Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Sylvi
What little rest I managed came in broken fragments, splintered by the image of Jack’s ravaged back, by the sound of his screams echoing through the courtyard.
But worse and more confusing was the memory of what came after.
When our foreheads had touched. When his hand had found mine with desperate need.
When his lips had hovered near enough that the heat of his breath had ghosted across my mouth.
He’d almost said it, whatever truth he’d been hiding in the bruised hollows of his chest.
But then Ravin had burst in, and the moment dissolved like morning mist.
Now, with the first breath of dawn moments away, I stood in my chambers, hating the image of the girl in the mirror.
I pressed a hand right below my ribcage, right where I’d received the nasty stab wound, and stared at my reflection, trying to steady myself, though I doubted anything could still the anxiety churning in my gut.
Dahna had applied more of the poultice Maelis had given her before slipping out last night.
And this morning, I’d woken to what should’ve been relief, only to feel plagued by uncertainty.
The wound was gone. Not faded, not healing. Gone. There was no more need for healing tonics or bandages. It was like I’d never survived an attack. I tried not to dwell on the implications of what it could mean, though Jack’s words lingered in my mind.
What if royals weren’t the only fae able to wield magic?
I shook the thought away and forced myself to focus on getting dressed.
An outfit had been laid out by a chambermaid sometime before sunrise: a slate-blue tunic of heavy wool, tailored for warmth but plain, the kind worn by royal attendants on formal outings.
Its high collar itched, and the dark leather trousers and fur-lined boots, though functional, made me feel like a stranger in my own skin.
My uniform had meant something—authority, rank, identity—but this…
this was servitude stitched in fine thread.
A costume of silence, of invisibility. Though I wondered if even wearing a guard’s uniform would carry the same weight anymore, especially after what I’d witnessed in the courtyard.
Everyone who I had sworn to protect had abandoned Jack.
Did I even want to wear that uniform ever again?
Didn’t matter, anyway. It wasn’t like the choice was mine.
The trousers they’d brought me would at least make it easier to ride Eira. Though, a part of me feared the queen would try to take even that last bit of freedom, that last ounce of my dignity, away and force me to ride inside one of the wagons with the other attendant.
Hopefully, Skadi would take pity on me and spare me that misery.
I smoothed out the tunic over my slender curves one more time and cinched a leather sash over my waist. As I continued to stare at my reflection, my fingers moved fast, weaving a loose, practical braid over one shoulder.
The silvery thread that had first appeared yesterday now stretched longer, more noticeable against the ink-black waves.
My fingers lingered there for a few short breaths.
Another strange thing I didn’t have the time nor the will to think about.
“Gods, Jack,” I murmured to myself. “You damn fool. We should be postponing this envoy.”
But he’d promised the queen he would ride at dawn, even as his voice had cracked and his body had trembled. Even as his wounds still wept beneath layers of salve, and his magic hadn’t fully been restored.
Stubborn idiot.
But at least I would be with him. Even if it meant standing behind him rather than beside him.
A knock sounded at the door, and another female attendant pushed through. “Mistress Isenwulf, the envoy is preparing to leave.”
I straightened, smoothed the front of the tunic one last time, and fastened the cloak that had been brought with it, fingers brushing over the pin, a dreki breathing frostfire etched into iron: the crest of House Drakmyr.
Somehow, that last detail, wearing his crest, made my chest puff with pride. Whether I was captain anymore didn’t matter; my duty to protect the crown—my prince—would remain intact.
Dawn had only just split the horizon, brushing the frostbitten stones of the courtyard in pale gold, but already the envoy had assembled.
Shields were polished to a mirror sheen, lances upright like a silent forest of spears.
The rhythmic jingle of tack and the muffled scuff of hooves echoed through the colonnades.
My boots thudded against the stone as I stepped out of the eastern arch, eyes widening, and for a moment, I forgot how to breathe.
Gods… This wasn’t just some diplomatic ride through the mountain pass.
This was a full ceremonial escort, flanked by the most elite of the royal guard.
The queen had spared no resource to receive one of the most powerful fae in the Seven Realms—the Unseelie King. And more than that…
Jack’s future bride. His future queen.
The weight of that truth landed deep in my belly like a lead ball. I shifted under my cloak and adjusted my foreign clothes, feeling exactly as the queen had wished—unseen.
She stood at the head of the stairs leading from the inner hall to the courtyard, her black velvet cloak trimmed in raven feathers dragging behind her like liquid shadows. She spoke in hushed tones with Lord Kaelven.
Beyond the stairs, on both sides of the two canvas-draped wagons, guards were lined in twin columns with lightly armored riders on thick-furred mountain horses. Some bore war axes strapped across their backs; others carried recurved bows coated in oilskin.
A bubble of relief floated up my throat when I saw Jack standing near one of the wagons.
He stood beside his warhorse, Draumskelmir, a creature carved from shadow and granite, as magnificent as he was menacing.
The stallion’s coat was an abyssal black, so dark it shimmered with an almost indigo sheen beneath the morning light.
Thick, feathered fetlocks framed hooves that struck sparks from the stones as he pawed the ground in restless anticipation, steam rising in curls from flared nostrils like smoke from an ancient forge.
His long, luxurious mane had been meticulously braided in traditional Skadgardian war fashion: rows of tight plaits along the crest of his neck, interwoven with silver thread, symbols of victory and loyalty glinting faintly between the strands.
His tail had been similarly dressed, a thick rope of braided hair secured with silver rings and tied with black leather.
Even at rest, Draumskelmir looked as though he might leap into battle at the sound of a horn.
He wore no decorative barding—Skadgardian war horses had no need for frill—but every strap and buckle of his tack had been crafted with precision.
A high-backed saddle of obsidian-black leather, tooled with intricate runes, rose behind the cantle to give Jack greater stability in battle.
The breastplate and crupper were reinforced with riveted steel discs, hammered with warding symbols to protect against shadow magic.
Even his bridle bore ancient runes carved into the cheekpieces.
Two pages flanked him, one checking the braided reins, the other crouched at Jack’s shin, securing a steel greave with practiced hands. And still, Jack stood calm, one hand resting on the stallion’s powerful neck, as if they shared the same pulse… Fae and beast, bred for war.
Jack was already dressed in full armor. His breastplate was etched with his house crest. The pauldrons were molded like overlapping leaves of silvered steel, his vambraces bound tight over the sleeves of his tunic, and his royal blue cloak hung off his shoulders, thick and heavy.
At his hip hung Vetrslaga, the heirloom sword of House Drakmyr passed down from his father, and five generations of kings before him.
Its blade was sheathed in a dark scabbard, the hilt bound in worn gray leather, crowned with a pommel shaped like a coiled hrímdreki.
Jack’s jaw was locked tight, and a fine sheen of sweat clung to his brow despite the cold. His shoulders, usually proud, held a subtle hunch as though his armor weighed more than it should.
And his hand… It trembled when he reached to pat Draumskelmir’s flank.
My heart lurched at the sight.
I’d seen what his back had looked like last night. There was no way he could wear that armor without pain lancing across his back, but he was determined to keep his word, to fulfill his duty, despite the agony I knew he was masking.
I took a step forward, only to pause as Queen Virelya descended the stairs toward him, Kaelven trailing like a dog.
She leaned in, speaking low. Jack bowed stiffly, hand on the hilt of his sword, replying with words I couldn’t hear, but her face never softened.
Not even once, as if she weren’t sending her only son into one of the most treacherous terrains in the realm, barely healed, weakened by punishment she herself had ordered.
The Queen of Skadgard was a true living spire of rock and ice.
Kaelven handed Jack a small scroll sealed with the queen’s crest. Jack tucked it into the inner lining of his breastplate, just beneath his cloak’s fastening. Where it would rest near his heart.
With a resigned breath I could almost feel from across the courtyard, he stepped toward Draumskelmir, seizing the saddle horn and climbing onto his steed. His movements were fluid, practiced, so natural, so effortless, that not a single soul would’ve guessed pain still seared across his back.
His armor caught the morning light, making the steel glow with a blinding glimmer.
He sat tall, spine straight despite the tension radiating from his body, his posture forged from years of training and control.
Mounted, he looked like a figure carved from Skadgardian myth—silent, commanding, every inch the warrior he’d been molded to become since he’d learned to ride a horse.