Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
Sylvi
Istood there, breath snagged in my throat, staring at the empty space Jack had vanished from. Where his body had just been. One heartbeat he was flesh, whispering words that sliced through the marrow of my soul.
The next…
Gone.
Gone in a spiral of shadow and icy smoke, like a dream slipping through my fingers. Not mist, not glamor. He’d disintegrated before my very eyes, frost trailing behind like the ghost of his pain.
I staggered back, my hand catching the beam of the supply tent for balance, my pulse pounding in my ears.
Gods… Jack.
I’d never seen him do that. Not in all the years I’d trained beside him. That level of magic wasn’t just rare; it was practically unheard of. A kind of transmutation usually attributed to spirits or gods, not fae princes.
And Jack had wielded it like breath.
My stomach churned again. This was too much. This was all just too much. I pressed a hand to my cheek, right where his knuckles had brushed over my skin. The place where his magic still pulsed.
I bore his mark like some type of magical stamp that told anyone with an ounce of magic in their veins that Jack was mine.
I wanted to revel in it. I wanted to cry with joy. He’d finally uttered the words I’d needed to hear, only for the happiness to be ripped from me in that same instant. Because it didn’t matter that I loved him, didn’t matter that he’d whispered truths so raw they’d shredded my ribs open.
The princess had sensed it, had known it. She’d scented my desire on him like perfume.
And no matter how little affection existed between them, she was still his betrothed. A political match meant to save our people, our future, our realm.
I squeezed my eyes shut, the burn behind them too much to hold back. A part of me—a cruel, logical part—couldn’t stop thinking, What if I’d just doomed this entire alliance?
What if she told the king she wanted out?
What if she demanded my head?
What if I was the reason Jack lost everything?
I clutched the beam harder, my legs trembling, vision narrowing.
Gods, this was such a fucking mess.
“Captain?”
I flinched.
Sascha stood at the edge of the tent path, arms full of a woven basket bursting with fruits, vegetables, and a few small loaves.
Ingrid trailed behind her, chattering softly about the kitchens, but when Sascha spotted me, her face drained of color.
She passed the basket to Ingrid. “Go ahead without me.”
Ingrid blinked, clearly confused, but obeyed and headed into the camp.
Sascha didn’t speak again until she was in front of me, her voice gentle. “Sylvi?”
“I’m fine,” I croaked.
“You’re not.”
I tried to pull away, to hide the wreckage of my face, but she caught my arm, grounding me. “Being strong doesn’t mean burying how you feel. It means facing it. Right now, you don’t have to be the royal captain. With me, you can just be Sylvi.”
That was all it took.
The dam inside me cracked, then crumbled. A sob tore free, raw and guttural. Sascha caught me as I buckled into her. She held me for what felt like forever, until my tears finally dried up and I found the courage to open myself up to her.
I didn’t know why I did it—why I felt I could trust her, given we’d only recently gotten to know each other—but something about her softness just made me feel like I was safe around her.
“I let it go too far,” I finally said, after telling her what had happened between Jack and me back at the lake, though I didn’t give her every intimate detail. “And now the princess knows. She could sabotage everything. If we lose this alliance because I let my desire for him blind me…”
“She won’t,” Sascha murmured. “From what everyone is saying, King Maelthar is the one who proposed the marriage. Verrindor needs Skadgard, too. The king won’t allow his great-granddaughter to dismantle this whole treaty because her betrothed loves someone else.
Political marriages are seldom—if ever—about love, Sylvi. ”
“I’m so scared of screwing this up,” I whispered.
“I know you are. I’m sure the prince is, too. He’s not only trying to protect his kingdom; he’s trying to protect you. In the only way he knows how.”
A long silence stretched between us.
Maybe I had been too hard on him. Maybe I was so wrapped up in my own confusion, I hadn’t seen his distance for what it was—a desperate attempt to carry us both through this without losing what little control he had left.
I wiped my cheeks, sniffing.
“We’re entering the lion’s den,” she said. “More than his captain, he’s going to need his best friend.”
I chuckled gently, nudging her with my shoulder. “You’ve been talking to Ravin, haven’t you?”
Sascha shied her eyes away, unapologetically. “What can I say, that rake gets under my skin…in the best way possible.”
We stood there, silently grinning for a long moment, until Astrid’s voice called through the tent, summoning us back to the circle.
“I’ll go first,” Sascha said softly. “Give you a moment.”
I waited until she was gone and I’d had a chance to ensure any traces of tears were gone before stepping out from behind the tent. Somewhere in the middle of the camp, drums began to beat.
The Unseelie King had summoned the court to feast.
I sat at the edge of a cot inside the tent that had been erected for our company, re-braiding my hair with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking, trying to look presentable, trying not to think about the way Jack’s voice had cracked when he said he belonged to me.
I was still reeling from our encounter inside the tent, from the potential repercussions of his confession, the risks we faced.
Sascha had done her best to calm me, reminding me that marriage alliances like these were centuries old, that kings didn’t break treaties over loveless unions. But the weight of Princess Isolde’s words still burned along my skin.
Gods. I couldn’t even bring myself to utter the words.
I needed to stay focused on my task. Needed to be captain—the person I’d trained my entire life to be.
My armor rested neatly beside my boots. I had wiped off the worst of the travel dust with a wet cloth, rinsed my face, and polished Moonshadow. I couldn’t show up looking shaken, not with the eyes of two courts now watching my every move.
A rustle outside the flap pulled me upright. “Captain Isenwulf,” came a deep male voice. “May I enter?”
I hesitated. The voice was unfamiliar. “Yes.”
The flap peeled back, and in stepped a mountain of a male.
He filled the tent with his sheer presence.
Broad-shouldered and clad in armor as black as scorched iron, his pauldrons gleamed with etched runes.
His skin bore the same ghost-pale hue as the king and his great-granddaughter, and his silver hair was braided tightly down the center of his head, tied off with a strip of blood-red leather.
Ink marked one side of his neck, ancient symbols or sigils I didn’t recognize reaching up from under his armor, hinting that perhaps the tattoos dipped to lower parts of his body, and an array of silver hoops and cuffs adorned his pointed ears.
“I am General Ivan Drigmir, Commander of the King’s Armies,” he said, bowing just slightly, enough to be respectful without ceding rank. “His Majesty requests your presence at the evening supper, hosted in the royal pavilion.”
I stood. “Of course.”
His gaze swept over me once, measuring, not in the way of a male assessing a female, but like one soldier sizing up another.
He bore the king’s eye color and features, though he lacked the air of magic or royalty.
A distant nephew, perhaps. Or a cousin. Someone blooded but not destined for a throne.
“Your soldiers can remain here,” he said.
“I’ve left my second in command. She’ll ensure discipline.”
He gestured toward the tent flap. “If you are ready, I’ll escort you.”
I pulled on my armor, boots, strapped Moonshadow to my waist, and followed him out into the dusky cold.
The walk across camp was brisk and silent, save for the crackle of torches and the hushed whispers of the unseelie army.
No revelry, no campfire songs. Just grim faces staring at me through the slits between tents.
We entered the king’s pavilion through the back entrance, where two guards peeled open the silken flaps.
Inside, the supper was already underway.
A long oaken table stretched across the center of the chamber, dressed in dark linens and obsidian plates that shimmered faintly in the candlelight.
Polished bone and silver flatware had been arranged with ceremonial precision, and the scent of roasted meats, spiced root vegetables, and winter apples filled the warm air.
At the head of the table sat King Maelthar, already reclining with one elbow resting on the arm of his throne-like chair.
Isolde was to his right, draped in shadow-blue velvet, her pale fingers curled around a goblet, her silver-tipped nails sharpened to deadly points.
Her eyes—those hollow obsidian eyes—met mine immediately, and a sizzle of dark energy skidded over my skin.
A show of dominance, I was sure. A quiet reminder of who she was, and who I wasn’t.
To the king’s left, and directly opposite the princess, sat Jack.
A strategic choice, no doubt. His armor had been traded for formal attire.
A fitted black tunic with silver embroidery curling up the collar and cuffs accentuated his broad shoulders and muscled arms. His hair was freshly tied back in a knot, though wild strands framed the angles of his face.
Resting on his brow, the heirloom ceremonial circlet glinted like slick ice.
But it was the tension in his freshly shaven jaw, the slight wrinkle at his brow, that made my throat tighten. He hated this. Playing the role of the courtly prince.
I hadn’t sat at the table yet, and I could already sense his annoyance rippling like echoes of his frosty magic.
Next to Isolde, Lord Thandoril sat poised and elegant, a chalice in hand, his long fingers gripping the stem delicately. Ravin sat beside him, dressed in his finery, looking every bit the lord rake, his golden eyes glimmering, confused though amused to be seated at the high table.
He caught my eye and raised an eyebrow. I cocked one of mine.
Did the king know Jack’s court spy was sitting among them?
Ravin shrugged nonchalantly as if he’d read my confusion, and he too was shocked that he was seated at this table.
Two empty chairs remained.
“Captain Isenwulf,” the king said, gesturing to the chair beside Jack. General Drigmir pulled it out, offering me the seat, then he sat in the chair next to mine.
I inclined my head and stepped forward, spine stiff, every muscle tensed. Jack watched me as I sat, but I didn’t meet his gaze.
Because I knew if I did, our eyes might reveal too much to those gathered at the table. Especially when the princess was staring at us like a hawk ready to tear flesh from bone.
The king raised his goblet. “Let us toast to new beginnings,” he said smoothly. “And to the gods who see all unions bound in their name.”
I lifted my cup with the others and drank, the wine tasting bitter on my tongue.
Once I placed the goblet back down, my hand fell to my lap. Jack’s hand also slid under the tablecloth, too smoothly for anyone to have noticed.
And then, as if drawn by some invisible force, our hands brushed against each other.
Our fingers twined, and he squeezed once. I squeezed back. And like a crack of sunlight through a gray cloud, I could breathe normally again.
This. This was who we were. Beneath all the politics and posturing. Beneath the depthless black gazes of the Unseelie Court. His touch, this silent anchor, was the only truth I needed to get through this impending disaster.