Chapter 31
The marble felt soft beneath Ellaryn’s worn boots. She had worn them for so long they had moulded to the shape of her feet, becoming almost as much a part of her as the sword resting against her hip.
Even the hilt had become familiar beneath her palm. It no longer took thought to draw the blade, to swing it, to send it on its fatal descent.
She would have liked to say it hadn’t always been that way.
That there had once been a time when the sight of a sword had made her stomach turn.
When the thought of driving steel into flesh had repulsed her, but she remembered being ten years old, standing before the King as he ordered her to take one into her hands.
She remembered the first time her fingers closed around the hilt.
It had felt…
Exhilarating.
Like slipping her hand into a glove made specifically for her.
She hated how naturally it had come to her. How easily her arm had moved, how perfectly the blade followed her every command.
She hated taking lives.
But she hated that the act of killing came so naturally to her even more.
A chill crept through the air, and Ellaryn drew her cloak tighter around herself as she made her way through the castle halls.
Xander.
She was going to see Xander again tonight.
The thought sent an unexpected flutter through her stomach, one she quickly dismissed as she kept her footsteps light along the winding corridors. The King had another afternoon of meetings, and the castle was unnervingly quiet.
Too quiet.
Which was why, when muffled sounds slipped through the throne room doors, Ellaryn slowed. She glanced down the corridor before moving closer, until her ear was almost pressed against the wood.
To any passing Knight, she was simply doing her duty—standing guard outside the throne room. In reality, she was a spy.
“I didn’t ask for your opinion, Commander Lyon. I asked whether your Knights would be ready in five days.”
“Forgive me, Your Darkness.” Lyon’s voice was measured. “Of course. We’re always ready at your request.”
“Good.” The King’s voice boomed through the doors. “Because Velaviere will be ours by then.”
Ellaryn could hear the smile in his voice—that sick, twisted grin she could almost smell through the wood, like rot seeping through the cracks.
Her stomach turned, and she pushed herself away from the door as if it had burned her.
She had heard enough.
Five days.
That was all she and Xander had.
They had to move.
And fast.
* * *
“Are you okay?” Xander asked later that evening, concern threading through his tone as his eyes scanned her, searching for any sign of injury.
“I’m fine,” she said, though her voice carried a hint of frustration. “I’d be even better if we had some answers, but—”
“I was going to talk to you about that,” he interrupted, a faint spark of excitement in his voice. “I’ve been doing some research. There might be a way to get the answers we need faster but—”
“Yes,” Ellaryn interrupted, nodding, eager despite herself.
“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
“I don’t need to. If it helps, we have to do it.”
Xander raised an eyebrow. “Just let me finish, would you?” He ran a hand through his soft hair, carefully choosing his words. “My research suggests that if the bonded focuses fully on the memories—dives as deep as they can—we can uncover the important ones. The ones buried for a reason.”
“Focus on the memories?” Ellaryn echoed, wary but intrigued as she walked over to the mattress. “I can do that.”
“Not just any memories,” Xander corrected, voice low and deliberate. “The painful ones. If the King is hiding something, it’ll be buried in the deepest traumas.”
Ellaryn’s face fell. All the memories were hard, but some… were unbearable.
“You mean worse than the ones we’ve already seen?”
Xander nodded slowly, tension spilling around them.
Ellaryn exhaled, heavy.
“You can’t pull away. Not when it hurts. Not when you’re forced to relive the things that haunt you most—traumatise you all over again. Not unless you’re on the verge of blacking out,” he said, voice grave.
She paused, absorbing the weight of it, then nodded.
“Well, the King is moving for Veleviere in five days, so I don’t think we have a choice,” she said, determination sharpening her tone.
Xander let out a breath. “What?!” He questioned.
“I overheard them today—the expansion happens on Friday.” She said regretfully and he sucked in a shaky breath, then nodded. “Then we’d best do this quickly.”
He smiled, a small, tight-lipped one. “It’ll be alright,” he said softly, his hand brushing gently over her shoulder. “I’ll be right here. Every step.”
Ellaryn nodded slowly, not realising she was leaning into his touch or how good it had felt the moment his hand was flush against her skin. Before the feelings could grow any wings, she made sure to clear her throat, body stiffening, mind blocking out the questions forming behind her eyes.
Why did his touch feel so good?
And why did she not want to pull away?
Xander peeled his hand back, eyes dropping to the floor momentarily; anything to avoid her gaze.
She noticed the blush on his cheeks and ears, the pink that contrasted with his usual complexion, but tucked it away, lying back on the bed, eyes flicking to the ceiling, in an attempt to steady her racing thoughts.
Xander moved slowly, careful not to break the fragile quiet between them, his fingers brushing the edge of the mattress as if grounding himself before what was to come.
He placed a steady hand on her chest, and the fire bloomed instantly within her, her fingers claiming the sheets like the mattress itself could absorb the burn.
The King’s laugh cut through her mind first, sharp and cruel as ever, making her instinctively cringe. His blackened teeth glinted in the memory.
Then another vision struck—nine-year-old Ellaryn in the combat arena, the King looming over her, a blade in hand, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“We’ve been over this,” the King’s voice gleamed, sunlight glinting off his sword. “You won’t improve if you don’t practice, and I want you to be the best.”
“But it hurts,” Ellaryn whispered, blood staining her clothes and seeping through her fingertips.
“It’s supposed to,” he said, stepping closer until she was pressed against the wall. “If it hurts, it means you fear it. If you fear it, you will do better next time.”
…“Raise your sword.” He ordered and despite her reluctance she obeyed, steel meeting steel, and for a fleeting moment, she fought him with everything she had. But it was no use—he was relentless.
The blade plunged deep into her chest. Young Ellaryn screamed, pain tearing through her as life seemed to drain from her, every nerve on fire.
Suddenly, she snapped back to the present—the King’s blade twirling before her, both real and unreal, a shadow of the memory that still burned inside her.
“Stand up,” he commanded, handing her her sword, and with shaky knees she obeyed again, rising slowly to her feet.
“Again,” he instructed.
No sooner had her boots touched the ground than the blade was pressed against her ribs once more. The terror of the memory, sharp and unrelenting, surged through her as if it had never ended.
When life claimed her again, the King was gone. Instead, she was back at her first execution—Landon Ferrier. She would never forget him. A neighbour, only a little older than herself.
Her hand trembled under the weight of her blade.
Ellaryn’s sobs tore through the air, and Xander threaded his fingers through her hair.
“It’s okay,” he whispered, his voice cutting through the vision. “It’s not real.”
Her breathing began to slow, but the pain remained, spreading so fiercely it left her body numb.
“What are you waiting for… Kill him,” the King spat, venom lacing every word.
But she couldn’t. Her body froze, powerless.
With a cruel grin, the King snatched the sword from her hands. In an instant, Landon’s head fell, and pain surged through her chest again as the blade drove deep into her.
When she opened her eyes, she was in the dungeon—chained, cold, and alone, her sobs echoing off the damp stone walls until sleep granted her peace.
Her eyes opened again, but something had changed. She was no longer herself.
Instead, she was in one of the King’s memories.
She watched his shoes disturb ash and cinders as they waded through the rubble of an old building.
Pain tore through her chest, but she steadied it, taking deep breaths and twisting the sheets beneath her.
She was going to get through these memories.
A man in a hooded robe knelt on the floor beneath him, shards of glass cutting into his palms, ash clinging to his skin. He hurled a ball of iridescent golden light at the King, but he caught it effortlessly, extinguishing it with a cruel smile. The man was a Potential.
“You’ll never get away with this,” the man spat, launching another sphere of light, but the King caught it again, unflinching.
He loomed over the man, who pressed himself against the wall, fear radiating from every tremble.
“Oh, but I will,” the King said, his crooked smile widening as he grabbed the man by the robe and lifted him off the ground. Their faces hovered inches apart.
Pain slammed into Ellaryn’s chest like a hammer. Breathing became a struggle. Xander’s fingers still threaded through her hair, grounding her, even as tears streamed down her cheeks.
The King inhaled sharply, as though drawing the light from the man into himself. The man’s cheeks paled, and the King’s smile grew, his skin glowing briefly with the same otherworldly radiance as the man’s magic. Then he dropped him to the floor.
“Cinala is mine,” the King said coldly. “And there’s nothing you can do about it.”
In one swift motion, he slit the man’s neck.
The man gasped, clawing at the wound, blood seeping through his fingers. The King knelt, watching the life drain from his eyes, then lifted his hand, gold fire crackling across his fingertips.
The visions vanished, and Xander released her.
Ellaryn gasped, sucking in air, eyes wide as she looked up at him.
“I didn’t tap you,” she said. “Why did you let go?”
“I know where the King is getting his magic.”