Chapter 11 #2
The hall was silent as all watched Ambrose Sinclair step towards their newly crowned royalty. Her father’s handsome and kind face held such adoration for Mal as he held out his hand with the pride of a father.
“Premier Sinclair,” said Mal.
“My Prince,” replied Ambrose.
The silent hall then burst into applause.
Mal turned away, and when he moved back to Ambrose, something slender and gold sat between his hands. A goblet.
“A gift,” said Mal, presenting the goblet to Ambrose. “For your allegiance and dedication to my cause.”
Ambrose took a hefty exhale, clearly honored. He hesitated to grasp the goblet’s serpent-like handles.
“Bring us some wine,” called Ambrose. He grinned up at Mal. “Our new Prince deserves a toast.”
As guests’ goblets and glasses were filled, including the gold glittering one Mal gifted Ambrose, her father stepped onto the stairs of the throne and raised the goblet high.
“A toast! To the new age of Magic, to the end of living in the shadows and hiding from the world. To our Savior and his Viper, my darling daughter.”
Cold Magic shot through her.
Mal’s Viper.
His darling daughter.
Maeve’s mouth went dry.
Ambrose continued. “I knew from the moment the pair of you stepped into my home that this day was soon to come barreling forward.”
There were a few clamors of excitement as her younger self and Mal locked eyes.
“To the Dread Prince!” cheered Ambrose. “May your reign be true!”
Ambrose raised the goblet to his lips, and everyone followed suit. Ambrose stepped past Maeve and clapped her shoulder, a gesture fitting for The Premier and the Prince’s Viper. He stepped closer to her mother, no, Clarissa, and Arianna.
“Breaking you”, Mal had said before plunging her into this moment of happiness.
A smile pulled at her lips as she enjoyed watching her father in this way.
He oozed perfected dominance in such a warm and protective way.
He was strong, stronger than most, and knew that gave him a duty to keep others safe.
To keep her safe.
Ambrose lifted the Dread Goblet to his lips once more.
The smile faded from her younger self’s lips. Her own glass of wine had been discarded, and her curious eyes locked on Ambrose.
“Daddy–” she started, but he didn’t hear her over the music and the crowd.
He coughed.
“Daddy!” she shouted, louder as she pushed through the guests.
Ambrose brought the Dread Goblet to his lips, drinking quickly, in an attempt to satiate his coughs.
Maeve tried to move towards him with her past self, but she was frozen, a captive audience and nothing more.
Alphard’s father whipped his handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to Ambrose. Her father coughed into the bright white cloth.
Red spattered through the fabric instantly.
Maeve’s whole body went cold.
“Irma!” screamed Mr. Mavros as her younger self broke through the crowd, at last arriving at her father’s side.
Ambrose faltered. The goblet fell from his limp fingers and clattered on the emerald and silver floor. The echoing sound of its heavy thud repeated again and again, like a church bell.
Her younger self gripped his shoulders and forced his gaze to hers. He collapsed to the floor, taking her with him.
Blood slipped from the corners of his eyes.
From his nose.
From his ears.
Horror, acidic and oppressive, slithered through her at the sight.
Irma was at their side in a blink, her hands over his face, which was turning a yellow shade of sickness. Bright red lines shot from his lips, spreading across his cheeks.
Ambrose’s eyes went black. Empty.
And he collapsed forward into her younger self, who had grown a sickening shade of pale. Her father didn’t blink. He didn’t meet her eyes. He stared past her at the ceiling with collapsed, black eyes.
The Throne Room froze in place. Slowly, each particle of the memory floated into the air.
If it took seconds or an hour, Maeve didn’t know.
Eventually, she was alone in a void, unable to move.
Unable to speak. Time passed in an uncertain quantity until footsteps, unhurried and light, found her ears.
Death hung in the very air she breathed.
Mal manifested from nothing, standing in the void just over where Ambrose’s body had been. He looked down, as if he could still see the blood. The way it ran from his eyes and slid along his jaw. The way his lips turned a color no daughter should have to witness.
“Do you understand now?” Mal’s cool voice slithered across the darkness, his eyes still cast downward. “This is about more than an intimacy we may have shared.”
Bright white light struck like lightning, and her next view was before her in a blink. Her white knuckles gripped around a wrist. Her eyes trailed up the fingers she held captive, realizing at once they belonged to Mal. The Healing Wing at Castle Morana shifted into focus behind their hands.
Her grip tightened, and his fingers relaxed against her hold. He didn’t fight her as quick, erratic breaths slipped from her. Her stomach clenched. Her throat was raw with screams she couldn’t remember voicing. More screams, more sobs, desired release.
Her gaze slid over slowly, hesitantly, to Mal’s frame. His eyes were glimmering emerald beauties, each of them swimming with a cool elegance.
“You’re alright,” his voice hummed.
“You—” she began with a broken voice, attempting to rise.
Mal’s ungloved finger pressed against her lips. “Shh.” He pressed her back down onto the examination bed, forcing her to lie flat.
She didn’t, couldn’t, tear her eyes away from his.
The only thing that kept her from bursting into tears was his petrifying gaze.
The very thing that brought her to tears was the only thing that grounded her.
His gaze slipped into something unexpectedly gentle.
The game was forgotten as his free hand moved to her stomach.
“Breathe, Maeve,” he said lowly, his tone shifting to something soft.
Her name on his lips sent Magic creeping up her spine. She wanted to scream at him. She wanted to point two fingers at him and show him just how infuriating his brief presence in her life had been thus far. Unrelenting and selfish. Taking and never giving.
Abraxas appeared at her other side, his hand finding her free one. “You’re okay, Maeve,” he said, with far too much concern for her lighthearted and pestering cousin.
Her eyes shot to him. Pain erupted across her entire body.
Magic gripped at her mind like hundreds of sharpened talons, each one pulling her in a different direction.
Calming Magic slid down her arm and across her sternum.
Desperate begs were on the tip of her tongue, but as the waves of paralyzing dread passed over her, no words formed.
How could she forget the way he died? She wanted to forget again.
“Her Magic is so unstable I’m afraid it’s going to shatter, Mal,” Astrea’s voice drifted over her.
She was cold. Freezing. Her body shook. She wanted warmth. Another plea that her tongue refused to voice. Fear ran freely through her, sinking its hooks in wherever it could until she felt completely chained.
“Mal?” Abraxas said, confusion in his tone.
“It has to shatter,” he stated, though there was regret in his voice.
No.
NO.
Quakes of terror and uncertainty twisted through her. The only thing she could hear was her own fearful screams.
Fear is the absence of Magic.
Her father’s constant reminder slid across her mind, the words feeling like three gentle squeezes to her hand.
Her Magic flickered. A reminder of its presence. A reminder that though she pressed down on it well, it too had hooks and claws. She, too, had a say.
Whatever spell was on the verge of shattering in her mind, the thing Mal would do anything to break, she would not let it. Pride or instinct, she didn’t know what it was that drove her to act, to push back against the chains in her mind. The claws in her Magic wanted to rip and destroy.
How long had it been since she tasted her Magic so fully?
It provided the warmth she sought at once, crashing through her like waves of divinity.
She drank it all, letting every molecule and every shard of power take root inside her.
It nestled into each corner of her existence.
Nothing could ever feel so unexplainedly hers but this.
Her mind fell quiet. No chains or claws. No hooks. Just warmth.