Chapter 3 #2
Araya had no argument for that. She twisted her hands in her lap, rubbing her thumb absently over the rune inked on her skin. “I didn’t know Serafina was involved in smuggling fae out of the New Dominion,” she admitted. “I just… didn’t think anyone should be in that much pain.”
Not even rude, inconsiderate fae princes.
El studied her for a long moment. “You’re angry at him, aren’t you? For bringing you here?”
Araya’s breath hitched, her fingers tightening slightly.
“It’s hard not to be when he tore me away from everything I knew. I had a life there—a life I worked hard for.” She had to force the next words out past the lump in her throat. “He took that away from me without even asking what I wanted.”
“That must be terrifying,” El murmured. “I’m sure he felt like he didn’t have a choice. He was a good male—before. I think he still is, underneath it all, even if he’s struggling.”
“You knew him before?”
“He’s older than me, but yes—I did.” El’s smile turned wistful, almost sad. “He was kind. The sort of male who would have made a good king.” Her gaze lingered on the fire, shadows dancing across her face. “Maybe he still will—if the right people stand beside him.”
Araya swallowed, something unsteady twisting in her stomach. “Do you think he’ll let me leave?”
El glanced away, for the first time seeming to lack an easy answer.
“I think if it were up to him, he’d let you do whatever you wanted,” she said finally.
“But a crown isn’t just a piece of metal.
It’s a promise—and sometimes we’re forced to keep that promise, even when it hurts the people we love. ”
“Loren doesn’t love me.” Araya almost laughed.
“Maybe, maybe not.” El shrugged. “I just hope you can find a way to forgive him. I know he didn’t handle things well. But he isn’t heartless. He’d redeem himself—if you gave him the chance.”
“I don’t know if I care about his redemption,” Araya admitted. “I just want to go home.”
El smiled sadly. “I can understand that.”
They sat in silence for a moment, until El stood, shaking out her skirts like she could shake off the dark mood that had settled over the room. She lifted the dress from its hanger, holding it out.
“We should get you ready for dinner now,” she said, her voice forcedly light. “My reputation couldn’t bear it if you looked anything less than stunning.”
Araya hesitated, her fingers brushing the edge of the gossamer fabric. “I’m not trying to impress anyone.”
“Please—” El snorted, giving the dress a little shake. “You deserve to wear something that makes you feel powerful. Like a queen.”
Araya scoffed. She was no queen. But she let El help her into the dress anyway, the fabric hugging her torso before it flared out at the waist in a waterfall of deep purple and shimmering silver.
And she couldn’t help but return El’s smile when the other female stepped back, clapping her hands in delight.
“What did you want to do with your hair?”
“I usually just braid it back—” Araya stopped at the look of abject horror on El’s face. “Did you have another idea?”
El ushered Araya to the vanity, weaving the front sections of her hair into a delicate crown with practiced ease, leaving the rest to flow over her shoulders in loose, cascading waves.
The dress really did bring out the shift from deep red to violet, emphasizing how the purple entwined with deep burgundy.
“I love your hair,” El said as she stepped back to admire her work. “It’s beautiful.”
Araya swallowed hard, staring at her reflection. Her hair was one of the most fae things about her—something she’d spent her entire life hiding. To see it highlighted and celebrated instead…her chest ached with a feeling she couldn’t quite name as El gave her a final satisfied nod.
“Perfect,” the other female said. “Now for me—”
She flicked her fingers, a ripple of magic brushing away the dust and smoothing the creases that had settled in the layers of her own dress.
Araya caught her breath, her heart racing in her chest at such a casual use of power. But El just looped their arms together, half-dragging Araya toward the door.
“Come on,” she said, her grin bright and full of mischief. “I have a feeling you’re going to make quite an impression at dinner.”
Araya laughed, letting herself be pulled along. She slipped and slid in the ridiculous silk slippers El had dug out from the back of the wardrobe, but the other female only clutched her arm tighter, both of them giggling like children as they stumbled through the halls.
“Alright,” El whispered when they finally approached the carved double doors to the dining room. “Brace yourself.”
Araya laughed, but the sound died on her lips the moment they stepped inside. El hadn’t been joking—silence crashing over the room like a wave.
Thorne sat beside Nyra across the table, his expression tight as he looked from El to Araya. Nyra had gone rigid, her grip on her goblet white-knuckled. Her gaze flicked toward the head of the table, where a golden-haired male gaped at them with what could only be described as abject horror.
And then there was Loren.
Araya’s breath hitched in her throat. Loren had bathed—thoroughly.
His hair, once matted and unkempt, now sheared to his chin.
The filthy, ragged prisoner who had haunted her dreams for so many months was gone, his prison rags and borrowed clothing replaced by a finely embroidered black tunic and pants, paired with shining leather boots.
But it was his eyes that froze her where she stood. Those sharp, vivid green eyes burned with a fury that set her heart racing in her chest.
Araya swallowed hard. She was almost certain his anger wasn’t directed at her, but it still struck her like a physical force, stealing the air from her lungs, making her legs feel weak. The air in the room changed, crackling with something charged and dangerous.
“El…” the golden-haired male beside Loren gripped the prince’s arm like he expected him to erupt. “Are you mad?”
“Mad?” El said, sweeping the room with a stare that could have made kings falter. She stopped at Loren, meeting his anger without a drop of fear. “Did you honestly think I’d let you send her a tray to eat in her room again? Our parents would be horrified by how you’re treating her.”
“Eloria,” Loren snarled through gritted teeth, his voice dangerously low. He ripped his arm free of the other male’s grip and barked something in Valenya, his words quick and harsh.
Eloria. The realization hit Araya like a punch to the gut, stealing her breath. El—the female who had laughed with her, dressed her, and done her hair—wasn’t just some kind stranger. She was Princess Eloria of Valendral. The fae regent.
Loren’s sister.