30 This Weight
This Weight
Vaelira didn’t have time to register what was happening before the guard slammed a fist to Freya’s side. She gasped, her knees cracking on the stone floor as she collapsed, rolling onto her side as she fought for air.
Vaelira surged forward, reaching for her essensia, but nothing rose to her palms. Another guard seized her, dragging her back.
“Let her go,” she spat at Queen Mairese, twisting in the guard’s grip. How long had they been keeping Freya hostage? How long had they been planning this?
“Mother,” Elijah said, stepping forward. The sound of his voice turned her blood to acid. He had the nerve to look shocked, to act like he didn’t play a role in any of this. Even if the hordes of the Abyss rose and all Eastvale turned to ash, she would never forgive him for this.
The Queen raised a hand, silencing him, her eyes fixed on Vaelira. “You will heal the King,” she said, stepping closer. “Or you will watch her die.”
Vaelira stopped struggling. Behind her, she heard grunt and a whimper as Freya took another hit.
“Stop!” Vaelira cried. “I’ll do it. Just let her go.”
The Queen nodded to the guard. He loosened his grip on Vaelira’s arm and reached for a key.
Vaelira tried to hide her surprise. They would have to remove the shackles for her to wield. Maybe she could fight a way out for them both.
Elijah caught her eye and shook his head.
She wanted to free his neck of its weight.
She glared at him, but the interruption forced her to think it through once more, play out each possibility, and as much as she hated to admit it, he was right.
She still wasn’t trained enough to use her essensia in a real fight, not without risking Freya’s life.
The chapel was proof of that, and she didn’t even have her amethyst this time.
She would have to do what the Queen wanted. The King would owe her his life and she’d demand Freya’s release. It was the only way they were both making it out of this alive.
The guard took hold of the shackles and slipped the key into the lock. A soft click, and the metal clattered to the floor.
Her power surged forward instantly. Like the breaking of a dam, a wave of power rushed into her veins, her bones, her flesh. She inhaled sharply, closing her eyes as warmth poured down her arms and sparked at her fingertips.
The guard grabbed her wrist, as if afraid of what she might do but he cursed and let go the moment her skin burned his.
Vaelira opened her eyes and stared directly at Queen Mairese. She let a slow, deliberate smile curve her lips and for a heartbeat, terror flickered on the Queen’s face. It was gone in an instant. “Heal him,” she ordered.
Vaelira didn’t look at Freya, she didn’t trust herself to. Rage was simmering too close to the surface, and power roiled with it, too eager and unpredictable.
She stepped forward stiffly and placed her hands on the end of the bed. The King looked so small. So weak.
She focused on her breath, steadying herself, then sent tendrils of essensia towards him, willing it to seek what plagued the man. The threads hovered for a moment and then descended.
They recoiled the instant her essensia touched his skin, her limbs turning to ice. She gasped, staggering as the power snapped back into her.
“What is it?” Queen Mairese said. “What’s wrong with him?”
“I don’t know,” Vaelira whispered, her eyes locked on the King. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t so much as stirred at the touch of her power. He didn’t seem to know any of them were there at all.
And she couldn’t shake the cold.
Queen Mairese reached into her skirts and drew a small blade. “The healers can make no sense of it either. His blood,” she hesitated, “they said they’d never seen anything like it.”
She pulled the King’s frail arm from beneath the quilt. Cradling it gently, she pressed the blade to his skin and sliced. Black blood welled.
The air vanished from the room. Invisible hands clamped around Vaelira’s throat. She dropped to her knees, clutching at her neck, but there was nothing there.
Whispers. Thousands of them. The voices of the dead filled her ears, crawled into her skull, and drowned out everything. They grew louder, surging over each other, screaming to be heard. Her hands flew to her ears. It made no difference.
Someone rolled her onto her back, called her name, but she heard only the dead, only the voices clawing at her mind, trying to claim her body as their own.
Her essensia flared, wild and untethered. She let it consume her. Let it burn them away. And then—it stopped.
Vaelira gasped, her lungs filling with air. Fire crackled at her fingertips as she fought to control it.
Elijah was beside her. He slapped at his arm, the sleeve of his jacket smouldering.
She curled onto her side, flames flaring and sputtering in her palms. The essensia gnawed at her restraint, begging her to release it, to burn the bed, the man in it.
Burn everything.
A voice spoke. Freya’s voice. It broke through the storm and nearly shattered her. She clung to that voice, pushed the essensia down, bit by bit, until the inferno withdrew, reluctantly reducing itself to a single, steady flame.
Vaelira drew a long breath and rose. Her blood thrummed and her skin burned with familiar energy.
She could feel every pair of eyes in the room watching her, but she looked only at the King.
He hadn’t moved. The cut on his arm had been covered, the black blood sealed away once more, but she knew now.
An ancient, primal part of her recognised what this was. As surely as she knew her own name, and then she remembered the note she had found.
The seven will bind him at the three peaks. The crown will carry this weight for eternity. May they remember the sacrifice when they burn our kin.
The Crown will carry the weight.
She had thought it meant guilt, the shame of the slaughter, of hunting mages to extinction. But now—now, she understood.
Maerin Vireldane was bound to the King of Caerthalyn, and they expected her to heal him.