Chapter 16Soul of a Stranger
16
Soul of a Stranger
In the darkness, Elowyn struggled to open her heavy eyelids, feeling as though iron chains weighed them down. Blinking against the blur, she gradually took in her surroundings. A familiar scent enveloped her, soothing and comforting. Beneath her, a soft mattress cradled her body, and layers of warm blankets cocooned her form.
A faint smile touched her lips as she recognized the setting of her four-poster bed, draped with a linen canopy. Her attention sharpened when she noticed movement near the entryway of her chamber. Two indistinct figures stood by the cracked door, engaged in conversation. One figure, slender, listened intently while the other, larger, and more robust, received a small, stoppered vial from the first.
As the slender figure slipped out the door, leaving it to swing softly shut, the larger one approached her bed with careful steps. Elowyn recognized his snowy hair, partially bound, and moon-inked scales—Finnor. Her eyes followed his movements as he placed the vial on her bedside table, seemingly unaware of her awakening. Silently, he settled into a chair beside her bed, rubbing his temples in an agitated manner.
Attempting to speak, Elowyn’s voice emerged as a weak rasp. At the sound, Finnor’s silver eyes snapped towards her, and he swiftly rose from his seat. With two long strides, he reached her side, guiding her back into a reclining position on the bed. Once she was stable, Finnor retrieved an empty goblet from the bedside table and filled it with water from a nearby pitcher.
“Water,” he murmured softly, offering her the full goblet.
Elowyn’s throat remained dry while attempting to thank him. Each word felt like sandpaper against her vocal cords, causing her to wince in discomfort. Frustrated by her inability to speak properly, she seized the goblet with trembling hands and drained it in one go. Finnor promptly refilled it and handed it back to her, repeating the process until she had consumed several cups. Gradually, she began to feel slightly better.
Handing her the glass vial he had placed on her bedside earlier, Finnor explained, “It’s a healing potion from the royal mender. She instructed me to ensure you drank it.”
Elowyn accepted the vial and removed the stopper, taking a swig and grimacing at the taste. She gestured for another goblet of water, which Finnor provided without hesitation.
“Why are you here?” Elowyn frowned as she struggled to piece together her memory. “The last thing I remember was…”
As pieces of the memory flooded back to her, Elowyn abruptly threw off the heavy blankets covering her and attempted to rise from the bed. However, dizziness overwhelmed her, and she nearly stumbled to the floor before Finnor caught her and guided her back to the bed.
“Princess, you must rest,” Finnor pleaded, voice concerned.
“My sister,” Elowyn gasped, panic seizing her. “I have to get to Elyria. She’s in danger!”
“Princess Elyria is safe. Your father and I received her message and came as quickly as we could,” Finnor reassured her, maintaining a calming timbre. “She’s still in Lochwald witnessing the Lore of Lunaris .”
A memory flickered in Elowyn’s mind, recalling herself lying on the forest floor with her head resting in Elyria’s lap. Vague images of her father’s furious expression, Finnor drenched in blood, and a pack of five grimwolves flashed before her. She strained to recollect further details, but her memory abruptly ended there.
“We were being chased... How did we... How did we escape from the rotting hounds?” Elowyn asked, her expression filled with horror. “You were covered in blood...”
“Prince Caswin and his pack arrived first,” Finnor replied somberly. “They held off the beasts until your father and I reached you.”
“Caswin? The Mirthwood prince? What do you mean?” Elowyn’s confusion deepened with each question.
Finnor appeared unscathed and immaculate, devoid of any traces of blood. Elowyn glanced down and realized she was no longer in her delicate rose-petaled gown but instead dressed in a nightgown, likely provided by the royal mender.
“Prince Caswin is a shapeshifter. Many fey sworn to House Lochwald possess the ability to shift between their fey and animal forms. For Caswin, a grimwolf. He and his pack fought off the rotting canines while we searched for you in the forest,” Finnor explained.
Finnor’s aura seemed fraught with a sense of remorse, as if he bore the weight of failing to protect the princesses of his kingdom at the first sign of danger. His responsibility as the Commander of the Feyguard in Eriden included safeguarding the royal family and all its subjects. Finnor scrunched his brow, as though a pounding headache was beginning to storm.
“Caswin can transform into a grimwolf? I had no idea,” Elowyn remarked, slumping back, and resting her head against the bed frame. “Is that why there’s such a commanding aura about him? Is he the pack leader of all the grimwolves in Lochwald?”
Finnor let out a soft chuckle. “Almost, but not exactly. King Dren serves as the male alpha, and Queen Maeva as the female alpha of Lochwald, jointly leading their pack. Prince Caswin holds the position of second in command, the beta grimwolf. As the heir of Mirthwood, once his father passes the title to him, he’ll ascend as the male alpha. If he weds another fey capable of shifting into a grimwolf, she’ll become the female alpha. It’s quite rare for females to possess the grimwolf trait, making Queen Maeva exceptionally singular in her prowess.”
“Do the fey of Lochwald have the ability to shift into anything else?” Elowyn inquired, her nerves easing under Finnor’s reassuring tone.
“They do. There are warlocks and sorceresses who can assume various forms of animals native to the Elberrin Forest—stags, hares, hawks, foxes—typically creatures of the woodland. However, inheriting the ability to shift into a grimwolf requires highborn lineage, much like the Fangwrights and their fangs,” Finnor explained, flashing a lopsided grin, his smooth, fangless teeth on display.
“Our fangs are quite exclusive,” Elowyn teased, flashing a bright grin, her four canines peeking through her lips. “You can only possess these beauties if you’re a direct descendant of King Elmyr himself. It’s tough being this special.”
Finnor adopted a playful tone. “Indeed, it’s an honor to bask in your exalted presence, my princess.”
A crooked smile formed on Elowyn’s lips. “Was that a joke I just heard from the reserved Finnor Wynward?”
Finnor chuckled awkwardly, running a calloused hand through his hair. “I suppose so.” His body seemed tense, uncertain of how to respond. He settled back in the chair, fidgeting with his fingers nervously.
“Thank you for coming to our aid,” Elowyn said. “I was terrified. I felt paralyzed, unable to move or think. Once again, Elyria had to protect me. ”
“I could teach you how to defend yourself,” Finnor offered. “Especially now, as your father has assigned me as your personal guard.”
“Why?” Elowyn’s posture straightened, unease in her voice. “I’ve never had a guard before. I don’t see why I need one now.”
“Your father trusts no one else with your safety. Tonight has shown that there are threats awakening in Neramyr that could pose a danger to you, to your sister, and to the folk of Eriden,” Finnor explained pragmatically.
“The Elberrin Forest spans for thousands of miles! There are regions that even the fey haven’t ventured into. It’s possible that those creatures were lurking within the forest for hundreds of years already. We’re literally mountains away from Lochwald. I don’t see why my freedom in Eriden needs to be stripped from me,” Elowyn replied sharply.
“It’s precisely because of these dangers that your father insists on your protection. He will not risk your safety,” Finnor responded calmly.
“So, what now?” Elowyn’s gaze bore into Finnor. “Are you going to watch over me while I sleep and follow me everywhere I go?”
Finnor blanched at her clipped tone.
“I’m sorry Princess, I must abide by King Eamon’s orders. And I’m only here at the direction of the royal mender to ensure you’re all right. If you’re feeling better and desire me to leave, I’ll be stationed outside your door if you need me.”
Finnor, looking slightly flustered, began to rise, but Elowyn halted him with an outstretched hand.
“Wait, I’m sorry if I came across as rude,” Elowyn said, her tone apologetic. “I know you’re just following my father’s orders. It’s been a chaotic few hours, and I’m feeling a bit... on edge. And as a reminder, you can just call me Elowyn.”
She offered him the friendliest smile she could muster, attempting to ease the tension, and Finnor settled back into his seat. Before she could speak further, her stomach growled loudly, and her face flushed in embarrassment.
“You must be hungry. I’ll have the kitchen steward bring you something,” Finnor insisted.
Finnor braced his arms on his knees and heaved up from his seat in a fluid motion as he strode out of the bedchamber to fetch a servant. Elowyn watched him leave the room before she hung her head and rested her face within her palms.
What in the seven hells just happened?
Just hours ago, she and her sister were being hunted in the Elberrin Forest by dreadful, decaying hounds. Now, Elyria was in Lochwald witnessing the Third Day while Elowyn found herself back in the safely in her room. A pang of shame pulsed through her as she recalled her own weakness and frailty in the face of peril—she had fainted for Goddess knows how long. Elyria was strong and noble-minded, self-sacrificing as always.
Elowyn shut her eyes tightly, allowing her insecurities to pummel her self-esteem. She had led a life of comfort and safety, facing little adversity beyond the scorn of her title. She was acutely aware of her limited talent as a sorceress, always paling behind Elyria in progress. She felt useless. How was she to protect and lead an entire kingdom if she couldn’t even defend the one soul who mattered to her most?
Tears of frustration streaked down her cheeks as she grabbed a nearby pillow and buried her face in the plush. A muffled scream escaped her lips as she released her pent-up anguish into the fabric. Rising from the pillow, she pounded her fists into the sheets, groaning. Her earlier giddiness felt like a distant memory. Her thoughts briefly flashed to Draeden, wondering if he noticed her absence. Would he care for her if he truly discovered how weak her character was?
The door creaked open, and Finnor entered the room, carrying a tray of savory-smelling food. Elowyn’s stomach betrayed her with a loud rumble; her face whitened in horror. Finnor paid it no mind, setting the tray on her dining table nearby and arranging the food for her.
“The kitchen was deserted, so I improvised,” Finnor explained, his tone accommodating. “I found some smoked ham, cheese, bread, and apples. Hopefully it will suffice.”
He pulled out a cushioned chair from the dining table and approached Elowyn, offering a steady hand. She found herself staring at the moon-inked dragon scales on his skin and the crescent moon in his palm. She winced as an image of him drenched in inky black blood briefly flashed through her mind.
He appeared so amenable, so dutiful and deferential before. She knew Finnor truly was an indomitable divine warlock. He was Eriden’s Commander of the Feyguard for Goddess’ sake. Nevertheless, he remained modest and respectful in his mannerisms. Elowyn wondered if it was his background as a blacksmith that influenced his humble demeanor.
Gratefully accepting his hand, Elowyn allowed him to guide her unsteady feet to the dining table and help her into the seat. She offered a thankful glance before eagerly digging into her food. Finnor simply nodded and headed towards the door.
As she finished a particularly unladylike bite, Elowyn blurted out, “Do you want some?”
“No, thank you,” Finnor said politely. “I appreciate the offer, nonetheless.”
“You can stay until I’m done if you want,” Elowyn offered, gesturing to the chair beside her. “I imagine it must be rather dull standing outside my door.”
“All right,” Finnor agreed, though he seemed wary as he took the seat.
“Out with it,” Elowyn prompted between a bite of her apple.
“Spare me your wrath when I tell you what else your father ordered me to do,” Finnor said gravely.
Elowyn halted her chewing abruptly, fixing Finnor with a piercing glare. “What else did he command?”
Finnor swallowed hard, choosing his words carefully. “My new living quarters are to be on this floor, near your chambers. King Eamon wishes to ensure that I can swiftly aid you should any harm befall you or our kingdom.”
He hesitated, his expression growing uneasy as he continued. “Additionally, he instructed me to place wards on your doors and windows. I am to be alerted if any being, fey or creature, enters or exits your chambers.”
Elowyn’s demeanor swelled with anger as she glowered at him, the room enveloped in a heavy silence. Her appetite vanished, replaced by outrage.
Finnor’s eyes reflected the gravity of his next words as he spoke in a hushed tone. “Tomorrow, the king intends to bind your soul to mine with an Eternal Tethering spell, ensuring I can protect you if it be daylight or nightfall.”
All at once, Elowyn stopped breathing.
This couldn’t be real.
Numbness spread through Elowyn’s body as she absorbed the weight of Finnor’s words. The realization hit her like a tidal wave. The Eternal Tethering spell, a sacred bond sanctioned by the Moon Goddess herself, would bind her soul to Finnor’s for eternity. If she faced danger or met her end, he would offer his life in exchange for hers.
Her fate, her very essence, would no longer be solely her own. Every decision, every thought, would be shared with Finnor. Once the spell was cast, there would be no turning back. Not even the Goddess could perform its undoing. If Elowyn’s life hung in the balance, it would be Finnor who held the power to decide her fate.
The realization dawned on Elowyn that her father must have already petitioned the High Priestess for the Moon Goddess’ blessing. But why? She wasn’t yet of age or political status to receive a spell of such divine classification. Typically, it was bestowed upon monarchs at their coronation, a means to safeguard their kingdom’s future.
In Neramyr, sacrificing oneself for another was seen as the highest form of nobility. As queen, Elowyn was expected to accept this honor with gratitude, to view it as a privilege—but not yet. Inside, she felt anything but honored. She felt trapped, her freedom and autonomy slipping away before her very eyes.
Moreover, the spell required only the Goddess’ blessing and a willing fey to offer their life to be tethered. Finnor had already pledged his soul, and Elowyn couldn’t prevent it even if she tried—her desires held no sway in this decision. Caena’s blessing had sealed their fate, her judgment reigning supreme above all else.
Elowyn’s chest tightened, her breaths coming in short gasps as if the air itself had turned to lead. Why her? Why would the Goddess take her agency, her right to her own existence away? Her father hadn’t even considered relinquishing the throne yet! She had always believed her destiny would be determined in the stars, not dictated by a divine warlock sworn to obey her father’s will.
“Get out,” Elowyn commanded, her voice laced with hostility, and Finnor recoiled. “Now.”
“Your father didn’t want you to know, but I needed to tell you. The guilt on my conscience would be harrowing.” Finnor’s body stiffened, but he pressed on, “I cannot disobey my king. I am sworn to his court.”
“You forget that I am to be your queen one day!” Elowyn’s voice rose to a furious pitch as she slammed her hands against the table. “My soul is mine and mine alone! How dare you allow yourself to be tethered to me against my will with such an abhorrent spell before necessity calls for it!” She shook her head in disbelief. “This can’t be… At nineteen, I am to be bound by force to another soul before I have yet to live? You may as well lock me behind iron and cede the key to the depths of the Swyn Sea!”
Finnor’s face blanched, but his voice was hardened as he responded to her. “The moment I swore the blood oath to accept my position as Commander of the Feyguard to Eriden, I vowed my undying fealty to this kingdom. I am bound by blood to protect Eriden and its folk until my last breath and beyond. By my obligation to the Moon Goddess and to Neramyr, my soul is fated by the stars to protect you always,” Finnor declared, his voice unwavering with credence as he held her gaze. “With or without the Eternal Tethering spell.”
“Leave!” Elowyn spat, her words filled with venom. “Get out of my sight.”
Finnor’s expression remained unreadable as he silently rose from his seat and exited her bedchamber without a word.
Hours passed, and Elowyn remained seated in the cushioned chair, motionless as if carved from a slab of stone. Though her outward appearance was stoic, inwardly, her soul mourned the loss of her freedom. Her aura simmered with grief and her mind was plagued by turmoil.
Tomorrow, through the Goddess’ divine blessing, her father would tether her soul to a stranger for as long as she walked the feylands of Neramyr.
As daylight filtered through her warded windows, Elowyn finally stirred from her immobile state, weeping silent tears of misery.