Chapter 1
I am not yours, and you are not mine.
The voice forced its way into the cracks of her mind with desperation.
The feeling of smooth, cool skin brushed against her cheek in the darkness. His voice continued, low and filled with something between a promise and a threat.
And yet, I want you all the same.
She inhaled sharply as Magic slipped down her spine. That same desperate, seeking feeling trying to take root.
Another voice, entirely different, one she could name, entered her mind.
“Maeve.”
Alphard Mavros’ voice cut through her mind, yanking her eyes open, leaving the prickling skin on her cheek feeling bare. Her eyes settled on the teacup before her, steam swirling above the amber liquid.
“Maeve,” Alphard said again, his voice unbothered and absent.
She looked up at last, the entire breakfast room coming into focus. Maxius sat next to her, eating his food with careful precision. Alphard looked through their mail, setting aside the newspaper.
“Have you taken your potion today?” he asked, flipping through the various envelopes.
Maeve didn’t answer. Her hand moved to her cheek, where the Magic she’d felt slowly faded at her touch. At last, Alphard’s eyes landed on her.
He slid a vial of pale liquid across the breakfast table. “Drink.”
Maeve took it without argument, realizing she couldn’t remember how long she’d been taking them. A side effect of the “episodes,” Astrea would remind her.
Rebelliously, Maeve left some at the bottom of the bottle, bitter she needed Astrea to make her potions at all. Her fingers slipped into her pocket, brushing against a small strip of blank parchment. Something that unexplainedly grounded her on days when her mind felt far from her own.
Her mind settled, and the voice she’d heard felt like a fast-fading dream she could hardly even recall.
“A royal invitation,” said Alphard, tossing a glowing square of parchment on the table.
“A royal invitation, where?” asked Maeve with a groan, already knowing the answer.
“Castle Morana,” answered Alphard.
Maeve frowned. “I hate going there,” she muttered.
“I know,” said Alphard.
“You can just go without me,” she replied.
“Doubtful,” said Alphard as he looked up at her and slid the parchment across the breakfast table towards her.
Beneath the swirling and performative invitation to a ball at Castle Morana was Abraxas’ elegant stamped seal. Beneath that was a brief note.
Non-negotiable, cousin.
Brax
“He really does know everything,” said Alphard as he stood.
Alphard’s fingers twisted gently through Maxius’ hair in the seat next to him.
Maxius barely noticed; he was fixated on Spinel pawing relentlessly at the window.
Ice edged on the large panes as endless snow fell in the bitter cold.
It had been winter for as long as Maeve could remember.
Never-ending ice and snow covered everything from the Greywood to the Dark Peaks.
“How are things?” asked Maeve, before Alphard could leave.
Alphard’s brows raised.
“Abraxas says you are likely to return to the front lines of The Elven Lands soon if their capital doesn’t fall.”
Alphard frowned. Maeve hadn’t forgotten how he’d come back the first time he’d been sent off to fight. How distant. How on edge he was.
“You neglected to tell me that,” said Maeve pointedly.
Alphard sighed. “I don’t want to talk about this in front of Maxius.”
“Your son deserves to know if you are heading into war,” she replied. “Even if you don’t think I do.”
Maxius peeled his eyes away from the window and looked up at Alphard at last.
“He’s six.” Alphard’s eyes narrowed slightly at Maeve as he dropped his affectionate hold on Maxius. “The Dread Prince has been away for some time. Until he returns, I have no idea where I’ll be.”
With that, he left them in silence.
After a moment, Maxius’ attention returned to the window where Spinel begged for entry.
Maxius signed, Open, with his small hands.
Maeve raised her brows at Maxius. “Go on,” she said, nodding her head towards the window. Maxius’ lips pulled together. He blinked once, but the window remained closed, despite Spinel’s frantic pawing.
At his initial failure, Maxius looked up at her with frustrated eyes. She felt no Magic radiating from him. Maeve smiled softly. Maxius returned his attention to the window and tried once more.
Nothing.
Maeve’s eyes drifted to the locket that hung around his neck. Thoughts threatened to slip into her mind, thoughts that bordered on reality, but she knew to be false.
Maxius stood in frustration and slammed his fist on the table. The glass shattered with a sharp ring.
Maxius startled and then quickly smiled up at Maeve in triumph. Spinel jumped onto the floor and fussed at them before slinking away to find warmth with Maxius hot on his heels.
Maeve shook her head and muttered, “That’s one way to do it,” as she relented and downed the rest of her daily potion.
Zimsy rounded the corner of the breakfast room, narrowly dodging Spinel and Maxius. She immediately pulled her robe tightly around her with a quick shiver. “It’s freezing in here.”
Maeve breathed a laugh and repaired the broken window with a quick twist of her wrist. “Yes, but at least he’s performing Magic.”
“Oh, good!” she chimed, taking a seat at the table. “What’s this?” she asked, snagging the invitation between two of her delicate fingers.
“A royal invitation,” answered Maeve grimly.
Zimsy read over the elegant square of parchment. “It’s a month away. Gives you plenty of time to fake an illness.”
Maeve laughed. “Brax is too sharp for that.”
“Looks like it’s a rather important event,” said Zimsy, placing the invitation down and pouring herself some tea. “Any idea what they could be announcing?”
“No,” said Maeve. “Maybe they expect the war will be over then.”
“Maybe the Elven Army finally surrendered.”
Maeve knew Zimsy didn’t approve of the war in the Elven Lands. Maeve didn’t concern herself with politics and war, but since Zimsy was passionate about it, she had already decided to agree with her friend.
“How long has it been now?” asked Zimsy.
Maeve’s brows raised.
“Since the Elven Queen was overthrown by her own people,” elaborated Zimsy.
“Over a year,” said Maeve.
Over a year since Lithandrian’s people staged a mutiny and established militant control. How the Elven Army managed to obtain Magic no one knew.
Their sudden ability to fight with Magic was a mystery to all citizens of the Dread Lands. Not even Abraxas himself understood. Not that it mattered to Maeve.
She never thought of her crowned Prince beyond the occasional reminder of his existence.
They hadn’t been close at Vaukore, and in the years she and Alphard had lived in the Dread Lands, she’d never even laid eyes on Malachite Peur.
In fact, rumor had it the Crowned Prince had been away for some time, searching for an explanation and counter to the Elven people’s newfound Magic.