32. Chapter 31
Chapter 31
I strode through the Hall of Feasts with my chin held high, eyes locked on my brother. Conversations fell silent as I wove between tables. He turned from speaking with a woman in red and black robes, his gaze snagging on me, a vicious smile spreading across his face.
“Dear sister!” he roared. “Finally shrugging off your shame to join those truly favored by the gods?”
My mouth quirked into a sly grin. He didn’t know I had the Dire Wolf searching for the real God Stones, and if anyone in Wynterborne could find them, it was her.
“To dine with a pack of wolves in the Great Icelands would be preferable to your company,” I mused, climbing the few steps to his table’s raised platform. “I’ve decided on the date.”
“It can’t be soon enough.” He spoke through his white-toothed grin, peridot eyes glinting with twisted amusement.
“Eager to be rid of me?”
“Eager to see Wynterborne with a crowned king. ‘Tis long overdue, little sister.”
“You do mean monarch, brother?”
I plucked a grape from his plate. His brows dipped, his glare tracking my movement. Unfazed by his attempt at intimidation, I leaned my hip against the table, blocking his view of the woman.
“Surely you wouldn’t want to put words in the mouths of the divine.” I lifted a single brow. “There’s still a chance I could win.”
Anderz advised me to keep him busy, his mind focused on the rite while the Dire Wolf conducted her search. So that’s what I intended to do .
“You?” He scowled, shoving his plate away. “Tell me, while living in the arsecrack of the world, did you receive any formal training?”
The woman snickered, but I ignored her. She wasn’t my target.
“And you’ve, what? Practiced with that fancy sword of yours?” I leaned in close to his sneer, lowering my tone. “I lived in the slums, Adastrus. That arsecrack taught me to fight for every scrap of bread, while your formal trainers praised your blows to a wooden post,” I scoffed, then eased away, grateful for the distance.
Just being near him violated my soul. Evil rolled off him like a stench from a pig.
“You know nothing of the gods’ plans,” I mocked. “Perhaps I will emerge victorious, not you.”
His blackened fingertips tapped against the tabletop with such force, I wondered if they’d crack—his calm, careless demeanor shattered.
“When?” he snapped.
I sighed as if explaining something to a child, then lifted my chin to address the quiet room. “In three days, the Rite of Combat commences! The gods shall reveal their favored, and the defeated pay with their life. Wynterborne will have her monarch, be it king or queen, and they are to rule without question!”
I turned back to Adastrus, lifting his wineglass in a toast. “To the death, big brother. To the death.”
The next days passed in a blur of relentless training. From dawn until exhaustion claimed me, Sainte’s grueling pace never let up. His frown deepened, and his mood darkened with each hour no news of the God Stones came.
They were my only hope of avoiding this fight. If we retrieved them from Adastrus’ hiding place, I could prove my favor with the gods, and the rite would dissolve as if it were nothing more than a bad dream.
Yet that moment lingered out of reach.
My body ached from endless hours of sparring with Sainte, wrestling him with dagger against dagger. Each defeat ached like a personal failure. He taught me the simplest blocks, but I remained at a severe disadvantage. Adastrus, with his greater size and strength, wielded a shortsword that outmatched my reach. Despite my bravado in the dining hall, he was more skilled than I was. Anderz’s advice to keep my brother focused on our fight worked, as he spent his days training as intensely as I did.
It wouldn’t matter now. Without those stones, he’d kill me .
The morning of the rite dawned, and a sinking feeling settled in my gut. I rose to meet Anderz for breakfast, but the sight of food turned my stomach. He shook his head.
The God Stones remained lost.
I sat at my table, eyes closed, heart shattering into a thousand pieces. All this effort, wasted. Sainte hid me away for most of my life, and for what? I endured hunger, neglect, lived in squalor, only to face an early death.
At least my friends were well on their way back to Landing’s End, beyond my brother’s reach. He couldn’t harm them there.
Fragments of conversations from the high court echoed in my mind. Adastrus was closing the borders, preparing for something ominous—it felt like war.
My friend’s safety might be fleeting.
My gaze drifted across the room, finding Sainte against the wall, arms crossed. His eyes, darkened with shadows, stared into the distance, unseeing. He moved his jaw, teeth grinding, lost in his thoughts.
His life would be sacrificed.
As tradition dictated, when I died, he would take a blade to the heart, following me across the Veil… and I could do nothing to stop it.
Regret washed over me. I chose Sainte as my Valahant, binding him to a fate he didn’t deserve. He shouldn’t have to die for me. An overwhelming urge to tell him to run surged within, but I knew he wouldn’t.
Taking a deep breath, I turned to Anderz and forced a smile. “Pardon me, Counselor Dyre, I have a rite to prepare for.”
Anderz’s golden gaze softened as he sighed, shaking his head before pushing from the table. “We’ve done all we can,” he said, placing a warm hand on my shoulder. “You’ve surpassed every expectation.”
I closed my eyes, his words feeling like a farewell.
“Wynterborne will remember you.” He squeezed lightly, then stepped away.
I waited until his footsteps faded and the door whispered shut before glaring at the table, blinking back the threatening sting of tears. My heart shattered further with each beat. There were no more rites, no gods to invoke, no time to seek magical stones or plot a coup.
This marked the end of my story.
Historians would note the brief life of Wynterborne’s Lost Princess, ending with her brother clutching her head in front of an adoring crowd. Adastrus, firstborn to Veiled King Vardis, would have many years recorded—years that would see the downfall of Wynterborne. I felt the truth of that deep within my bones.
How could Togamar and Nothar let this happen? Nellium? Was it my fault? Had my disbelief kept them at bay? Would they punish an entire people for one person’s faulty faith ?
“This is it, then?” I asked, voice cracking with emotion, a rogue tear slipping down my cheek.
“It has come to this,” Sainte rumbled, his eyes closing in silent pain. He rose, pushing himself off the wall and walked over to me, resting his hand on my shoulder.
“No hope of running now?” I half-sobbed, half-laughed.
He ground his teeth, shook his head, and wiped away the tear with his thumb. “For what it is worth… I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your–”
He silenced me with a finger over my lips. “I brought you here. This is my doing, Ellie.” His voice grew raspy, and he cleared his throat. “I am truly sorry.”
My smile wavered, and I pulled away from his stare, focusing on the table. Sometimes words weren’t needed. Assurances that didn’t ease the pain only added weight. This was one of those times.
Sainte was dying inside, convinced he led me to my demise. I harbored no blame toward him. Until now, we had a chance. He fought to shield me and salvage a realm—a daunting task for a lone recruiter. My hand found his, resting atop it, a brief respite from the impending storm—one last moment in this sanctuary from prying eyes and intrusive whispers. Ahead was only my death, a spectacle for the masses to witness.
A knock sounded, a disturbance I longed to disregard. Yet Sainte’s hand squeezed my shoulder as I waited too long, the fleeting peace slipping through our fingers.
“Come in,” I called, voice thick with reluctance.
The door creaked open, revealing two maidservants, the same who helped dress me day after day. Alongside them was Floria, the master seamstress who had made every one of my exquisite gowns. She offered a sympathetic smile, then dipped into a curtsy as she entered.
“Shall we prepare you, Your Highness?” she asked.
With a steadying breath, I pushed to my feet. Sainte’s touch slipped away from my shoulder, leaving an ache in my chest that defied explanation. My heart urged me to turn back, to grasp his hand, to flee this fate and seek refuge anywhere but here. It demanded defiance, a refusal to accept what lay ahead—to forge my own path.
Yet, my mind countered with the inevitability of this moment. I was meant to confront my end, not evade it, only to be caught unaware later. No, I would face my fears head-on, embracing my fate like the princess I was.
“I’m ready.”
The attire surpassed all expectations, a true masterpiece. Though classified as a dress, it defied convention. Black trousers hugged my legs, while the full skirt danced between them with every stride. Its length, reaching mid-calf, featured elongated points at the hem, enhancing its fluidity and grace with each sway.
The snug top embraced my form, wrapping around my torso and chest, secured by laces that ascended to the neckline. Despite the high collar, its thinness made it feel more like a second skin than a constriction.
The ensemble was entirely black, adorned with peridots along the bodice that accentuated the hue of my irises. They braided and pinned my hair, ensuring no strays would disrupt my vision.
Not that the fight would be a prolonged affair.
With every step, I held my chin high, matching the confident stride of my black boots as they echoed through the corridor toward the training chambers.
Around me, servants bustled, adorning the throne room with flowers and tapestries, a flurry of preparation for the impending coronation. Their curious gazes brushed past me, likely etching the sight of the Lost Princess walking toward her fate into their memories. This would be the talk of Wynterborne for generations to come. The very least I could do was muster every ounce of pride to carry me forward, even as I approached what seemed like my doom.
My dagger hung from the thick belt around my hip, a sleek ebony blade suspended in a silver sheath. Engraved on its hilt was a scene of a wild cat’s hunt for a boar. It fit my palm perfectly, its weight and balance were everything I could wish for.
As we neared the guards’ wing, our pace slowed, and a chill crept over my palms, damp with cold sweat.
This was it.
Sainte strode ahead, bracing his arms against the massive wooden doors, straining as he pushed them inward with a low groan, throwing them wide open.
The room teemed with people. A vast expanse of polished floorboards encircled by tier upon tier of seats ascending higher to ensure an unobstructed view for every spectator. Not a single seat remained unoccupied.
Dread hit me like a hammer to my chest as Sainte moved aside, unveiling Adastrus, awaiting my entrance.
My brother stood tall, clad in a sleek black overcoat and matching trousers adorned with sparkling garnets that shimmered under the soft overcast light seeping through the windows. I approached despite the trembling in my knees, knowing there was no escape now.
Adastrus sported a thin, menacing shortsword at his hip, its gleaming blade exposed and secured only by a strap of black leather tethered to his belt. It was a lethal weapon, poised to strike at the slightest provocation. His hair cascaded in its usual style, long down the center and closely shaved at the sides, framing his face like a wild stallion’s mane, a blend of majesty and menace. His piercing eyes locked onto mine, a malevolent grin stretching across his cheeks, baring his white, predatory teeth.
Beside him stood a priest adorned in red and black robes, bearing a symbol of a dragon, one I didn’t recognize. Was that the god who answered the regent? A deity who thought me weak and unworthy to rule?
I strode into the middle of the arena, my posture tall but unable to conceal the quivers that raced through me. His grin seemed to widen, fueled by my visible fear.
Sainte, my loyal Valahant, didn’t follow. I gritted my teeth against the blow that landed on my battered heart.
“Sister,” Adastrus called in a sing-song voice.
“Adastrus.”
I refused to acknowledge him as my blood. Not anymore. He represented my death, and kin would never hurt each other. Lyana and Ethyan were my true family.
Sainte was my family.
Solitude stabbed like a knife, realizing none of them could stand with me at my end. With my Valahant lost in the throng, poised to journey past the Veil after me, I had to face this alone.
“I’ve challenged you to the Rite of Combat, and you have answered.”
“I have.”
“Any last words?” His sneer cut through the air. The distance offered some safety yet left me exposed, his glare sparking with malice.
“I only request that High God Nothar protect his people when I pass through the Veil.”
He barked a mocking laugh, lifting his chin with wild fervor. “Not so cocky now?” he taunted, then addressed the crowd. “Elspeth, my sister, Second Born of my father, King Vardis, ran away from her home,” he declared, voice carrying regal authority. “She fled from you , her own people, and hid! Why? No one knows.” His gaze shifted to me, daring me to refute. “She abandoned you, left you to the cold of winter’s grip. Yet, I stayed. I weathered your darkest years!”
Darkest only because he was the storm cloud.
“I was here for you when Winter’s Bite ravaged our populace. I was here when the south threatened war. I was here when the men from the east came to try to claim our oil mines—I was here for you when she was basking in the sun at Tilamuik’s ports.
“At the final minute of the last day, just as I was about to ascend to my rightful place, she shows up, demanding the Rites of the Gods. She ripped your king from your grasp, stringing you along with her royal privileges. People of Wynterborne, I offer you myself. I will rule for you, wield what is given to me, reclaim the throne, and make this kingdom a nation to be feared and respected once more!”
That sounded a lot like the speech of a warmonger.
“I will save Wynterborne from the delusions of a child.” He whipped toward me, hair slapping against his face, giving him the look of a madman. “May the gods have mercy on your soul.”
I lifted my chin, a silent snarl curling my lip. Drawing my dagger, a sudden calmness spread over me. Adastrus’ grin widened as he unsheathed his blade. I eyed its length, longer than my arm, yet small and deadly in his grip. He spun it with an air of confidence, his dead fingers not hindering his movements. He savored each step, pacing with deliberate strides, extending his victory. His feet moved without thought, crossing as he sidled around me.
With my lips pressed tight, I clutched my dagger, readying myself.
I accepted my death, and I’d face it head-on.
He jerked, feigning a step, and I braced myself, flinching. He snickered, raising a mocking eyebrow.
Rage flared within. His taunts, the pain he caused my friends, this predicament I was in now—all stemmed from him. Sainte was bound to death the same as me. All because of Adastrus.
Ignoring Sainte’s training, I lurched, throwing myself at him. He spun, but I grabbed his overcoat and yanked, pulling him off balance. With a grunt, he swung his sword, the hilt smashing into my face. I yelped, releasing my grip to create distance. My nose throbbed, trickling blood, and darkness edged my sight as I crouched, trying to locate him in the dim room.
My vision cleared, revealing Adastrus settled in a crouch a few paces away. He smirked as he stood, fingering the torn hole in his sleeve. I braced my left palm against the floor as he smiled and sheathed his weapon to remove his overcoat.
“Come, little sister. Playtime is over.”
He charged. I leapt to my feet, trying to dance aside. His sword moved too fast, and the blade caught me under my ribs. I hissed, pain blooming and splintering. Still, I raised my dagger and spun to the side, throwing myself inside his guard. I limped as I went, my leg buckling beneath my weight, but I snared his arm and swung at his chest.
He evaded the blow with ease, jerking from my grasp. The motion sent me stumbling.
This wasn’t a challenge, this was a mockery.
I panted, and clutched my stomach, frowning when my hand came away bright with blood. Each step brought an onslaught of agony, and though my breaths were shallow, the cut hadn’t sliced deep enough to do permanent damage .
I pulled myself straight as he charged me once again, swinging his sword in a lazy arc, daring me to block it. I barely managed to lift my dagger in time to catch his blade, but the force sent a painful tremor through my arms, and my knees buckled beneath me.
He was unfairly strong.
My teeth ground together as my leg gave out, the sting in my side too great. Adastrus struck like lightning, his boot smashing into my face, crushing my nose.
I cried out, falling hard on my back, and my dagger skittered across the floorboards. Blood gathered in my throat, and I coughed, sputtering as I rolled onto my side. Pain radiated from every part of me. My vision blurred with unbidden tears, my breathing labored. Each movement brought a new wave of agony. The room’s silence confirmed no one was coming to my rescue.
No one would save me.
His heavy boot pressed down on my chest, crushing the air from my lungs. I gasped, blood filling my throat, then gripped his ankle with desperate fingers. My nails dug into his flesh like talons. If I could’ve reached his leg, I would have bitten down in sheer desperation.
Adastrus leaned down, his face swimming in my blurry vision. His white teeth glinted in a smile as he whispered, “May your journey through the Veil be a miserable one.”
He snapped up and my head slammed back against the wood. Panic froze me as he lifted his sword in a fluid movement, then swung it down–
“Adastrus of Wynterborne!” The clarion call rang out across the crowded room, joined by a stag’s bugle that echoed through the room.
Any remaining breath fled my chest as he stilled, turning slowly to his left.
“Child of mine, the mists of madness beckon you.”
Sainte walked toward the center—except it wasn’t Sainte at all. The god might have borrowed my Valahant’s body, but it was Nothar’s eyes that stared our way. Those glowing green orbs held Adastrus in a trance as he dragged his foot off my chest, taking a stumbling step away.
“You’re not a god,” he whispered, horror in his tone.
The room rang with an unnatural, suffocating silence.
“Not your god, but you are my seed, and you will answer my call.”
“I do not answer to you,” Adastrus dared, raising his sword. “You have no right to my reign. You are but a trick of the light, a man with a spell… and I will remove it from you.”
He lunged, quick as a whip, slashing at Sainte. I lifted my hand in warning, but the green eyes didn’t look my way. His body moved with inhuman speed, leaving a verdant glow in his wake. He drew his long daggers, blocking the strike with ease.
“Heed my call, son of my blood.”
Adastrus growled like a cornered animal and danced to the side, striking at Sainte’s exposed flank. He parried with a slash to his chest, forcing him back.
“I answer to no god!”
Something happened as he uttered those words. A ripple of power, waves of raw energy, unseen and unheard, spread from him. His eyes flashed wildly, as if realizing he made a fatal mistake.
“You are a god unto yourself,” Nothar said, his voice deep and rough like grinding stones. He turned, locking that eerie stare on me.
Adastrus seized the moment, attacking with renewed fury. Without looking, Sainte deflected his strike with ease.
“Heed me, daughter of my heart. Answer my call.”
“I…” Blood choked my response, but I grasped onto that faint thread of hope. The gods finally decided to act. “I hear… and answer my father, Nothar.” I coughed, rolling to my side, unable to sit upright.
“Only my seed may rule the land of Wynter.”
A ghost of a smile rode Sainte’s lips as he parried and blocked Adastrus’ blows blindly.
Even from this distance, I saw the panic in my brother’s stare. He denounced his relation to Nothar, calling his vessel a trick of light. He mocked the gods’ power in front of hundreds. In a final, desperate move, Adastrus charged at me.
A jolt of terror surged through me before he let out a quiet gasp, his eyes widening in shock. He stumbled, catching himself on his sword as he doubled over. Sainte’s blade protruded from his stomach. A green thread of unmistakable magic connected my Valahant’s hand to the dagger. When he pulled, the weapon jerked free with a sickening, wet squelch.
With a seething glare of sick hatred, Adastrus crumpled, rolling onto his back with a wheeze.
Sainte stalked over, green eyes flaming. Each step grew in volume, sounding as if the very foundations of the earth were being shaken and shattered. Gritting my teeth, I looked up into his mask of fury, twisted by his own hatred and the disappointment of a god.
“The time has come to cull the weak from the herd,” he rumbled in that eerie voice, then lowered himself to one knee.
His fingers brushed across my cheek. His touch was a chilly spring day with my face to the sun and my belly full—it felt like home .
“Child…” he said, “heed my call, and I will heed yours.”
With unspoken understanding, his request settled deep within me. He urged me to ascend the throne, to wear the crown with resolve, and fulfill my duty as queen without hesitation or retreat.
“I… accept,” I choked out, hot tears staining my cheeks .
“I have chosen,” he declared, rising to his feet.
Dizziness twisted me as though I was falling, tumbling downward.
“I choose Sainte Nytestorm as my hand, and name Elspeth Wynterborne as my heir.”
A resounding crack reverberated through the air, as if it split our very souls asunder.
In a blink, Sainte’s eyes reverted to their cool blue hue. He shuddered as if shedding Nothar from his skin, then looked down at Adastrus. Features void of emotion, he flicked his wrist, spinning his dagger, then slashed down in a single decisive strike.
I yelped and rolled away from my brother’s detached head, curling up on my side. Sharp pain drew a hiss, and I groaned, resting my temple against the cool, polished floor.
A warm touch pressed against my shoulder.
“Ellie.”
Slowly, through clouded vision, I blinked up at Sainte crouched beside me.
“It’s over,” he said.
His face was the last thing I saw before I slipped into oblivion.