Chapter 11
Mora
The moon retreated over the horizon, replaced by a sea of pinks and violets cutting through the night, tearing at the darkness until nothing remained. As light washed over Moldenna, it revealed what lay beneath the shadows—a city possessed by hatred and painted in violence.
Mora shivered, pulling her ivory cloak tighter around herself as she stepped over a frozen puddle of blood. It pooled between snowdrifts, covering the fresh powder in gore. Was there a body rotting somewhere in the snow, ice crystals shimmering in its wounds?
“How long has it been this way?” she asked, frost curling in the air around her breath.
She could taste the bitter remnants of smoke coating the wind.
Much like the night she’d killed Dother, except the tavern she’d pillaged was closer to Moldenna’s center—were the people burning their city?
Was their spite so strong they’d willingly destroy their own home?
Castellan sighed and looked up at the alley’s stone wall. A blend of ash and chalk mixed on its surface, depicting a broken crown and the words Death to the Enchanter King. “I’ve lost count of the days.” His shoulders drooped, exhaustion clinging to his form.
While he’d abandoned his guard’s uniform for navy breeches and a fur-lined charcoal gray cloak, he still embodied his profession.
Castellan’s hand rested inches from his sword, ready to end anything that so much as breathed on them.
Cold stained his cheeks red, but he seemed unbothered. Those gray eyes narrowed. Focused.
“Do you have a coin to spare?” he asked, leading them through Moldenna at a snail’s pace. They stuck to the outskirts and alleyways, avoiding as many eyes as they could.
Mora chuckled bitterly. “I’ve spent gods know how long cursed and bound to a bottle. What do you think? Besides”—she glanced sidelong at him—“you’re a nobleman’s son. Do you not have a coin purse?”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small red leather bag fastened with gilded buttons. “Of course I do. Though”—Castellan’s voice dipped, quiet enough to avoid being overheard—“I only have gold coins. I’d hoped for a penny or two. We’ll need to ration what we have.”
“Unless you’d like to make a wish, I can’t help you.”
He worried his bottom lip, peeking at a small group huddled around a brazier past the mouth of the alley. Fire crackled within, moisture hissing on the logs. “I’ll make do. Wait here.”
She scoffed. “Why?”
Castellan gave her a look as if to say, you know why.
He plucked a coin from his pouch before shoving it back in his pocket, then approached the villagers. A soft smile graced his noble features, blond curls a halo around his face, as if the Fates had snatched one of the gallant knights from her favorite novels and placed him in her path.
As he slipped his royal blue knapsack off his shoulder, the flask shifted on his hip, firelight glinting on its surface, skipping over glass to sparkle on the filigree.
Mora leaned against the wall, staring at it.
Wondering why Castellan hadn’t forced her inside.
It would make his life easier. She knew why he was being cautious—if someone recognized the Princess of Berwick, they’d...
Water droplets splashed on a patch of cobblestone peeking through the snow, and she flinched.
They’d cut off your head like they did to your mother.
Her lower lip trembled. Mora’s mother was gone. Never again would she weave flowers into garlands for Mora’s door. There would be no songs bouncing off the castle walls as Aedlin sang. No counsel to shelter Mora through an endless storm she didn’t know how to navigate alone.
She’d never make things right between them.
Her breathing quickened, a squeezing pain clutching at her throat. She glanced at Castellan, the guard handing a letter to a young man looking up at him with so much hope. She hated it. Envied it. Wished she could muster a shred of that feeling, but nothing good existed within her.
Not anymore.
A frigid breeze slipped through Mora’s dark curls, its howl haunting, but all she heard was him.
Treasure. You know I hate seeing you like this.
Her jaw cracked as she gritted her teeth. Without thought, she curled her fingers, nails dragging over the stone wall. They cracked under the pressure, pain pulsing like her frantic heart, the stinging thrum crowding out Dother’s voice. She pressed harder, focusing on the building ache.
“Princess?”
Her head jerked toward Castellan—she hadn’t heard his approach.
His eyes raked over her, pity softening his face when he stared at her bleeding fingers.
It only served to tighten her coiled muscles.
He was a stranger. Her Keeper. A man who held her power on a leash, no matter how pure his intentions.
“We’re almost out,” he said, offering her his hand. “You’ll be free of Moldenna soon enough.”
Mora moved away from the wall, avoiding his touch, squaring her shoulders and pushing back against the pain churning within. “I’m not sure if I should be overjoyed or concerned. We have nowhere to go.”
“Trust me, Mora. I’ll get us to safety.”
She stared at him over her shoulder, studying his face. Remembering the last time she’d trusted a stranger to lead her to safety.
Let me get you out of here, Dother had pleaded, his voice soft and inviting.
Something flared in her gaze while smoke pressed against her ribs, a beast roaring in her chest. “I follow you because I have no choice, Guard,” she seethed, her pace quickening. “You have yet to earn my trust.”
He said nothing, the silence between them heavy. Snow crunched under their boots, Mora’s tired breaths puffing in the air, and somewhere in the distance the people chattered. Though, she couldn’t make out what they said.
An ache pulsed in her fingers, gold-streaked drops of sanguine blooming on their surface and tumbling onto the ivory snow.
If she were thinking clearly, she would have cared about the blood she left behind.
Mora couldn’t bring herself to worry. Her mind was too loud.
Her pulse too thunderous. The tumultuous emotions within her churned so quickly she could hardly cling to them long enough to know them.
Why did it matter? The worst had already happened; what more could an Enchanter do?
She looked back, eyeing her flask as it bounced on Castellan’s thigh—it was tempting, the desire to turn to smoke. Hiding away felt right. Safe.
Voices rose above the alley wall, a symphony she recognized. The bitter song had crawled into Dother’s rooms during many long nights. Now, it merged with the wailing winds, the off-key sound burrowing into Mora’s ears. Repeating the same thing over and over again.
The Crown hath fallen.
She froze, the pressure in her chest unbearable.
They were celebrating her mother’s death.
Castellan moved to Mora’s side, his cloak brushing against her arm.
He was too close, their bodies touching.
His heat mixing with hers, chasing away the winter cold when all she wanted was for it to stay.
To sink into her bones and gnaw on the marrow, consuming every piece of her until she felt nothing.
Her body shook, smoke pressing closer to the surface, pacing uselessly beneath her skin. Mora clenched her fists, breath hammering in and out as she looked around the dizzying network of paths—where was the sound coming from?
She needed it to stop.
Now.
Castellan must have felt the fury rumbling within her. His stormy eyes filled with pleading. “Mora... don’t—”
Before he could finish, she shrieked. Her agony, her rage, her sorrow, all bled into the path as she ran toward the chanting.
Water-slicked ice met her boots, and she slipped, knees slamming on the hard ground.
She gasped. Pain reverberated through her bones, but it felt so far away, as if her body were a distant thing that had never belonged to her.
Her legs trembled as she stood, but Mora pushed on, ignoring Castellan shouting at her to turn back.
She took too many dizzying turns before crashing into a burly beast of a man.
“What the hell?” he hissed, grabbing her shoulders. His grip was crushing, her toes barely touching the ground as he held her aloft. Mora kicked blindly, but he simply lifted her higher, unmoved by her antics.
A woman peeked around his broad shoulder, her lips tipping into a wicked grin. “Have you come to celebrate the end of the Crown?”
The chants continued, echoing through the alleyways to coalesce where Mora stood.
They came from all over Moldenna, the people rejoicing.
But none sang the horrific words here. At least, not since Mora had interrupted.
They were alone in a small market square, the wooden stalls empty but for the icicles hanging off their awnings, water dripping down their pointed tips.
Mora winced with each drop splashing on the ground.
“The death of the queen is nothing to celebrate,” she spat, thrashing in her captor’s grip. “She was innocent. You’re all monsters. You deserve whatever hell comes to you.”
The man snorted, his hold tightening, a ruddy tint darkening his fair cheeks.
Mora slammed her fist against his leather chest piece, but his muscles were like stone—each useless whack made her hand ache.
He frowned down at her, eyeing her fists the way someone eyed a fly.
At best, she was a minor annoyance. If he wanted, he could crush her.
“You’re funny.” The woman laughed demurely, strawberry blonde hair slipping over her angular cheeks as she leaned closer. “Powerful people are rarely innocent,” she whispered, as if she were sharing a secret between friends.
There was a soft cadence to her voice. An elegance to her posture. As she straightened, light rippled over her red cloak, playing on the rich, silky material.
She’s a noblewoman. Mora realized. Scanning her mind, Mora tried to place her, flipping through memories from an endless barrage of balls and dinners. It was useless.
“Who are you?” she seethed.