Chapter 2
Maeve’s fingers traced over the worn strip of paper, at a loss for the hundredth time why she had never been able to part with it.
She looked up at her reflection in the vanity mirror, tucking her legs beneath her on the stool.
Zimsy had braided her hair perfectly for the non-negotiable ball at Castle Morana.
Her gown was green, an attire required by all those who visited the castle.
Her gaze lingered on her face. Pale, icy eyes looked back at her, foreign and cold, stark against her dark lashes. She hated them.
Portraits and paintings, even the few photographs of her that existed from her adolescence, depicted her with deep-blue eyes. Sapphire blue. Like her father’s, like her sister’s.
Even like Antony’s, in what little memories she had of her brother.
But Maeve’s eyes were now a hollow, winter icy blue-white now, with no explanation of why or how.
Her fingers still lingered across the small strip of parchment as something sharp slid across her mind. She could nearly see herself properly in her reflection — with blue eyes she missed with every look at herself.
Her hand gravitated towards the feathered quill on her vanity.
She scribbled across the worn paper, daring to mark the blank slate at last.
Why does this strange bit of parchment call to me?
She stared at it for a moment, yanked open her vanity drawer, and tossed it inside.
Castle Morana was just as she remembered: magnificent in its grand appearance, dripping in dark Magic, but entirely void of warmth.
“This room gives me the creeps,” said Alphard in a hushed voice as they stepped into the Throne Room.
He wore his Bellator Captain’s uniform, his chest decorated with various pins representing his power and status.
Within the Bellator, those who fought for the Dread Prince, Alphard was second only to Roswyn.
“As a top-ranking Dread Knight, I can’t imagine why you wouldn’t want to attend, Al,” said Abraxas, appearing at Maeve’s side.
Alphard didn’t look at Abraxas. His gaze was now fixed upon a redhead and her husband. Maeve and Abraxas exchanged a glance.
Her cousin’s cheeks were flushed, and his eyes sparkled.
“Hello, Brax,” she said with a smile.
Abraxas leaned towards her and quickly kissed her cheek. “Glad you could make it.”
“The invitation didn’t seem optional,” said Alphard.
“Royal things rarely are,” said Abraxas with a dazzling smile.
“Evening, Mavros,” said Roswyn, appearing in their circle with Emerie at his side.
Alphard nodded his head once, barely acknowledging him.
Roswyn cleared his throat.
Alphard tore his eyes away from Victoria Damario and looked at Roswyn. His brows raised in annoyance.
“We’re at Castle Morana, Mavros. You should address your superior properly.”
Alphard’s brows pulled together. “Fuck off.”
Roswyn's stone-cold glare faltered, and he loosed a small laugh. They shook hands like old friends, Magic zapping between where their palms met—something that Maeve noticed each time the two men greeted one another.
“So what’s all this for, Brax?” asked Maeve.
Abraxas took a sip of his drink and shook his head. “You’d have me spoil the surprise?” he asked with a chuckle.
He locked eyes with someone across the hall and toasted them. “Got to run,” he said and disappeared, the crowd parting effortlessly for the Hand of the Prince.
Roswyn and Emerie’s attention was pulled elsewhere, leaving Maeve and Alphard to themselves. Maeve’s grip on his forearm tightened where their arms linked. Alphard looked down at her as she stalled beside him.
“Do you feel that?” she asked breathily, referring to an incoming of Magic that had the hairs on her arm standing up.
Alphard looked around them and paused. “No, Maeve,” he replied, his voice filled with pity as he scanned the room.
Maeve cut her eyes up at him. She slowly slid her arm from his at his tone. A tone she often heard when he grew tired of her strange thoughts.
She opened her mouth, prepared with a sharp retort, but stopped short as an oppressive Magic entered the atmosphere. Alphard’s eyes widened slightly. The room stilled, conversation halted, and the firelights flickered and dimmed.
Maeve turned from her husband, her heart racing in the presence of this power that barreled towards her, towards them all.
But she was certain with every drop of Magic that ran through her veins, that the Magic which pressed down on them all like a weight, called her name.
Alphard whispered something to her as she stepped from him, but she didn’t hear it.
Her thoughts were consumed by a new and exciting feeling that ate at her with each second that it intensified.
It was unlike any feeling she could recall ever experiencing as it raced towards her at super speed now.
Alphard grabbed her wrist gently.
His Magic slid across her skin, trying to ground her as he had done many nights when her own mind felt like an enemy. But this was no “episode.” This wasn’t a feeling Astrea’s potions could tame.
This was something entirely Magical.
A breath swelled in her chest as the green glass ceiling above them vanished in an explosion of veridian light, exposing the hazy night sky of The Dread Lands.
Giant swirls of darkened Magic barreled down on them, slamming into the hall with a triumphant strike.
The darkness was no mere mist alone; it was a Morconis, and the largest of them all in the Dread Prince’s fleet.
The creature’s long, black, inky body tensed as it landed on all fours in the middle of the hall.
They were majestically dark, slick, creatures of night, with razor-sharp teeth and long, eel-like necks with wings that were like those of a dragon.
Though their massive wings appeared tattered and torn, Magic still allowed them to fly.
Magic had brought them back to life. They, like the rumored army of the undead that lurked in the Dark Peaks and the Greywood, were reanimated corpses. Given second life through Magic.
His Magic.
As striking and commanding as the creature was, nothing compared to the man who sat atop it.
His Magic continued to bear down on her with constricting force.
His entrance to Castle Morana was nothing short of a spectacle, but Maeve knew from the Magic radiating off the handsome Dread Prince, he was much more than show.
Her heart thrummed against her chest as the corners of her visions blurred anything that wasn’t him. She couldn’t even feel Alphard’s grip on her wrist anymore. The only feeling that remained was his overwhelming presence.
He dismounted the tall beast elegantly, landing on his feet with a stare so intensely calm, it should have been sinister. Magic shot across the floor beneath him upon impact. He tucked his hands behind his back as guests fell to their knees.
All black suited the pale Malachite Peur, though none called him by that name who weren’t his closest adversaries. Abraxas was among the few who called him Mal.
Without Alphard’s hand tugging her down with him, Maeve herself wouldn’t have remembered to bow. It wasn’t out of disrespect or rebellion that Maeve was frozen in place.
No. It was the Dread Prince’s green eyes that had been locked on hers since the moment he appeared that caused her trance.
“A joyous evening,” exclaimed Abraxas, his Hand pin proudly gleaming on his chest as he bowed with worshipful admiration. “The return of our Prince to his throne and another realm nearly one with ours!”