The Divine Shallows

Chapter 9Mirth and Mystery

9

Mirth and Mystery

The Banquet of the Blessed was held in one of Eriden’s vast banquet halls, which had been lined with dozens of lengthy tables positioned in rows. These tables were adorned with sheer, silk table runners the shade of gold that extended down the centers of each of them, draping off the table’s edges. Long garlands of greenery were placed on top of the shimmering runners, adding a touch of foliage to the centerpieces. Ornate iron candlesticks, all varying heights, were arranged artfully alongside the leafy garlands as their flames flickered gently, casting charming shadows on the table’s surface.

Hundreds of place settings were made of simple white porcelain, accompanied with silver cutlery and crystal wine goblets. The hour was now dark since the conclusion of the ritual, which left the hall cloaked in amber candlelight and the glow of the floating feylight spheres from above.

Servants greeted guests at the hall’s entrance, offering crystal glasses of vinum , a honey-hued fey wine. In one corner, a string quartet serenaded attendees with a lilting melody beneath an arched pavilion decorated with florets that fell down its frame in vines and pearl streams. A cleared area in the center of the hall awaited dancers, while enchanting water fountains flowed with soothing songs.

At the head table, the king and queen of Eriden were seated alongside the royal family. As a mark of honor to the newly marked divine fey, they are seated among the monarchs hosting the First Day. Thus, Elowyn found herself seated between Elyria and the newly marked warlock, Finnor Wynward.

Although Finnor did not possess a single drop of royal blood, he looked the part. He was winsome in a simplistic way, his frame was built, strong and rugged. And his skin was bronzed, contrasting the snow-white hair that fell to the nape of his neck. As half of his locks were pulled back, a few strands remained hanging loose that framed his angular jaw. Finnor possessed two brilliant eyes of silver, but more notable were his newfound divine markings. A distinctive pattern of moon-inked dragon scales coated every inch of his body, save for his face. He almost looked like a full-blooded Fangwright; all that was missing was four fangs.

The attention of the banquet hall shifted as King Eamon rose from his seat, raising his crystal goblet for attention. “Fey of Neramyr, joy fills my heart on this sacred day as our seven divine warlocks and sorceresses have returned.”

His voice continued in a booming timbre, “The kingdom of Eriden proudly dedicates this season’s Banquet of the Blessed to Finnor Wynward, another son of the moon sworn to House Fangwright. Let us raise our glasses to his triumphant return as a divine warlock!”

Beside Elowyn, Finnor stood tall, his smile radiant as applause and cheers filled the hall. Even her father joined in, raising his glass in a gesture of solidarity.

“Before we commence the festivities,” King Eamon continued, “I must share news of our recent loss. Mere days ago, we mourned the passing of our comrade, Lord Ewell Highhelm, who faithfully served as Commander of the Feyguard for centuries. Before his service, he stood as a trusted ally, fighting alongside me in countless battles to defend Eriden from the lingering darkness of the Old Age. Lord Ewell’s dedication to our realm was unwavering, and his legacy will forever be honored in our kingdom.”

A look of morose shaded King Eamon’s visage. “His legacy shall not fade into oblivion. In his last moments, Lord Ewell expressed a dutiful wish for his legacy as protector of the realm to endure. Though he lived a long and illustrious life, he bore no heir. It was his desire to pass on his mantle to a successor deserving of this honor. Thus, I hereby bestow upon a worthy warlock the esteemed title of Commander of the Feyguard.”

The king’s proclamation resounded, “Let us celebrate the ascension of Eriden’s new Commander, Finnor Wynward! May he uphold the noble legacy forged by Lord Ewell and ensure the continued peace of our kingdom!”

Applause erupted throughout the banquet hall as Finnor graciously acknowledged the declaration before retaking his seat.

King Eamon raised his glass once more. “Let us revel in the riches we’ve reaped! Let the festivities of the Banquet of the Blessed unfold!”

With that, the string quartet launched into a lively tune, and the servant doors swung open on both sides of the hall. Kitchen staff emerged, carrying trays gilded with silver domes, which they presented to the seated guests. Gasps of delight filled the air as the domed trays were unveiled, revealing exquisitely plated dishes crafted from the finest ingredients. With the first course served, the guests indulged, and the hall buzzed with animated conversation.

Elowyn toyed with her food, her appetite seemingly vanished. Glancing to her left, she found Elyria and their mother deeply engaged in conversation, or rather, their mother was lecturing Elyria while she was forced to listen. Elowyn wouldn’t dare interrupt that .

Turning to her right, she wrinkled her nose as she observed Finnor devouring his meal with the voracity of a feral animal. “You must be famished,” she remarked.

Finnor didn’t spare her a glance as he replied matter-of-factly, “I haven’t had a proper meal in seven years.”

Realizing her comment might have sounded callous, Elowyn quickly amended, “Here, you can have mine.” She pushed her plate toward him. “Congratulations on your completion of the Trial and new role as Commander of the Feyguard.”

As Finnor reached for her plate, his hand halted abruptly. Swallowing his mouthful, he glanced at her briefly, his silver eyes widening in recognition before he swiftly wiped his mouth with a napkin. “No, I couldn’t. It wouldn’t be appropriate for me to deprive you of your meal, Princess Elowyn. I apologize for my lack of manners; the aftershock of the Trial remains heavily on my mind.”

Elowyn offered him a tight-lipped smile. “Please, just call me Elowyn. Besides, I’m not particularly hungry, and I’d hate to see it go to waste.” Offering the plate back, she handed it directly to him.

For a moment, uncertainty flickered in Finnor’s eyes, but hunger won out. “Thank you, Princess,” he murmured, accepting the plate, and transferring its contents onto his own.

Elowyn laced her fingers under her chin and stared at the warlock, now curious. “If you don’t mind me asking, since Lord Ewell bore no sons or daughters, how exactly did he select you as his successor?”

A barrage of questions flooded Elowyn’s thoughts, but she cautioned herself to tread carefully around the newly marked divine warlock.

“Lord Ewell wasn’t bound to me by blood, but he was like to a second father to me,” Finnor replied.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Elowyn offered sincerely.

“It’s no matter. I was able to make my peace with it seven years ago before I crossed the Bridge Between Words. The last Sixth Day, Lord Ewell told me of the rare illness that afflicted him. The menders from the Healers Keep could do nothing for it… I knew he would pass during my time in the Trial. He revealed his plan to succeed his legacy to me upon my return as a divine warlock. His memory was the one thing that tethered me to Neramyr during the past seven years.”

Elowyn didn’t expect the candid response from Finnor. “That’s heartbreaking. I wish you could’ve had more time with him before his passing.”

“As do I, but the Moon Goddess determines the timeline of all fates. I often wonder if this hardship was also a part of her Trial for me,” Finnor murmured.

“You might be right,” Elowyn agreed with a half-hearted chuckle. “Enduring a cruel fate may be among one of her many tests.” She thought fleetingly of Elyria, born without the Goddess’ Mark, before swiftly changing the topic. “So, accepting the responsibility of being the newly appointed Commander of the Feyguard. That’s quite an undertaking.”

Finnor was nearly finished with his meal, scraping the last remnants onto his fork. “Yes, it is. I’ve wanted to serve the realm since I was a feyling.”

Elowyn recalled that the Fangwright warlock was of lowborn blood. For Finnor to have ascended into such a highly ranked position, along with becoming a divine fey, was an incredible feat for someone born with a commoner status such as his. His magic must be incredible. She questioned, “And how old are you now?”

“Thirty-four.” Finnor answered. In Neramyr, though rarely, the oldest fey could live into their thousandths if fate allowed.

“Really? You must have made quite an impression for my father to entrust you with such leadership at Lord Ewell’s behest,” Elowyn remarked.

Finnor nodded. “I first met Lord Ewell when my family moved into the inner districts of Eriden. We owned a renowned smithy in the outskirts north of here, supplying weaponry exclusively for the kingdom, and at that time, we corresponded directly with Lord Ewell.”

He cleared his throat before continuing, “After some time at the forge, Lord Ewell persuaded me to join the cavalry of the Feyguard. Without his encouragement, I would have remained a simple blacksmith in the countryside. Though that life may have been straightforward, I wouldn’t have achieved the feats I have today—I always aspired to be more than just a blacksmith.”

Another group of kitchen stewards appeared, clearing their empty plates, and serving the next course. Elowyn extended her plate to Finnor, who accepted it graciously before resuming his narrative.

“After a few years in the cavalry, I was promoted to officer of my own unit. Eventually, Lord Ewell began inviting me to military councils held by the king, where I observed silently for years. Until one day, I spoke up on an issue, and to my surprise, the king was impressed with my suggestion. From that day on, your father acknowledged my potential.”

Finnor’s voice carried admiration as he spoke further, “King Eamon is a charitable ruler who values his kingdom and his folk above all. His Majesty was filled with pride when I was chosen by the Goddess as a divine candidate. If not for the generosity and opportunities he has offered me, I wouldn’t be where I am today.”

As Finnor continued speaking about her father, Elowyn’s aura became more reserved. If Finnor truly believed what he was saying about her father, he was deeply mistaken. She couldn’t help but wonder how many others her father had charmed into his good graces. Despite her reservations, she continued to listen to Finnor’s story about his life, offering him portions of her plate as he spoke. This went on for quite some time until the last dish was served.

A servant placed a tray before Elowyn, revealing a porcelain teacup atop a plate piled with scones and teacakes beneath the silver dome. She nearly squealed with delight at the sight .

Glancing at Finnor’s plate, she noticed he had been served a berry trifle, just like everyone else in the hall. She turned to her left to ask her sister about it, but Elyria’s seat was empty, as was her mother’s. Elowyn had been so absorbed in her conversation with Finnor that she hadn’t noticed their departure. Her father, meanwhile, was engrossed in an argument with her uncle, his irritation evident on his face as he sipped his vinum .

Regardless, Elowyn raised the tea to her lips and savored its fragrance of lilac and honey—clearly a gift from Elyria. She smiled to herself and took a cheerful sip from the porcelain cup.

“Not sharing this time?” Finnor teased.

“Not this time,” Elowyn replied with a small chuckle, biting into a teacake. “I’m keeping this one for myself.”

“Fair enough,” Finnor conceded, crossing his arms, and letting out a tired sigh. “I’m just glad to be home.”

“I can only imagine... This morning you were in the midst of the Trial, and now you’re back in Neramyr. If I were in your shoes, I’d be shifting between shock and relief,” Elowyn remarked sympathetically.

“I’m definitely something close to that,” Finnor admitted, clearing his throat uncomfortably. “The Trial is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to endure. I understand completely now why the Goddess only allows those who survive her Trial to bear the responsibility of wielding divine magic.”

Elowyn leaned in closer, intrigued. “What was your Trial like?”

“As you know, it’s different each season. My cohort was lucky enough to stick together. The concept of day and night didn’t exist where we ended up… at least not like how it is in this realm,” Finnor explained, picking at his trifle. “There was dusk and dawn, sun and moon, day and night, but it was all disordered. Sometimes in the thick of nightfall, the sun would blaze. When spring approached, flowers bloomed and flourished as snow blanketed them in po wder sheets.”

Finnor took a generous drink from his crystal goblet and sighed with exhaustion.

“There were creatures I’d never seen before, colors I’d known my entire life appeared inverted, all my sensibilities were aimless. It was as bewildering as it was baffling. I had to retrain my senses every day for the past seven years in order to survive. The otherworldly beasts that roamed the lands of the Trial were nothing like I’d ever trained for. I lost count of the times I thought I wouldn’t make it back here,” he confessed, the last sentence falling heavily from his lips.

“Your life was truly at risk?” Elowyn winced. “But everyone that’s completed the Trial has returned to Neramyr.”

“The Trial is not for the faint-hearted,” Finnor responded solemnly. “Those chosen by the Goddess to participate are selected with reason and intent. If your name is called on the Seventh Day, it is because Caena believes you will succeed.”

Elowyn’s mind swirled with thoughts of her impending candidacy, her stomach twisting in an endless spiral. “Did you really get to face the Moon Goddess?”

“No,” Finnor replied frankly. “Nobody can see her, but you can feel her presence all around. Her magic is… it’s daunting.”

As the weight of her own candidacy settled in, Elowyn slowly replaced the teacake in her hand back onto her plate. In six days’ time, her name would be called on the Seventh Day, and she would begin her training at the Seven Spires. Seven years to prepare seemed insufficient, especially considering the poor control she had over her wayward abilities.

Abruptly, Elowyn pushed her seat back and stood up. The occupied seats in the banquet hall were thinning as courtiers took to the dance floor. Ignoring her troubling thoughts, Elowyn extended her hand to Finnor. “Would you care to dance with me?”

Taken aback by her sudden request, Finnor stared at her, momentarily confounded .

“Oh,” Elowyn retracted her hand. “That was cavalier. You’re probably exhausted, and dancing is the last thing on your mind.”

“No, of course. I would love to, Princess,” Finnor responded, standing up and offering his hand back to her.

Elowyn smiled, accepting his hand as he led them to the open floor in the banquet hall. She spun on her heels to face him, and Finnor rested his left hand on her waist as he cradled her right hand in his. Elowyn noticed that his hands were calloused and rugged, yet they held her with considerable care. Around them, a few couples had already begun to swirl and twirl. Following suit, Finnor and Elowyn began a graceful waltz at a gentle pace.

As they began their dance, Finnor chuckled beneath his breath. Elowyn tilted her head in response and questioned, “Is something the matter?”

“I just wanted to thank you for making this easier on me,” Finnor replied. “It hasn’t been the smoothest transition, all this.” He tossed his head briskly, his chin pointing to the world around him. “Part of me is unconvinced I’m in Neramyr. My mind is warning me that I’m trapped in another test, and I’ll wake up back in the Trial come sunrise.”

Elowyn’s heart went out to him as she assured, “You’re really in Neramyr, Finnor.”

“The Trial… It was like one nightmare to the next, but I’m glad it’s over. I’m a better warlock for it when it’s all said and done,” Finnor shrugged.

Elowyn nodded in agreement, her eyes roaming to his hand clasped in hers. The warlock’s hands, neck, and body were now covered in pearlescent markings. The moon-inked dragon scales etched onto the surface of his skin were his permanent reminder that he was exceptional—a divine fey.

“Well, your aura is incredibly powerful. From the outside, you look like every bit a divine warlock. If that helps at all,” Elowyn said.

Finnor smiled at her comment. “It does help. With everything that?—”

Their dance was short-lived as someone tapped Finnor’s shoulder. The two stopped their spinning and turned. A bronzed hand was outstretched to Elowyn, the very hand her smallest finger was intertwined with earlier. She recognized the Darkmaw prince’s palm before she even looked up to find his claret-red hair and golden irises gazing at her.

“Excuse me, Commander Wynward. May I have a dance with the Fangwright princess?” Draeden addressed him.

A pang of irritation rippled through Finnor’s face, but it quickly faded. He reluctantly ceded Elowyn’s hand to Draeden’s palm. “Take care, Princess Elowyn,” he said before stepping away and disappearing into the crowd of fey.

Elowyn turned back to Draeden; he only smiled as he whisked her across the floor, twirling her in place until the skirts of her dress swirled in a champagne spiral. Elowyn giggled at the rush and returned his smile as he artfully placed his hand around her waist, leading her into a dance with spirited steps.

“Hello again, Princess Elowyn.” Draeden greeted her mid-step, keeping his lively pace.

Looking into his golden eyes, she said, “Hello again, Prince Draeden.” Elowyn’s heart began fluttering in her chest.

“Are there any other dreamy portal stories you’d like to share with me?” He teased, playfulness gleaming in his eyes.

“Where do I begin?” She tsked, countering the prince.

He threw back his head and laughed heartily. “Such a clever one you are.”

“I’d sure hope so.” Elowyn retorted.

He added with a wink, “And ever so enchanting.”

Elowyn’s face flushed as Draeden continued leading her across the floor in charming steps. Their eyes remained locked on each other as they swayed and swirled in fervent footfalls. Their movements blended as they created a twirling mirage of claret-red and snow-white. Bouts of light laughter escaped from Elowyn and handsome smirks bloomed across the surface of Draeden’s face.

The music in the hall guided their graceful steps and as the melody reached its crescendo, Draeden dipped Elowyn by the waist, a grin playing on his lips. They continued their delicate dance that felt like minutes, hours, or days—Elowyn couldn’t tell. Time lost its meaning for her in this moment, it let her forget the weight of the world around her. Too soon, their strides began to slow and the song that shepherded their steps ceased. Elowyn was surprised to find herself breathless.

“Can I get you a refreshment?” Draeden offered, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow.

“Yes,” Elowyn replied, feeling the need for refreshment. “Please.”

He led her through the crowd, weaving them through the waltzing revelers before they stopped at a refreshment table. He filled two goblets with water and offered one to Elowyn. She took it gratefully and drained it entirely as he sipped from his own. He poured her another and it went down quicker than the first. Elowyn rubbed her temple methodically, feeling lightheaded as moved and rested herself on a nearby pillar.

Draeden’s expression colored with concern as he placed a hand on her arm. “Are you feeling all right?”

“I’m just feeling a bit faint. I didn’t eat much earlier, and the lively atmosphere is a bit overwhelming,” Elowyn admitted.

The celebration in the banquet hall was in full swing as nobility and courtiers alike were singing and laughing together in spirited company. Most of the tables were cleared and the dance floor was overflowing. The newest moon marked warlocks and sorceresses, Finnor included, were talking and chatting amongst each other as they sat clustered on one end of a long banquet table. They appeared sapped, but rightfully so.

Finnor sat at the far end of the table, engrossed in conversation with a sorceress possessing mint-colored hair that hinted at her Skyborn lineage, evident from the shimmering aquamarine wings adorning her back. Elowyn observed their interaction, uncertain of what to make of the Fangwright warlock. While their conversation seemed harmless, Finnor’s previous remarks about her father left Elowyn wary of placing too much trust in him.

Her attention briefly shifted to her father, who remained deep in discussion with her uncle at the head table. Elowyn felt a wave of relief knowing that their focus wasn’t directed towards her or her sister. As the festivities continued to escalate, Elowyn longed for a reprieve from the crowded hall. She couldn’t help but wonder where her mother and sister had disappeared to, likely embroiled in yet another argument that only added to Elowyn’s mounting anxiety.

Interrupting her thoughts, Draeden’s voice drew Elowyn’s attention. “Do you have a favorite spot in the castle?”

Elowyn considered the question for a moment before replying, “One of the balconies near the mountainside. Why do you ask?”

“I have a plan,” Draeden announced with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Wait here for me, I’ll be right back.” With that, the Darkmaw prince disappeared into the crowd, leaving Elowyn leaning against the marble pillar.

Moments later, Draeden returned, balancing a tray of delicacies and a bottle of vinum in his hands, his dimpled smile lighting up his face. The tray offered an enticing array of cured meats, fine cheeses, delicate crackers, dried fruits, nuts, and a generous selection of sweets. Elowyn’s stomach rumbled at the sight.

“Lead the way,” Draeden said simply.

“To where?” Elowyn inquired, intrigued by his sudden plan.

“Where else? To your favorite balcony, of course,” Draeden replied, his smirk suggesting an adventure awaited them.

Elowyn hesitated for a moment, feeling a twinge of uncertainty. However, she recognized Draeden’s offer as a chance to escape the bustling chaos of the banquet hall. Whether it was the allure of respite or simply a spur-of-the-moment decision, she grabbed two goblets and nodded in agreement.

She gratefully led the Darkmaw prince to the exit of the banquet hall and the two of them quietly snuck out, slinking carefully through the castle halls.

The crisp night air brushed against Elowyn’s skin, invigorating her as she gazed out at the majestic mountain range. Above, the sky displayed a canvas of midnight gray and indigo blue, sprinkled with stars that gleamed like twinkling gems. A shy moon peeked from behind plush clouds, while the breeze continued to caress her in a gentle current.

Leaning on the balcony ledge, Elowyn breathed in the calm of the night before turning to find an intricately crafted iron-wrought table spread with fare and two goblets filled with fey wine. Draeden lounged in one of the cushioned chairs, gesturing for her to join him. Elowyn accepted it without hesitation as she plucked a dried apricot from the tray and popped it in her mouth, savoring the sweet taste as she settled into her seat.

Draeden admired the skyscape, swirling his goblet thoughtfully before taking a sip. “Do you experience this view every night?” he asked.

“Most nights,” Elowyn replied. “Though some are less enchanting than others. I’d like to believe that Eriden holds a beauty that no other place has in Neramyr.”

“It certainly is something. My home in Orwyn doesn’t hold quite the same charm this place has,” Draeden remarked.

“I’ve never been…This is the first Ceremony where I’ll be able to travel to all seven realms,” Elowyn admitted. “What’s Orwyn like? ”

Draeden paused, contemplating his response. “Orwyn lies in the badlands of Neramyr. It’s vastly different from Eriden. The air is dry, and the land is mainly rocks and clay soil. We have some grasslands, but they’re sparse. Orwyn has its own appeal, though. You’ll discover it for yourself soon enough.” He chuckled and took another sip of wine, leaving the mystery of Orwyn to unfold in the days to come.

“I’ll be sure to report back to you about my thoughts once I’ve set my eyes on your kingdom myself,” Elowyn smiled.

“Please do,” Draeden responded with a smirk. “I hear they have a handsome prince.”

Elowyn playfully rolled her eyes as she assembled a snack of smoked meat, aged cheese, and salted crackers, pairing it with sips of vinum .

“Besides our occasional glances and banter, I realize I don’t know much about you,” Elowyn mentioned. “Out of curiosity, what prompted this?” She gestured her hand between them, referring to their interactions.

“To be honest, I didn’t remember you until I saw you at the Temple of Caena,” Draeden admitted. “But once I did, memories of the previous Ceremony flooded back. I was curious about you.”

“Interesting. Well, I can assure you I’m not as shy as I used to be,” Elowyn chuckled. “How old are you?”

“I’m twenty-two,” Draeden answered. “And you?”

“Nineteen,” Elowyn replied, taking another bite.

“Our entire divine cohort is young… The infamous ‘sacred seven’ as Neramyr likes to call it,” Draeden mused. “Whatever the Goddess has in store for us, I’m not exactly eager to find out.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Elowyn confessed. “I’m terrified of the Trial. I spoke with Finnor earlier; he seemed quite shaken. Honestly, all the returning candidates appear to be. Except for the primis , of course.”

“I’ve noticed that too. I haven’t had a chance to speak with Serafina, yet. But I imagine she feels the same as the Commander,” Draeden remarked, referring to the newly divine Darkmaw sorceress sworn to his House.

“Lovely. I can’t wait until that’s us,” Elowyn nervously chuckled.

Amidst the festivities of the Ceremony of Caena, many forget the dangers beyond the Bridge Between Worlds. Those lands harbor beasts and monsters from the Old Age—a dark reminder of the Trial’s treacherous nature.

When called to the Trial, a fey must comply; refusal was considered treason against the Goddess. Candidates are expected not only to survive, but to thrive in an environment designed to test their knowledge, strength, and resolve over seven years. There had been candidates who have returned across the Bridge Between Worlds broken and defeated; never living as their former self and wasting away into nothingness. These warlocks and sorceresses were exiled; refusing to wield the divine magic they were given for the benefit of the seven realms.

It was said that to be chosen to receive the final Mark of Caena was as much of a blessing as it was a curse.

“We’ll make it through,” Draeden vowed, as though he could hear Elowyn’s thoughts aloud.

Elowyn’s attention turned to him as he as he held out a pinky finger to her in solidarity. After a moment’s consideration, she extended her own, intertwining it with his.

Throughout the lulling night, the two heirs delved deeper into conversation, baring their truths and fears, sharing their hopes and dreams, and exchanging quiet laughs and secretive smiles. Their dialogue only ceased when the moon surrendered to slumber, and the sun stirred awake.

As their time drew to a close, Elowyn found herself captivated as she watched the prince disappear through the shimmering pillars of a moongate, leaving her with lingering feelings of mirth and mystery, carrying those emotions to her bed.