Chapter 63
“Listen to me carefully,” said Maeve as Zimsy brushed through the matted wet hair falling to Maeve’s shoulders as they prepared for Mal’s Coronation.
Zimsy’s eyes popped to hers in the mirror, and Maeve continued in a whisper.
“You are not magically bound to answer to anyone in this house except my mother or me anymore.”
Zimsy’s hands froze and her eyes grew large.
“However,” she continued quietly, “until the time comes when I can break your chains completely, you will need to obey them perfectly all the same. No mistakes.”
Zimsy nodded quickly and bit her bottom lip. “You are playing a dangerous game.”
“I have been for quite some time,” said Maeve with a half-hearted smile. “Might as well stay true to character.”
“It is illegal for one to break the enslavement curse on another where Elves are concerned. They could imprison you.”
“Do you think I would let that happen?” Maeve’s smile turned into a smirk, trying to calm Zimsy’s nerves.
“No,” said Zimsy contemplatively. “Nor would the Dread Prince.”
Maeve nodded and reached back for her hands. “Don’t worry about me. Just stay on your toes. With the magic gone, if a command slips your mind, my Mother won’t be happy and she isn’t stupid. This is my world now, Zimsy. And I won’t be leaving you behind.”
Thousands of Magicals gathered in teary-eyed awe at Castle Morana. The throne room’s floor shone with dark emerald and silver oversized tiles. The smooth stone pillars along the room towered over them, jetting up into an enchanted ceiling of the night’s sky.
Maeve smiled. It was like her bedroom window only massive. Her heels clicked across the floor as she and Abraxas walked arm in arm towards the Throne Room.
“I can’t believe it,” he said. “We’re here.”
They stopped and watched as not just Magicals took their places lining the long hall. Reeve and Eryx stood with a handful of Immortals. Lithandrian and Xander brought a number of Elven citizens and royalty too. King Kier stood with his wife and children and his court.
All of the remaining realms came. All of them were prepared to move forward with their plan of unity.
Ambrose stood at the head of the room, beside an orate throne of crimson red. Maeve and Abraxas stayed at the back of the hall, behind the archway. Music began playing from the throne room, its provoking melody flitted across the hall.
Mal appeared at their side in his emerald brocade suit. The three of them stood alone.
Mal looked at each of them. “Thank you,” he said, his voice dripping with gratitude.
He stepped forward, the magical lights of the throne room glistened across his beautiful face. Maeve couldn’t help but smile. Abraxas’s arm tightened in excitement, pulling her closer as Mal stepped onto the shining tiles and began his promenade down the hall towards his throne.
Every magical on Earth was invited. Not just Purebloods.
Anyone with Magical blood was offered a place in the Dread Lands.
Some dropped to their knees as he passed.
Some dabbed their eyes. Some tossed flowers and tokens of magic at his feet.
Children looked up at him, captivated by his princely stride.
Mal reached Ambrose near the throne and climbed the stone steps. At the top of the platform, he kneeled on a dark velvet pillow, his eyes stared above the crowd, not meeting any one particular gaze.
Ambrose placed the Dread Crown on his head with careful ease. Mal’s chest swelled noticeably as the silver serpents made contact with his skin. His eyes fluttered to a close. His fingers reached up and brushed along the crown.
“Arise,” said Ambrose, his voice echoing across the hall with power. “Malachite no longer his name. He is reborn as the Prince of Darkness. The Redeemer of Magic.”
The solid tapestries spanning the height and length of the hall burst to life with black sparks. Burned into them with dark smoke was the Dread Mark: the decaying skull and winding two-headed serpent that now decorated Maeve’s chest.
The Hall moved as one.
As one they bowed their heads to him.
As one they waited for his command to look up.
With an outstretched arm, he pulled their attention up. He smiled fully. And dropped his hand.
The hall erupted in thunderous cheers and exclamations. Applause rattled the very floor. Mal took his time accepting their accolades.
He looked to Ambrose. Who nodded once in approval. Mal took his seat on the throne. Maeve’s legs wobbled slightly at the sight.
“My turn, cousin,” said Abraxas, giving her a quick peck on the cheek.
Abraxas dropped her arm and strode down the hall towards Mal. His suit was a deep shade of emerald, nearly black velvet. His blonde hair was styled back fashionably.
Abraxas stood before Mal. He bowed at the waist, a grand gesture of his adoration and allegiance to his new Prince of Darkness. He rose and placed his fist over his heart.
“Abraxas Flint Rosethorn,” said Mal. “I name you Hand of the Prince.”
On Abraxas’ chest appeared a silver broach. It was a serpent missing its twin. It’s mouth closed. One of the serpents of the Mal’s Dread Mark.
Mal motioned him forward, towards the throne.
He took his place to Mal’s left. He looked out and met his Mother’s eyes. His face beamed with pride. Her cousin had never looked so at ease, so perfectly in place.
It was Maeve’s turn.
She took a steadying breath and stepped forward into the hall.
Time froze. Her slow footsteps echoed across the Hall. Mal sat on his new throne with collected dignity. The perfect balance of confidence and humility. Like he knew he didn’t deserve to be there, but all the same, it was his.
The crown atop his head was designed for his perfect face. He looked older. More profound. With the slightest incline of his chin, that serpent crown gleamed across the hall, light bounced across the shining stone floor.
His magic found her a blink after. It stopped her in her tracks as it slithered up her legs and around her waist. Up to her chest and around her neck. Cold and deep magic.
He was more powerful.
The crown held Dread Magic. Just like the locket and the ring.
But more. Much more.
It was incredible. Threatening. Deadly. Alive.
It was fear and death and desire and ambition all bottled up into one man.
Her Prince of Darkness. Her savior.
All eyes were on Maeve as she fell to her knees.
It was quick, but satisfaction shot across Mal’s eyes.
“I do not deserve this honor,” she said, bringing her fist slowly over her heart, where his mark was. “But I will spend the rest of my life fighting for your reign. For your crown. For your life. For you.”
The spell snapped between them like a whip.
Mal’s magic swelled across the Hall between them, sliding her backwards onto her feet, her sapphire and silver gown swished across the floor, flecks of light glittering around her. She braced herself against the power and allowed his gift to circle her completely.
It swirled around her, dripping her in ancient and reverent magic. She could taste his power. It was electrifying.
Her skirt transformed into fitted pants of a dark emerald brocade, like his, and her satin shoes shot up her legs, swirling with Magic.
They were now shining boots laced to her knees.
The fabric of the bodice unfurled itself, creating a trench coat that matched the dress with a high collared tunic underneath.
Her hair swirled around her until it was intricately braided down her back.
On her breast pocket was the serpent twin to Abraxas’. Its fangs bared and ready. She looked down at it. At herself. A warrior. A fighter.
This was the uniform of a second. Of his Dread Viper. Of a deadly witch with agility.
She crossed the hall between them with confidence. In three short steps, she stood before his throne. A decaying skull broach appeared on his own breast pocket. The final piece of his Dread Mark.
She and Abraxas were the mouth and the sword. He was Death incarnate.