Chapter 50
T he moon rose in the night sky, as big as the sky itself, and had turned a deep red hue.
The harvest moon was a time of celebration among the Light Elves.
The starlight lanterns from the Festival of Light in Alfheim twinkled brightly in the distance, but, for her, the crimson moon foretold an ominous fate.
She knew not what awaited her after her failed assassination attempt on the councilor and tried to assuage her fears by staring out at the gardens below, hushed and silent now in the lateness of the night.
A sudden sound behind her turned her head to the door. Vainir walked in, and he was alone.
Her fists tightened at her side. She should fear him after seeing what magic he possessed, but she was far too angry for that now.
“You killed her … Lindana.”
His head dipped by a fraction. “Yes.”
He then turned his attention to a white orchid in full bloom in a vase beside him with a look in his cold blue eyes that resembled regret, but not quite so melancholic. He caressed the delicate white petals with a gentleness as he then said, “I was her lover and her executioner. ”
How easily those words fell from his lips as if both “lover” and “executioner” meant nothing at all to him.
“Why?” Her voice was soft yet strong.
“Did you think such information so freely given? Your time with the Dokkálfar did not teach you much.”
“I should turn you in.”
“By all means, turn me in, make me pay for my crime,” he retorted, unfazed.
“But by doing so in the name of justice, you should turn yourself in as well, and your assassin friend while you are at it, though he would not last until his trial as vengeful as our guards tend to be for Dark Elves who murder Light Elves.”
Dammit all. He had a point, and he knew it. Exposing him would expose her and Fyn.
The Light Elf higher sense of justice, fair and honest, that she was once so sure of, she wasn’t so sure of now.
Fyn would never get a fair trial.
“Aelrie Everstar, you were trained as a soldier. Is that where you learned healing magic?”
Why did he have such a keen interest in her healing power?
“No, I have known healing since as long as I can remember. I only honed my skills during my training.” When she said this, it seemed to both please and interest him.
“One might say, you were born with the gift,” he said, more to himself, as a smile danced across his lips.
She crossed her arms. His motives were obscured to her. “How do you know my name?”
“She spoke of you, often.”
Hearing him speak of Lindana opened old wounds she didn’t want shown in front of the elf who killed her.
He continued, noticing her discomfort but ignoring it. “She told me she felt sorry for the deception. She wanted you to have your own life; she even considered freeing you from your position.”
He plucked an orchid bloom from the plant, walked closer to her, and placed it in her hair behind her ear.
Vainir seemed approachable now, as if he were not an almighty councilor with powerful and cruel magic she’d never heard of before, but a Light Elf like herself, someone she could talk to. Perhaps there was some way to reason with him.
“Please allow me to see him. I need to heal him.”
At this, he frowned, and his response was dry and patronizing. “Heal him for what, his execution?”
It hit her like a blow. She wanted to crumble right where she stood, but she had to stay standing, stay strong.
What did she think would happen otherwise? They were caught trying to assassinate a councilor.
“Aelrie.” He’d said her name three times already, each time with a peculiar gleam in his eye. “Reelia reborn. Even your name is an anagram.” He touched the orchid he’d placed in her hair.
“Reelia?” He was talking about Reelia of Faelorian? The maiden whose prayer to Freyr saved her village.
“That day in the marketplace, I sensed something about you. I didn’t know how special you were at the time, though, until I saw the vision.” He took a step closer to her.
“And what vision was that?” She exhaled a deep breath to calm her mind, firing off myriad questions.
He stared at her, furthering her discomfort. Being privy to information she was not, taking his time answering her, and leaving her in suspense, was all enjoyable for him.
“You know the story of Reelia of Faelorian, every elf does. But do you know what happened after?”
Reelia, the Maiden of Freyr, they called her. Her name was sacred in the temples, legendary. Of course, she remembered the tale.
After Dark Elves raided her village, Faelorian, killing every inhabitant down to the very last infant, Reelia, out gathering herbs at the time, came back to witness the slaughter.
Facing certain death as the Dark Elf soldiers came for her next, she dropped to her knees and sent a desperate prayer to the God of all Elves, Freyr, not to save her, but to bring back all her loved ones and her home stolen from her in the brutal act of savagery.
And her prayer was answered with divine intervention.
Instantly, the entire unit of Dark Elf soldiers was incinerated by righteous holy fire, and unbelievable as it sounds, every villager was miraculously brought back to life, severed limbs reattached, hearts beating once again, as if they were never killed in the first place. It was a total resurrection.
But what became of Reelia after? She was revered in the temples. Aelrie nodded slowly. “Reelia became the Maiden of Freyr.”
“Not just Maiden of Freyr,” Vainir corrected, “his Chosen .” He created a glowing orb of starlight in his hand. “Her blessing from Freyr gave us the power of the light and a means to vanquish the dark.” He closed his hand, and it snuffed out the starlight. “The power of holy fire.”
“After that,” he continued. “Light Elves claimed the ancient land of Nevandil, renaming it Evandil, and so built Alfheim in their glory.”
“But the war,” she interjected. “That was what cast the Dark Elves out of Nevandil and into the darkness beneath, the Evergloom.”
“Holy fire gave us power over the Dark Elves to win the war. Their dark magic, always their boon, could not save them against the power of Freyr’s light.”
“But that was so long ago. What does that have to do with me?”
He let out a dry, humorless laugh. “One cannot truly be so ignorant. Deny it to yourself all you like; I saw the vision. I know what you did in that labyrinth. It was a divine miracle.”
Her breath caught. “How … how did you know about that?”
“I saw the vision in the flame. I know what happened since you went into the Evergloom with that assassin. I know you saved his life in the labyrinth with your prayer to Freyr. And I know you followed him to House Nightshade after.”
Mistress Valeria told her a messenger came to them after she did. It requested Vainir’s assassination. That meant he knew she was going to be there from a vision in the blue flame, and he knew the mistress would send her, as a Light Elf, it would be easier for her to get access to the city.
He had planned it all, even his own assassination to … bring her here because he thought she was like Reelia?
“Your strong affinity for healing magic, just as Reelia herself, proves it further,” he went on to say, confirming, at least in his own mind, who he thought she was.
“The Temple of the Eternal Truth,” she murmured. “The seers of the blue flames, Nerilion Silvercoin … and you.”
“You’re beginning to understand,” he said, his voice like a blade cutting through silk. “You’re not just here by chance. You were chosen .”
“Do you mean to tell me, you orchestrated all this, hiring your own assassination, just to bring me here because you think I am the chosen of Freyr?”
He smiled faintly. “You will give Freyr’s blessing to me.”
“And why would I do that?” Assuming it was even possible for her to.
He stepped closer and lifted her chin with two fingers, forcing her to meet his eyes. “Because you need something from me. Desperately.”
She wanted to recoil, but her need was greater. Every second she wasted here, Fyn suffered. Her desperation grew unbearable.
“Please,” she whispered, emotions swelling in her chest despite the warning in her heart. “Help me save him. ”
Disgust spread across his face, mingled with something that almost resembled pity. “You would save the assassin? Is that truly what you want?”
“Yes.”
It was foolhardy. Dealing with Vainir was the same as making a deal with a devil.
But Fyn’s life or death hung in the balance, just a command from the councilor’s lips.
She couldn’t squander Fyn’s life for her petty concerns or second-guess herself in the decision she’d already made—to do whatever it took to save him.
She knew what Briza felt when she reunited with Darranyae that night. Now, she could fully understand the meaning and weight of her sacrifice.
She gripped his arm tightly and felt his sinewy muscles underneath that silken councilor’s robe. His eyes flashed down to her hand.
His strength surprised her. There was more to him than could be perceived at first glance, and she’d severely underestimated him.
“And I will do whatever it is that you want of me after, you have my word.” When she said this, Vainir’s eyebrow lifted in satisfactory surprise, and a smile he could not hide appeared on his otherwise unmovable face.
He leaned toward her, and panic struck like lightning in her chest.
Then his lips were on hers.
She recoiled instinctively, disgust and fear flaring through her, but he grabbed her face before she could escape.
His fingers dug into her cheeks, and she froze, wide-eyed, staring into his cold, blue eyes devoid of warmth, yet full of calculated cruelty.
The pain of his grip and the icy calm in his gaze paralyzed her.
Then, slowly, his hold loosened, and he released her. One hand then slid along her cheek in a mockery of tenderness.
“Do not recoil from me again,” he murmured, voice low and heavy with warning.
Her heart pounded wildly in her chest. Her eyes darted for an exit, but he held her in position with just his hand, now on her chin.
“I will take you as my wife,” he continued, “and, as a gift, I will grant you one favor.”
He tilted her chin up to look at him. His eyes told her not to look away, though her body screamed for her to.
Her breath caught. Her eyes met his, but she couldn’t focus on what they hid behind them because other thoughts occupied her mind.
A flicker of hope. A chance to save Fyn.
Paid for by a life without him. But at least he would live and have a chance of finding happiness.
It would cost her everything—a lifetime bound to a monster—but if it meant Fyn could live, could escape and build a quiet life for himself somewhere in the forest, then, even if it meant a life without her, it was worth it.
“I am not a noble, I cannot marry you.”
Vainir didn’t flinch, and she could feel nothing through his icy blue eyes. “I am a councilor. No one will object, especially for the hero who brought the high priestess’ murderer to justice.”
She saw Vainir clearly now. The mask of a benevolent councilor was gone. This was who he truly was. And still, she did not hesitate .
“Any favor?” she asked, her voice steady despite the dread rising in her throat.
“Yes,” he replied, too calmly, his eyes moving slowly over her face. “Do we have a deal?”
She swallowed hard. “Let me heal him. Let him go. And... I will be yours.”
He arched a brow. “That’s two favors.”
“You want my hand in marriage and my blessing. Seems a fair exchange.”
A smile, small and satisfied, touched his lips. He released her chin and stepped back.
“So be it. I accept.”
The ruby dagger she had given him earlier emerged from a concealed place in his robe, the dagger she had stolen from Falco. Without ceremony, he sliced his palm open. Blood welled up, dark and vivid.
“Your turn,” he said, offering the blade.
“Why?”
“A blood oath,” he simply replied.
A blood oath. Once sworn, it could not be undone. It was a form of powerful blood magic one shouldn’t dabble in lightly. The penalty for breaking the oath was instant death.
This meant their oath was forever. With her marriage, Fyn would be gone from her life completely. But if she didn’t do this, he would be gone from life itself.
She didn’t even hesitate and used the dagger to cut a slice open on her palm. Blood trickled down. They pressed their hands together. As their blood mingled, the blood magic bound their hands together. Its strong pull sealed their blood together as one, as the pact was made.
Ready to trade her freedom for love, she was no longer free as there was no going back from this. But Fyn would be free, soon.
“I swear,” he said, eyes locked onto hers, “to let you heal your assassin, and set him free after.”
“And I swear,” she replied, holding his stare, “to marry you and grant you my blessing.”