Chapter 10
Ten
Betrayal.
Treachery.
The night sky spins as I plunge through the open air. The dark ground of the rippling lawn surges closer, resembling a looming grave. This is it. The sorrow and rage I’ve choked down now erupt with volcanic force.
A wave of fire sears through my veins, gathering speed and power. It charges every fiber in my body until magic detonates within me.
Invisible winds swirl and crackle, enfolding me in a protective cocoon.
I’m weightless, suspended in a cyclone of energy.
The shield hardens moments before impact. Instead of splattering, I hit the ground with a bone-jarring thud. Pain tears through my leg as my ankle twists. I collapse as the magic dissipates in a gust.
Dazed, I gulp lungfuls of air, my heart pounding like a drum against my ribs. Disbelief wars with dizzying awe as I lie in the grass and gaze up at the velvet-black sky, its stars glistening in approval.
Euphoria surges.
The power—my power—is real.
Buried, but very much real…
I exhale sharply through my nostrils until my pulse slows.
Through blurred vision, I can see General Metalla and Balor gesturing from the turret, their mouths moving soundlessly.
I’m unable to decipher what they’re saying.
My head sways. Was this Metalla’s real test all along?
What is he trying to prove by being so fucking violent?
My mind clips over a series of expletives, landing on an internal scream.
Gritting my teeth against the pain, I push myself up.
Vomit spews onto the grass. With a wipe of my chin, I slowly and silently vow that if I can prove this power—right here and right now—by lighting the lamppost as they instructed, then they can never force me to submit to their whims again.
Even if it was a fake test, I won’t give them a reason to deny me what could be mine.
I dig deep, grasping at the last shreds of magic left in me.
For too long, I’ve suffered their lecherous gazes and groping hands claiming ownership. No longer will I be at their mercy.
As the sovereign, I could finally have a voice.
Even if ruling is the last thing I’d ever choose.
If the crown can help me get far away, where I can be me—not a courtesan, not the daughter of the king—just Tabitha, then I’ll do what I’ve been trained to do and use every opportunity available to me to further my goals.
I’ll play along if only to get rid of those who deserve it on my way out to a different sort of life.
And before I leave, perhaps I’ll be able to change a few outdated laws for my courtesan sisters.
This strange turn of events could be to my advantage—to our advantage.
My twisted, possibly broken ankle throbs as I force myself to stand, nearly crumpling again before steadying myself.
I release a shuddering gasp as the excruciating, knife-like pain travels up my leg with each limping step, and despite the chilly night, sweat plasters my hair to my neck and forehead, my curls tangling under the circlet.
Don’t stop, I order myself.
But the lamppost is too far away.
Tremors shake my body, and my calf muscle spasms. I grind my teeth, blotting out the agony. Hot tears spill down my cheeks.
Only a few more steps. I shuffle forward, panting as everything blurs. It would be easy to give in and collapse to the ground, but if I do, they win.
Balor wins.
With a garbled yell, I push through. My palm slaps against the metal rod of the lamppost, the hard impact biting into my skin.
Leaning heavily, I attempt to create more magic. Just a spark—that’s all I need—but I don’t know what I’m doing. Nothing happens. I cry out in frustration, and the sound travels across the empty grounds.
I stare desperately at the unlit post, pleading with it, digging for the last dregs of an unknown power.
Nothing.
I don’t know how long I stand there, willing the light to come forth. As the pain in my ankle becomes unbearable, I decide to slowly turn around and hobble back to the castle.
Awash with tears, I cast one final look over my shoulder.
A spark.
A flame ignites.
My legs finally give out as shadows consume me.
* * *
The world dwindles, leaving nothing but an impenetrable veil of darkness in its place.
Blackness devours me.
I’m floating in a rippling, black-as-midnight pool of liquid. My waist-length tresses fan in the water. Shadows roam over my flesh, sending waves of contentment unlike anything I’ve ever experienced.
A silhouette bathed in shadows sharpens into focus. He lifts me from the pool.
“Eyes on me, my lady,” he rumbles in a strange northern accent. His hand grabs my chin and tilts my face toward him.
I try to see who he is.
But I can’t.
One by one, his fingers wrap around my neck, squeezing until I gasp for air and my body sinks under the suffocating oblivion and nightmares.
My eyes fly open.
The weight of the circlet presses on my scalp.
I touch it, still not believing as I shake off the unsettling dream.
It hums under my fingertips as I lie on the castle lawn, surrounded by the serene beauty of the silver-moonlit garden.
Dirt cakes my diminished but still glowing hands as I untangle my tattered gown from between my legs.
A dull ache pulses from my ankle. The quiet tranquility of the night offers little comfort as my mind begins to race with questions.
Behind me, a flame still illuminates the lamppost. I gaze up at the turret. A beam shines out like a lighthouse on the water’s edge.
Without Captain Wellcrest’s escort, I don’t know my way back, but I haven’t come this far to give up now.
As I step into the castle, I hear it. The whispers pull at my senses, edging me along the empty corridor.
They’re just out of reach—but now, I welcome them like old friends.
When I’m wearing the circlet, their voices sound different—more melodic and less volatile.
It reminds me of the ancient, dead language of the fae.
The ethereal beauty of their song soothes my fear, and my ankle feels strangely better.
I keep going in their direction, toward a dusty and unused portion of the castle. Framed artwork leans against the walls, and sheets cover the furniture.
The whispers change. Their words grow more distinct as I get closer.
“Even if she is the king’s daughter, she isn’t fit to be queen.”
Up the spiral staircase, I follow.
“The girl will weaken our stance in the war against the Witch-King.”
“Could the priestesses remove her using the veil of penance?”
“Tabitha is the legitimate offspring of the king; the cathedral is powerless in this instance.”
Hot blood curdles under my skin until I find myself standing outside the turret chamber. I blink, barely remembering my climb up the stairs. The sentries on the landing are gone.
Without hesitation, I fling open the door, wanting the High Lords to know their games are over.
Then… I see him.
Azure eyes, rigid and frozen.
The king is dead.
I drop and kneel beside him, unable to believe it. “What happened?” I croak. He may have been dying, but I thought I’d have more time. Maybe a few days with him to ease me into this madness.
Standing with the High Council, Briggs clears his throat. “The circlet gave him the strength to live tonight, but his body couldn’t hold out any longer without the power of the Alexra.”
“Alexra?” I ask, realizing I’ve never heard this word before.
General Metalla fixes a scathing gaze on me.
Air constricts in my ribcage. The weight of the hatred in his stare makes me drop my line of sight, and my cheeks burn as I study the floor’s wood grain.
Metalla slowly answers, “The circlet is crafted from its ore. Now, hand it over.” He extends his open palm.
The whispers chant: no no no no no.
I step backward. “I don’t—”
“You dare defy an order?” he asks, his wrist cuffs reflecting the firelight with an iridescent glimmer.
I take another step back, accidentally bumping into Balor. He places his hand on my shoulder, but I shrug him off and move toward the door. “It would be different if I hadn’t passed your test, but I did. Everyone here witnessed it. You can’t take away the circlet. The king bequeathed it to me.”
Awkward and ever a stickler for royal etiquette, Briggs argues, “We should honor the king’s wishes; he was our lord and liege, and his will be done. This girl is his legal daughter and heir by all blood rights.”
The High Lords remain silent, watching our exchange.
Breaking the silence, Briggs drops to one knee and places his fist over his heart. “Power reigns to the Queen.” The other men look around uncomfortably, their brows furrowing and feet shuffling. Briggs, appearing determined, repeats, “Power reigns to the Queen.”
“Power reigns to the Queen,” Balor echoes—something switching in his demeanor.
The others half-heartedly mumble the same, but General Metalla does not move his lips.
He does not speak the words. Loudly, he declares, “This girl is no queen—not until coronation.” He sweeps a wrathful gaze over the council, making some of the High Lords stumble over their pledges before he exits.
I sway on my feet. Briggs catches my arms, lifting me by the elbows. “She’s exhausted.”
“Rightfully so,” Balor says. “Give her to me. I’ll take her to the… monarch’s chambers.”
“I dare you to try,” Captain Wellcrest growls as he steps out of the shadows, watching the entire time…
waiting. His long braids fall across his catlike eyes as he strides over and swoops me into his arms like I weigh nothing.
I don’t fight it. His armored chest is the first bit of comfort I’ve had during this nightmare.
“I suppose we should call you Queensguard now,” Briggs boasts, slapping him on the shoulder.
Balor heads toward the door. “I’ll fetch a healer for her injuries.” His attention narrows on me before he flees the turret.
The remaining High Lords burst into conversation once more.
“We must prepare for the funeral pyre.”