Chapter 8 A Thing of Beauty
A THING OF BEAUTY
CEDRIC
Cedric had seen many beautiful things in his life.
Dawn breaking over the ridge of mistwood trees outside Goldenvale.
The intricate carvings that covered the surface of the golden locket his mother used to wear.
The beaming smiles that greeted him every time he went to visit the children of the Walk.
The gorgeous women who frequented his favorite tavern.
Well, he’d thought them gorgeous at the time.
Now, he could barely recall their faces. Could hardly remember a single one of them independent of another. Since the Crucible, they had all melded into a drab pool of vague features and shapeless forms.
In his mind, Cedric saw only her.
And still, his memories—his dreams—did her no justice.
He’d been racing to the ballroom, eager to get his inevitable confrontation with Lord Church over with, eager for the distraction of hobnobbing and gladhanding and everything that came with being the Victor of Havensreach.
That’s when he saw her.
Something inside him stilled.
Then, it surged.
That tether behind his ribs, the one that had been aimless, searching, unbound since the day he’d left Luminaria, gave a violent tug.
It was sharp and sudden, stealing the breath from his lungs.
The ballroom melted away—the laughter and dancing, the grandeur and gallantry, the swell of strings and the shimmer of candlelight. The offered words of greeting and congratulations from various attendees who realized that the Victor of Havensreach had finally arrived.
None of it mattered.
None of them existed.
There was only her.
Periwinkle hair cascaded over one shoulder, nearly iridescent in the chandelier light. Gauzy golden fabric flowed down her lithe frame, tight against her body before flaring out from her hips in layers of delicate petals, long sleeves falling over her hands.
Cedric’s mouth went dry as his gaze dropped down the bare expanse of her back to where the delicate line of the dress dipped, a satin bow sitting at the base of her spine.
He thought his heart might very well have stopped beating.
Elyria was the single most beautiful being he had ever beheld.
And against all odds and understanding, she was here.
She hadn’t seen him yet. She was standing to the side of the dance floor on the far end of the room, evidently exiting a conversation with someone.
He didn’t notice who. Didn’t need to know, couldn’t have cared less if he’d tried.
He saw nothing but her, and the timing could not have been more perfect.
Cedric’s body was in motion before he could command himself to move.
He needed to go to her, needed to talk to her, needed to—
She twisted back to the person she’d been speaking with, a look of shock on her devastatingly beautiful face that filled Cedric with questions.
He didn’t have time to name a single one though, not when her body was suddenly shifting, her heel twisting beneath her, catching on the hem of her golden gown.
Cedric’s heart dropped, and he jolted forward, cursing the fact that he wasn’t faster.
That he wasn’t standing right next to her, ready to catch her.
He was wholly aware of just how silly that was.
His reaction was nonsensical. What is it that he thought he was going to do?
Even if he hadn’t been clear on the other side of the ballroom, she was a grown woman.
She could handle tripping. Besides that, she was fae.
Blessed with grace and speed and physical prowess far beyond anything Cedric was capable of.
By the time he fully registered what was happening, she’d already righted herself.
Because there they were: her wings.
They shimmered into view, a flash of impossible beauty that stole the attention of the entire room in one fell swoop.
The music faltered. Conversations ceased.
And then, all at once, they resumed—a symphony of gasps, whispers, and sharp inhalations as Elyria flared her wings wide.
Cedric’s chest burned at the sight, something hot, searing, insistent, stirring beneath his skin.
It hadn’t felt like this since he was in the Lost City. Since he was last with her.
He needed to get to her.
“Cedric.”
The voice was smooth. Clipped. Just a touch of ice. It stopped Cedric short.
“My lord.” Cedric’s jaw tightened around the words as he turned to face Lord Leviathan Church in the flesh, dressed in a formal black robe, cane held in front of him. Silence stretched between them, the heat under his skin rippling as Cedric longed to close the distance between Elyria and himself.
“I am relieved to see you returned home,” said Lord Church. “You are well?”
“Yes, my lord. Thank you.” Cedric bounced a fist on his chest. “Hale and hearty.”
“Then I am glad to hear it. Though, I admit I’d hoped to see your hale and hearty self much sooner. Do you not think this was cutting it a little bit close?”
Cedric’s cheeks heated. “Apologies, my lord. I wanted to ensure I’d exhausted every possible avenue before returning from Paideus. It was . . . a lot of books.”
Lord Church chuckled before extending an arm to Cedric’s shoulder and clapping down firmly. “And?” He took a step closer, lowered his voice. “Have you garnered any information on the location of the lost princess?”
“I’m sorry, my lord. The magisters sent out a few requests for some final tomes that might give us a new lead. They will be sent here, to the palace library.”
“I see. It was time well spent, then?” Lord Church arched a brow. “Worth the time, expense, and effort of having you gone for weeks?”
Cedric bit the inside of his lip. He didn’t know what to say, so he simply braced himself for the thing he knew was coming next.
“Portentia asked after you every day. Have you seen her yet? She is around here somewhere.”
“I have not yet had the pleasure, my lord. But, of course, I will be glad to see her again.” Cedric swallowed. “She is one of my dearest friends.”
Lord Church’s eyes narrowed, his grip on Cedric’s shoulder tightening. “And what we discussed before you left? Have you given any more thought to—”
Lord Church cut himself off, his gaze tracking behind Cedric just as another round of gasps raced around the room.
Cedric couldn’t keep himself from following the commotion, breaking free from Lord Church’s grasp, his eyes immediately finding Elyria.
She’d vanished her wings once more, her magic leaving the scent of almonds and cherries wafting through the room.
It took every ounce of Cedric’s willpower not to inhale deeply, to soak in that sugar-and-poison scent.
“Always such a show with that lot. Boorish.” Lord Church’s lip curled as he observed Elyria, and defensiveness flared in Cedric’s gut.
Lord Church hummed faintly, tilting his head. “Arcanian magic is impressive, that much I will grant them.” He sounded wistful. “Though one might argue the display a touch . . . ostentatious. Not exactly the image of restraint His Majesty and I were hoping for this evening.”
Cedric had to actively keep his hands from curling into fists at his sides. “She stumbled,” he said quietly. “Her wings came out to prevent her from falling. I don’t believe there was any ill intent behind it.”
Lord Church smiled again, though it didn’t reach his eyes. His voice dripped with condescension when he said, “Oh, dear boy. You do see the best in people, don’t you?”
It wasn’t a question.
“I try, my lord.”
“Hold onto that, son.” The lord looked pensive, some emotion flashing across his face. Affection? Regret?
It was gone too fast for Cedric to be sure.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, the king is nearly ready for his grand entrance.
Let us hope that will be the only additional spectacle that remains this evening, yes?
” Lord Church’s amber gaze flicked back to Elyria before returning to Cedric.
“Tomorrow morning,” he continued, as if it had already been decided.
“My study. I expect a full accounting of what you and Sir Hale found. Or, I suppose, what you didn’t find. ”
“Of course, my lord.”
“And Cedric”—the lord’s voice softened just a fraction—“do spare Portentia a moment or two tonight, if you can. I believe you two have much to discuss as well.”
The reminder cut through Cedric’s rising frustration like a dagger. He offered the lord a shallow nod, his chest tight.
Satisfied, Lord Church turned, melting into the crowd.
Cedric exhaled through his nose, every muscle in his body locked tight as his gaze sought Elyria once more.
The room was beginning to right itself. The music resumed.
Nobles turned away, ceased staring at Elyria quite as directly—well, some of them did, anyway.
Cedric noted the continued glares of more than a few attendees scattered throughout the room.
She, too, had resumed her performance. Chin lifted.
A bold smirk on her mouth. That unbothered air he knew she affected when she was pretending like she didn’t care.
It wasn’t cold, though. Wasn’t quite that same mask of icy indifference she’d worn in the Crucible.
She still had that glint in her eye, the spark of wild in her spirit peeking through.
It made Cedric’s own fire flicker in response.
A broad grin broke out across her face as she said something to the man standing next to her. Cedric realized with dumbfounded surprise that the person she’d been conversing with was, in fact, a rather smug-looking Tristan.
Cedric began moving toward the pair, stupidity making the back of his neck feel hot. He hadn’t even recognized his friend.
He blamed the dress.
But even as he tried to shoo away his embarrassment, he couldn’t help but smile inwardly. Tristan had met Elyria. Elyria had met Tristan. Delight sparked within Cedric at the way his worlds were colliding before his very eyes.
Though, that feeling shifted into something else as Tristan bent at the waist and offered Elyria his hand.