help her come to accept the title of Lesser Queen.” King Scottrell stood and grabbed his mate’s arm as she paced in front of him again.
Pulling her close, he kissed her, deep and slow, until her wings relaxed, and she nestled into his broad arms.
“Fine,” Queen Elera breathed, staring into the King’s eyes, a small smile playing at the corner of her lips. “We will tell Esmeray tomorrow–that it’s just a precaution.”
“Adara cannot know that we are moving the spell book.” The King looked down at his Queen, kissing the top of her head between her two dainty horns.
“Adara cannot know,” the Queen agreed, as the King led his mate to the large bed behind them.
The candles in the Royal bedroom winked out one by one, bathing the entire room in night’s murky darkness. The sleeping King and Queen did not stir as the bedroom doors creaked open.
Illuminated by the faint candlelight in the hallway, Adara stood, her hands balled into fists.
Her expression brimmed with rage as she slunk into her parents’ bedroom.
As her skirts swept across the floor, bodies of the guards in the hallway became engulfed in silver edged flames–burning only them–before a ghost wind swept down the hallway, scattering their ashes.
Adara, her head cocked to the side, white-blonde hair spilling out of her tangled braid, stepped lightly towards her father, not even sparing a glance at her mother–her likeness.
The Princess raised her hand where short, jagged nails grew longer, sharper.
She whispered in an ancient tongue as her nails began to glow with the same unearthly silver as the fire that consumed the bodies of the two gargoyles that had been stationed at the door.
Her hand slashed down. The sickening sound of flesh tearing, followed by panic gurgling of the King choking on his own blood filled the room.
Adara whipped her other hand towards the open door, where a translucent shield appeared, concealing the voice of the dying King from anyone with fae hearing outside.
The Queen, her mother, launched up, her eyes filled with fear and pain as she beheld her daughter. Blood slid down Adara’s arm as she crooned, “It won’t be long now.”
The Queen’s head whipped towards her mate, and she screamed, throwing herself over his convulsing body, as her own began to bow in pain–the soul tie ripping her life force out as the King’s dimmed.
Adara began chanting in the same ancient language, silver light wreathing her hands, as King Scottrell died. His mate let out a low whimper as her life dwindled and extinguished.
The light disappeared as the Queen took her last, shuddered breath, and met her mate in the afterlife. Adara smiled, her blue eyes dull, as she leaned her head back and laughed, the maniacal sound breaking the quiet of death, before she turned on her heel, walked out of the bedroom, and waned.