Chapter 9
The trees are dead.
Not in the way humans would describe them. No, these tall leafy trees are, by all human definitions, alive. But they’re silent. Their magic has been stripped from their majestic trunks like souls riven from untarnished bodies, left to wither away above the hard ground.
On the outside, they seem alive, but on the inside, they are empty .
There is no magic here.
I lick my bottom lip, salty from sweat. The heat of summer worsens as we get closer to the castle. The ley lines here are dried up, and I wither with the trees.
I feel their pain.
Not in the way a mated pair might feel each other’s physical pain, but in an empathetic way. They are without magic, as I am also.
The supposed prince trots alongside me in silence, save for his occasional pant each time we clear a small hill.
I don’t look at him. I’ve already seared his charming face into my memory.
The face that has remained hidden from the entire kingdom…
until his coronation. I’m sure selling his description would earn me at least three silver coins from a rich portraitist.
His eyes are a bright, deep green. Like emeralds or the sun shining through a perfectly healthy maple leaf.
Stubble grows along his chin. The angles of his face make a heart, and his cheekbones are similar to my people’s—regal and high-set.
His aquiline nose is long and fits the noble charm of the rest of his face.
He wears a dark cloak that hides his hair, but I can tell it’s wildly curly, like King Azriel’s.
Perhaps he is the king’s son , I consider.
Which means you can’t find him attractive. Legacy stirs in mirrored blood.
I know many people find Xavelor attractive, according to rumors in taverns and among gossips in Aldorin.
The prince often traveled throughout Aldorin in search of magical supplies, and pass through whenever he journeyed to Midra for intermittent wars.
I heard a thing or two about his relationships with the people of the forest, though they never interested me.
Surely they knew who he was. So why would he lie to me about his name? Is he using a pseudonym to reduce suspicions from passersby? He’s set himself apart from others, even carries himself like a prince might. Still, I’m not sure he is who he says he is.
Could this be a power play? Does he have something he’s trying to hide, other than his royal identity?
He isn’t as stoic and bloodthirsty as the rumors claim.
On the contrary, he’s rather…pleasant. If I can afford to think such nonsense about a human, it might as well be about the prince of the nation.
But I’ll never deign to compliment him aloud.
My jest earlier about his hospitality went right over his curly-haired head.
There had been a semblance of truth in it, but I’d merely wanted to get under his skin a little.
To see if I could catch a glimpse of the ruthless warrior under whatever weak guise he’s currently wearing.
He said he’d give me my freedom, so whatever other lies he’s told about his need for a master or his duel don’t mean much to me.
As long as I can return to my people in one piece, I will offer my help.
If it’s true that he’s saving me from whatever fate the king had for me, it is the least I can do.
Xavelor has stopped staring at me, but I can’t let my guard down yet, not when I’m growing more vulnerable as we press on.
With every magic-less tree we pass, the energy drains from my arms, legs, chest, like blood leaking from a wound.
The trees are nothing but voracious voids, greedily sucking every last drop of magical energy available to quench their thirst, but never experiencing fulfillment.
I pity them, but I’m more concerned this might be part of the prince’s scheme to weaken me. Is this all a trap?
The ground is hard and flat and hot, and the air is heavy, but I breathe easier staying on the same level as the bushes.
The prince had offered me a seat on his saddle…
The thought alone of sitting so closely to him is absurd.
I’d bring about my own death before anyone sees me nestled against one of our kingdom’s royal oppressors.
If he really needs my help, I will make sure to maintain a great distance between us at all times.
His eyes are on me again, serious and studying my every move.
Is something wrong with my appearance? He mentioned not knowing much about elves, unless that too had been a lie.
If not, perhaps he’s simply curious. Perhaps he’s merely fascinated with how different I am, not with how similar we might be.
I clear my throat and turn my head away to stare into the thick of trees. All dead.
The forest is “alive,” yet nothing lives in it.
No rabbits or birds or other woodland creatures.
They must have fled after feeling the hard soil sowing seeds of death, prolonging the famine of magic.
Thanks to their absence, the silence is filled with the striking of hooves on the ground and the soft shrieks of wind that occasionally whoosh through the trees and dart across the path.
That’s when I see it.
No, it can’t be. Can it?
Something black and fuzzy blurs among the shady spots, appearing and disappearing where the sunlight strikes the ground.
I track it carefully, twitching my head to the left as it flickers and fades from view.
For the first time since we’ve left Arcanvale, I abandon all caution and narrow my focus on the creature.
Seven hells .
It’s a klopse, and an adult one, at that!
Magic stirs within me like a deep, growling hunger. I scrounge up the tiniest bit, just enough to help me ensnare the tempting beast.
Everyone knows the power an empty stomach can have over the mind.
My eyes continue to follow the black monster as it hurdles in front of us, moving to the other side of the path in search of light. My knife is heavy in its strap, begging to be released, to satisfy this famishment. It too must be starving.
I hover my hand over my thigh and put all of my weight on my left leg, never blinking.
Seconds slow as the klopse nears the other side.
I have to wait until the horses are a pace ahead.
Then, I can sprint behind them and spear the beast in the bushes.
It will take two breaths to harvest its magical heart and replenish the energy waning in my chest. And this klopse seems to be peculiarly slow, for an adult.
When the prince and his companion are one pace ahead, I dig my heels into the hard earth.
One second, I’m behind the horses, legs energized with bloodlust, my eyes trailing the fuzzy black illusion taunting me just meters away.
In the next, the energy in my legs explodes, and I glide to the beast right before it makes it to the eternal darkness of the woods.
I bend my elbow so the blade is angled toward the creature.
But now that I’m this close, a feeling of disappointment fills me like an overflowing keg of gin.
Tasteless, watered-down gin.
Klopse magic is usually much stronger than what I sense from this one.
My hand freezes midair when I realize the horses have stopped moving.
Two pairs of eyes drill into the back of my skull, and I’m certain they aren’t watching me in anticipation, but with judgment.
The prince probably doesn’t know how my body hungers for the magic within the creature, not for the particularly small amount of meat clinging to its hollow bones.
“—hungry?” I catch the last word from Xavelor’s servant’s mouth, and from that one word alone, I can tell he’s making me into an object of amusement.
I whip my head around and find the servant’s eyes.
Dark, dull, flat. His entire appearance is somewhat drab, apart from the glistening metal chainmail blinking under his dirty cloak and his silver hair, which sparkles under the midday sun.
I try not to linger long on the freckles that flick across his nose, giving him an innocent appearance.
There is something terribly wrong with him, and I cannot puzzle out what it is. He’d been apprehensive when we first met, but the hostility in his gaze now confirms he cannot be trusted.
“Yes.” I set my jaw. “I was taken from my village on short notice, then I was abandoned. I even left my belongings behind.” The half truth hangs in the air as my eyes flit to Xavelor’s.
He doesn’t seem to pity my situation, but I wouldn’t expect someone like him to.
I hold his gaze, remembering his feeble request for my honesty, to tell him when I’m hungry.
But this kind of hunger isn’t the kind he’s equipped to satiate.
Still, I say with passion, “I’m starving. ”
My eluviam breathes at this confession.
If the prince is aware that I’m quickly growing weak without the pulse of natural energy Aldorin, he doesn’t acknowledge it. He must not know I’ll be useless to him with no magic humming in my veins.
His eyes are jade and emerald and moss and earth. Not at all what I’d expect to see in a human’s mortal irises.
A sudden heat floods my head in an intoxicating whirlwind of twisted admiration.
Legacy stirs in mirrored blood . I carry this truth like a shield.
Pluto’s face flashes in my memory, his expression disapproving. I can’t let myself relax in this situation, and I definitely can’t get comfortable with the prince. Even if his presence is…comforting.
Comforting how exactly, E? Pluto’s voice grits.
Compared to the Sanvira, of course, I respond to his phantom voice.
With a slant of my head, I slide the knife into its sheath.
I will not be swayed by a handsome face, least of all his .
“What do you like to eat?” The prince’s voice sounds strained. I can nearly taste the fear in it. I wonder what he thinks elves eat. My lips roll inward to stifle the question sizzling on my tongue.