Chapter 22
Hours later, my power strips the last trace of alcohol from my bloodstream, leaving me painfully, vividly sober. And horrified by everything I said. Everything I did.
I am a fool.
I pray for Ignar, the God of Flames, to strike me down so I never have to face Darius or the others again.
I don’t care that I was intoxicated—that I hadn’t weighed the fact that my experience with alcohol was limited to the diluted beverages Odden served at his tavern.
Those drinks were light compared to the potent drinks served in Virendrell.
But there is absolutely no excuse for the fact that I threw myself at Darius.
I grab a pillow, press it against my face, and scream, releasing every ounce of frustration, self-judgment, and loathing until there is no air left in my lungs.
I collapse back on the soft mattress and stare at the sheer canopy draped over the massive bed, exhaling a sigh of relief when the pale-purple fabric no longer looks as if it’s waving in a breeze.
I can’t believe I tried to kiss Darius.
The shadows on my arms prick, and I’m hit with gratitude that the Fae don’t have access to their powers. If they did, Rian would have sensed something was wrong with me through the marks that bind us.
And if he would’ve shown up, there’s no telling what I—
No.
I cut the thought off, a fresh wave of heat flooding my face.
I push myself upright, ignoring the throb in my head, and drop to my hands and knees to retrieve my satchel tucked under the mattress.
I need a distraction. An activity. Anything to keep my mind off the Shadow Prince and the way I yearn to drag my fingers through his midnight-black—
Stop it.
I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head. I stand and toss the satchel onto the bed, open it, and retrieve the diary.
The familiar leather kisses my fingertips. The pages rustle as I flip through and find the most recently read entry—the one after the prince and the Fae female snuck off during her mother’s luncheon.
My fingers still.
Is this a good idea?
I check my libido. It’s under control. For now.
But there’s no telling what will happen when Rian makes an appearance.
My gut tightens, and my cheeks burn as I imagine his reaction when Darius tells him I tried to kiss him.
Gods… I’m a mess.
I swallow down my embarrassment and focus on the diary, determined to escape into someone else’s reality so I might forget my own.
Second Starfall
Tragedy has fallen on our house. Our entire country.
Father is sick.
I felt it in the air around him before the symptoms even began—my power picking up on the tart tang of illness creeping through his veins.
When I tried to touch his hand, my gift faltered. The silver thread of my light sputtered against his skin.
Mother says it's only exhaustion. She claims he will get better, but I know the truth.
Father is dying. The bond between our ruler and the realm runs as deep as blood, and the land is suffering with him.
It won’t be long until the rest of the court figures out what’s happened. And the vultures will come circling, eager to curry favor with the next ruler…
I won’t have a moment of peace. My life will be overturned, and I will lose this private life I cherish. I will lose my prince—
A gasp rips from my throat. I stare at the page, re-reading the words over and over again, convinced I’m misunderstanding something.
But no.
It’s written right there…plain as day.
The author of this diary…
Her father is the…
I stuff the diary into my satchel and jump off the bed. I sling the strap over my shoulder and race to the door.
My heart pounds in my chest, keeping time with my hurried steps as I fly down the halls and stairs. I don’t slow until I’m inside the quiet library, the large doors clicking shut behind me.
I fist my shaking hands at my sides and force air into and out of my lungs as I take in the plethora of books.
The diary in my possession didn’t belong to a random Fae royal. She was the princess. Her father was the king.
Could he be Marek?
Impossible.
The kind, gentle male the author describes in her diary couldn’t be the current Fae ruler, the one who darkens the world with violence and shadow.
No, this is someone else.
I don’t know enough about Fae politics or history to even guess who he could be. Thank the Gods Virendrell has a library.
I scan the leather spines I pass, searching for a hint—a word or a symbol—that indicates it could be what I’m looking for.
Nothing stands out. No title in the common tongue or Fae language gives me what I need.
I grip the satchel’s strap. My knuckles turn white.
Why would my mother leave a Fae princess’s diary with Juniper? Did my mother know the princess?
Did Juniper?
My head aches from the thoughts pounding against my skull.
A woman with a loose brown braid glides past. I bite the inside of my cheek, preparing an excuse for why I’m in here, but she doesn’t look at me. Her attention is elsewhere.
Should I ask her for help, or will she question why I want to learn more about Fae royalty?
Will she tell someone?
“Elara?”
I jump and whirl around.
My lips part, but I snap my mouth closed.
“Mayor Augustus.” I dip my head at the leader of Virendrell, my gaze dropping to the dark sandals poking out from underneath his flowy pants as I try to calm my racing heart.
A second set of sandals steps into view.
I look up and find Anders smiling at me. “Good afternoon, Elara.”
“G-good afternoon.” I force a polite smile.
“What a coincidence to run into you,” Augustus says. “I was just asking Anders how your conversation went the other day.”
I frown. “Our conversation?”
“About healing magic,” Anders supplies with a charming smile.
“Oh. Yes.” I shift on my feet, looking over the males’ shoulders.
The woman is gone. Damn.
“—find it helpful.”
My gaze snaps back to Anders. He watches me expectantly.
“I’m so sorry.” I adjust my grip on the satchel. “What did you say?”
His brow furrows. “That I hope you’ve found the healing text useful.”
“Incredibly,” I lie. “Thank you.”
The text Anders gave me revealed that the most powerful healing magic is a form of earth magic—that the human power comes from outside the healer, drawing on the patient’s body to mend themselves.
It acts as a way to accelerate the natural healing process.
An incredible feat, but it’s not how my power works.
Not at all.
My healing magic has always come from within me. The mending power flows from my touch into a patient and assesses and treats their injuries. Not the other way around.
A delicate throat clears.
“There you are, my dear.” Helen’s musical voice travels through the air.
Her light-blue toga swishes around her legs, and her brown hair brushes her waist as she shakes her head with a rueful smile. “I should have known you’d rush away the moment I turned my back.”
“Nonsense, my dear.” Augustus reaches for his wife’s hand. “I simply needed to speak with Anders, and with all the guests here for the celebrations, the library seemed like the best place.”
“Don’t tell me work is overshadowing your son’s betrothal events.” Her lovely eyes flash.
“Of course not.” He kisses her knuckles.
I avert my gaze, unused to witnessing public displays of affection. In Verdanthia, intimate moments were concealed in dark alleys or behind closed doors.
Like my moment with Rian at the Late King’s Festival…
“Oh.” Helen’s gaze lands on me, and she blinks. “Forgive me, Elara. I didn’t see you there.”
Sure she didn’t.
My smile tightens. “Lady Helen. It’s nice to see you.”
“You as well. Tell me, how are you finding Virendrell? I trust everyone has been welcoming and our accommodations hospitable.”
Something stirs at the back of my mind—an insistent, crawling sensation that prickles my thoughts, like fingers plucking at strings, trying to untangle them.
I clamp down on the unwelcome feeling and rip it from my mind before it can take hold.
“Very much so,” I say, forcing the words out smoothly. “Thank you.”
Helen’s lips drop into a subtle frown.
Augustus asks, “Are you enjoying the contests?”
I shift my gaze to the mayor. “Yes. It’s amazing to see magic wielded so…effortlessly.”
The three Virendrellians chuckle.
“Trust me, Elara.” Helen sniffs. “The feats you witness at this historical celebration are far from effortless. The contestants are the most accomplished of their elements. Their displays are true testaments to their skill and power.”
“Of course.” I dip my chin, relieved to know not all Virendrellians possess the fighting and magical skills of the contestants.
As it is, the island’s citizens would be a formidable force to face.
Perhaps that’s why King Marek leaves them alone after failing to conquer them the first time.
“Have you chosen which contestant you believe will be champion?” Augustus asks me.
“No, not yet.”
A glint creeps into his eyes. “I heard Leto paid you a visit during the sculpture contest.”
Anders’s gaze snaps to me.
“Did he?” Helen chuckles before I can respond. “Of course he did. That cheeky man. He cannot resist a beauty, especially not an exotic one.”
Her gaze trails over my head and down to my sandaled feet.
I’m hardly exotic. Aside from my hair color, I resemble many of the Fae and humans roaming through the mayor’s home. Though they are far more stunning.
“Well, dear?” Augustus prompts.
“I’m sorry.” My lashes brush my cheeks with my blink. “What?”
He and his wife share an amused glance.
“Leto.” Helen prompts. “Do you find him agreeable?”
There is something unspoken in her questions, but I cannot fathom what.
I opt on the side of caution and choose my words carefully. “Leto seems kind.”
“And handsome?” Helen leans forward.
I look at her husband, waiting for him to object to his wife’s compliment, but he simply watches me.
Myrissie, what is going on here?
The Goddess of Knowledge doesn’t answer.
“Um, yes.” I shift my stance. “Of course. Leto is very handsome.”
Helen beams as if I complimented her own flesh and blood. For all I know of their lineages, perhaps I have.