Chapter 4
?──── Serenya ? ────?
The great hall shimmers beneath the moonlight as I pause just outside the arched doorway, my hand resting against the cool stone. My black gown trails behind me as the delicate circlet on my brow catches the lantern light. My mother insisted on the crown, but it feels too heavy tonight.
Inside, voices of the men who might soon become my fate rise and fall.
My stomach knots. I’m not ready. Not for this. Not to give away my life, my heart, my future to someone who isn’t him.
The guard beside me shifts, then nods. “They await you, Your Highness.”
I draw a long breath, force the trembling of my hands into stillness, and step inside.
The six men rise immediately, chairs scraping softly against polished stone. My mother sits at the dais, giving me a subtle nod. The high lords and advisors sit at their own table just below her in judgmental silence. I force my steps to stay steady as I move to the head of the long table.
I let my gaze sweep over the six men.
The first is the tallest, with light-brown hair brushing his shoulders, a soldier’s build, eyes stern, and skin tan in a way that shows how much time he spends outside. He looks as though he’d be more comfortable with a sword in his hand than a goblet. He stoically inclines his head.
The second is a curly, brown-haired man with a boyish grin already plastered on his face. His eyes sparkle with mischief. He looks like he’s barely taking this seriously, and yet there’s a charm there I can’t entirely dismiss.
The third is composed. He has dark skin, and his long black locks are pulled halfway back, the rest falling in smooth dark ropes over his shoulders.
His expression is unreadable, but his green eyes are sharp.
He has the kind of calm that unnerves me.
If I had to guess, I would say he is someone who commands men—a captain, maybe.
The fourth is a freckled man with quiet, piercing eyes. He says nothing, but his attention never wavers, studying, measuring. His silence is heavier than words.
The fifth is a man with blond hair and kind eyes. Gentle. The sort who probably picks up fallen bird nests in the woods and rescues them. His warmth softens his sharp cheekbones, making him seem safer than the others.
Finally, the one at the far end is a little shorter than the first but taller than the rest. His onyx hair is short, some strands falling carelessly across his brow.
It’s slightly messy, though not enough to look unkempt—just enough to seem natural.
His clothes are plain. He doesn’t carry the polish of a noble’s son or the roughness of a soldier.
He looks ordinary, almost. But he isn’t.
I’m not sure why, but I feel drawn to him.
My shadows stir beneath my skin, restless, reaching for him like they’ve caught a familiar scent.
No. Not here. Not now.
I force them down, yanking the threads of magic back into silence. They resist, sliding across the polished table, like restless pets, trying to get to their owner. One of the high lords frowns, his sharp eyes narrowing. Heat rushes to my cheeks as I jerk the shadows back, internally scolding them.
“My apologies,” I say, voice steady.
The curly-haired one grins as though nothing could faze him. “Don’t be sorry, Princess. You can devour me with your shadows any time.”
I blink, caught off guard by his boldness. A small laugh escapes me before I can stop it. His grin widens, victorious.
Across the table, the man my shadows were reaching for is watching. His golden gaze fixes on me, sharp and unyielding, as though he’s already trying to see straight through me. An eyebrow arches slightly, almost in challenge.
Something in me rises to meet it. I lift my chin, refusing to look away.
The tension breaks when the stoic one clears his throat, surprising me by being the first to introduce himself. “It’s an honor to meet you, Princess Serenya. I am Aren Witfield, a soldier from Virid.” His voice is low, gruff, but there’s a warmth beneath it that softens the words.
I incline my head. “It’s very nice to meet you, Aren.”
One by one, the others follow.
“Asbel Steele,” says the one with dark locks, his tone measured. “I serve as a commander of the guard in Eastmarsh. It’s an honor.” A commander. I almost smile to myself. I was close.
“Osric Iver,” murmurs the freckled one. His voice is quieter than I expect, but it carries. “I’m from the southern woodlands.”
“Aleric Thornfield,” the blond one says with a gentle smile. “I’ve studied healing in the capital most of my life. I’d be glad to help with your court’s needs, Princess.”
The curly-haired one leans forward, flashing that grin again. “Lioran. I’m here to make sure you don’t fall asleep at dinner.”
Several of the high lords scowl at his insolence, but I can’t stop my lips from twitching.
Finally, my gaze returns to the one at the end who remains silent.
“And you?” My voice softens despite myself.
He doesn’t rise. Doesn’t bow. He simply says, “Koen.”
Nothing else.
I wait. “…Where are you from?”
“Zea's Hollow.” The words are clipped, almost a grunt.
“And…what do you do?” It’s a struggle to keep the irritation out of my voice.
“Run a tavern.”
I hum, studying him. “I see.”
His eyes narrow. “Is there a problem, Your Highness?”
I open my mouth to respond. Maybe to tell him off for being disrespectful, but before I can form a reply, my mother rises, her red gown shimmering in the torchlight.
“Tonight,” she begins, her voice smooth and resonant, carrying to every corner, “we welcome the six chosen to stand in the Trials of the Fated. You were not picked by whim nor by chance. Each of you has been marked by your deeds, your courage, or the favor of fate itself. Now, before gods and men, you will prove if you are worthy.”
“One of you,” my mother continues, “will rise not only as victor, but as consort to my daughter, the heir to the throne. That bond is not a prize lightly won. It is responsibility . It is legacy . You will not only carry her hand, but her kingdom, her people, and her very bloodline. If you fail to understand that, you will fail entirely.”
My mother’s gaze finds me at last, and for the briefest instant, her eyes soften before hardening again. “Do not mistake this feast for your enjoyment. This is the beginning of your proving. Watch how you speak. Even tonight, you are being judged.”
With a small, practiced smile, she lifts her goblet. “To fate. To the gods. And to the one who will rise above the rest.”
The hall echoes her toast in uneven unison, tension thick enough to taste.
Dinner begins, goblets are filled with wine, platters are carried in, and voices rise around me. The talk flows easily among them. They talk about hunting, politics, training, and kingdoms. I listen, nod, and answer politely. But my mind is never entirely on their words.
Lioran tries more jokes, some of them completely ridiculous, some clever enough to coax real laughter out of me, surprising even me. The others roll their eyes, but he doesn’t seem to care.
Aleric talks about his studies, his hope to expand healing magic. His kindness seems genuine.
Asbel talks about strategy and warfare, his tone clipped and precise, as though every word is a battle plan.
Osric listens more than he talks, but when he does, his insights cut sharper than expected. There is something about him that unsettles me.
Aren’s replies are short but steady, a soldier through and through.
Koen says next to nothing, just drinks his wine slowly, eats without rush, and watches.
When I finally turn to him again, it’s deliberate. I keep my voice calm , almost casual. “So, tavern boy of Zea's Hollow, what made you decide to enter the trials?”
He freezes for a second, goblet halfway to his lips. Lowering it, he says, “I didn’t.”
Brows lift around the table. I tilt my head. “You didn’t?”
“My friend entered me. I found out when the guard came for me.”
“Yet, here you are.” I gesture to him.
He shrugs, his eyes meeting mine. “Life has a way of reshaping plans.”
Something twists inside me at those words. I’m not sure why. All of a sudden, I feel a tug in my chest, a warmth where absolutely none should be.
My heart betrays me by skipping, then stumbling. I quickly turn away, studying the flicker of the candles to hide the flush in my cheeks.
For the rest of the meal, I force myself not to look at him. Not once. Yet, every breath, every laugh, every word—I’m aware of him.
By the time I excuse myself, my head is aching, and my smile feels too thin.
Torin and Alira trail behind me in silence back to my chambers.
The moment I step inside, I strip the gown off with relief, pulling on a robe.
Alira, all red hair and blue eyes, flops dramatically onto the couch like she owns it, tossing her slippers across the room.
Torin leans against the wall near the door, arms folded, dark hair half-up in a bun, silent but watchful.
“Well,” Alira drawls, draping herself over a pillow, “that was…interesting. I don’t even know where to start.”
Torin chuckles. “The healer from the capital nearly choked when you looked his way. And Lioran had you laughing like old friends.”
I smile faintly. “I like Lioran. He’s funny. You have to admit, his smile is infectious. I could see us becoming good friends.”
Alira tilts her head, grinning. “That’s high praise, coming from you. But let’s not forget about Koen. Stars above, Ren, the way you stared at him. I thought you were going to leap across the table.”
I shoot her a glare. “I was not staring.”
“You were,” she says sweetly, “and he was staring back. The tension could’ve boiled my soup. What was that?”
I press my lips together. “My shadows…they—they tried to reach for him.”
Alira’s grin fades. “ That was because of him ? Why?”
“I don’t know,” I say, chewing on my lip.
Torin studies me, voice low. “Is there more to it? You’ve got that look.”
I sit on the edge of the bed, twisting my hands in my lap. “It was so strange. When I looked at him, it felt like something was trying to pull me to him…from inside.” Shaking my head, I add, “I didn’t like it.”
Torin’s gaze lingers. “That’s how it was for Alira and me .”
I stiffen, eyes widening.
Her eyes flick toward him, then back to me. “Not love at first sight,” she admits. “But undeniable.”
“No. I don’t want it,” I mutter. “Not with him. Not with any of them. Besides, that isn’t what this is. This is…I don’t know…It's—it’s different.”
The room falls into silence. My shadows curl against me, whispering what I refuse to say.
“So you don’t see yourself giving any of them a chance?” Alira asks softly.
A lump forms in my throat. I shake my head again, voice low. “I can’t.”
Torin sits beside me, his hand closing over mine. “Whatever happens, you won’t have to face it alone.”
I glance at him, then at Alira sprawled on the couch. “I know.”
Later, when they’ve left, I wander onto the balcony, my shadows curling at my feet, reaching for something I can’t name.
Kallan’s memory comes to me, like it always does in the quiet. Excruciating. Unwanted. Unstoppable. His laugh, his touch, the way he would always look at me like I was his whole world.
Tears prick my eyes as I grip the railing, whispering to him—a habit I formed years ago.
“Tonight, I met the men who will be competing for my hand. They were nice. Well…most of them.” My voice cracks.
“It should have been you at that table. You promised you’d find a way. Sometimes, I wonder if you would have.”
I press a hand against my chest, as if it would ease the ache. “I know it does me no good to wonder. I can’t help it, though.” I take a breath. “You haunt me. It’s not fair. Sometimes…I wish you didn’t. But if you stopped…I’d forget. And I can’t. I won’t.”
My voice is barely above a whisper. “I let you consume me in life, and here I am, continuing to let you consume me even in death.”
I’m not sure how long I stand there. Tears still fall when I finally crawl into bed, surprising me. I can’t remember the last time I cried.
Sleep comes heavy and reluctant, my heart still aching, my mind caught in the past. And for a moment, I wish the shadows would just swallow me whole.