Chapter Fourteen
Alaya
The castle is deathly silent now as Kiernan and I follow the General down the halls. His stride is long and quick, forcing me to jog to keep up.
My dress—barely more than scraps of fabric—clings to my body. The General insisted we go immediately, with no time to change, and now I must face the King like this.
What Kiernan and I had been doing mere minutes ago burns in my mind. I feel like everyone will see it on my face, in my eyes. Heat floods my cheeks.
Kiernan walks at my side, his face tense and tight. When he glances over, his eyes flash with concern. He reaches out and laces his fingers into mine, his thumb gently swirling over my wrist, caressing.
The King waits in the Throne Room, alone in the vast space, the lights low and brooding apart from two Thorn Guards that flank the throne either side. He remains seated as we enter, silent and immovable in the shadows, his features hazy and indistinct.
Kiernan drops my hand before we cross the threshold. We approach the throne, and he pulls me behind him, putting himself between me and the King.
“Where did you find them?” the King asks, his voice low and menacing.
He has always been a vision of my nightmares, a dark ominous presence that lances dread through me.
Even his voice is a threat that coils in my ears and pierces my mind.
But this King—the one who sits before me now, his power radiating like a sickness hanging in the air, sitting so still yet seeming to tremble with pent-up rage—he is beyond my nightmares.
He is what monsters run from. What lies beneath those nightmares, waiting for its turn.
“In the hidden room in the library,” the General replies, the lightness choked from his voice in the King’s presence.
“So, while our Fae were slaughtered, my son, the heir to this kingdom, was hiding?” His voice is like thick tar, oozing with contempt.
“I fought, Father, but I presumed it safer to get Alaya out of there, especially with one of the Equitae taking an interest in her,” Kiernan replies, his jaw so tightly locked that the muscles in his neck strain against his collar.
The words he forces out are clipped and sharp, as if he was trying to prevent his voice from vibrating with the fury behind it.
The King leans forwards on his throne, his features momentarily catching in the Faelight. A gasp catches in my throat. Pure malice is etched upon his face—clenched teeth, deep lines of tension, and a wicked glint in his obsidian eyes.
“Why do you hide her behind you, Kiernan? Hey there, Little Princess, let me see you.”
Kiernan tilts his head towards me, a warning flashing across his face.
Shame burns through me—I’m not brave enough to defy the King. My legs shake as I step out from behind Kiernan, shooting him a look of apology.
“Ah, there she is. And looking as delectable as ever.” The King’s gaze drags over me. “I must say that dress suits you far better now than it did at the ball.”
Revulsion shivers through me.
“Come closer.”
My body seizes. Even my lungs refuse to draw a breath.
“Father—” Kiernan’s voice stammers beside me as he takes a step towards me.
The King lets out an animalistic roar. “No! You will not disobey me, you cowardly bastard. I don’t know what kind of magic this bitch has cast on you, but I will not be defied this way by my own son again. Step down, Kiernan, or I will kill her right where she stands.”
Kiernan stops moving. With a hiss through clenched teeth, he takes a step back.
“Come,” the King says again, beckoning me with his hand, his honeyed voice laced with a venomous edge.
Every part of me screams as I move towards the throne. With every step, pain shoots through me. A tether to my safety—to Kiernan—pulls taut.
At the bottom of the steps leading up to the dais, the tether strains so tight it vibrates with tension. Still, the King’s stare penetrates as if he’s crawling under my skin.
“Closer,” he whispers. The tang of copper coats my tongue—the taste of his ire made manifest.
My foot rises onto that first step, though my legs feel heavy, chained to the floor.
A quick rush of air. Nails dig into my arm. The kingdom tilts as I’m wrenched off my feet and land with a painful crush into his lap.
The tether to my salvation snaps like a dry twig.
I am alone.
Coldness seeps into me from where my legs rest on his, creeping up my body like a rising fog, invasive.
One hand sweeps my hair away, exposing the length of my neck.
He breathes in deeply, a predator smelling his prey.
Then he laughs—a maniacal, high-pitched sound that reverberates in the massive room before the shadows swallow it whole.
“Now I understand,” he growls, looking down at Kiernan. “She reeks of you, like territory marked by an animal. I suppose seeking safety between her legs while your subjects died is a worthy excuse.”
His crudeness, carefully scripted to hurt and humiliate, makes heat rise to my cheeks. I dare not look over at Kiernan.
The King traces a finger slowly down my bare arm, his sharp fingernail scraping the surface of my skin. Beads of blood seep along the line he leaves behind.
“Tell me, Alaya. Has anything changed with your Desolate state?”
His voice is low and husky, like that of a lover, though tainted with malice.
“No, Your Majesty,” I reply, confused by his question.
He studies me curiously, then clamps my face in his hand, fingernails digging into my jaw. He traces my scar with his cold, clammy thumb, his eyes searching my face. He mutters something under his breath, so low that—even with our closeness—I can’t make out the words, but he looks irritated.
“My King,” Kiernan’s voice rings out, and I start at the sudden intrusion.
“Tonight has only proven that the Equitae have indeed grown too bold, launching an attack on our fortress. Our plans must not change. We take the battle to Heartwood. Let us bury our dead, celebrate our marriage, and retaliate.”
As he speaks, the King’s stare on me hardens. I feel heat rising with his fury. He jolts upright and I fall, landing hard on my side, and roll down the steps of the dais.
Kiernan crouches beside me in an instant, gathering me protectively in his arms.
“I’m sorry,“ he rasps, the words catching in his throat. He pulls me closer, as if he could shield me from the very memory of it. “I promise you—never again. He won’t get close enough to breathe your air, let alone touch you.”
“I will not waste another second on this farce,” the King says, seething with rage.
“The Equitae will be drowned in blood! You will marry her tomorrow, whatever it takes. The day after, we march on Heartwood. Now, get that useless bitch out of my sight before I make good on my promise and have her blood scrubbed from my floor.”
Kiernan pulls me gently to my feet, and we flee.
King Malaxor
The General and I have retired to my personal office. He lost his wife during the attack, but strategy waits for no one’s grief—and retaliation demands immediate planning.
The General refuses the chair opposite the desk, standing rigid with his helmet clasped at his side. He watches me with wary eyes as I pace behind the desk. My fury is a serpent coiled in my chest, its venom seeping through my veins, whispering poison into my thoughts.
Weak.
Fool.
Failure.
I slam my fists onto the desk. The wood groans, a crack snaking down the grain.
“For over twenty years I have cultivated this plan, bent fate itself to my will. Patiently, I’ve waited for that seed I planted to bloom into fruition—an ultimate weapon against the Equitae. And for what? To be thwarted at the final hurdle?”
I lift my gaze to the General. He remains stoic, his face drained of colour beneath his full red beard.
“The girl?” he asks.
“Yes, the girl,” I spit through clenched teeth.
“Powerful Gifts call to each other. When her mother brought that infant into my fortress—when Alaya was still a blue-eyed mewling babe in her arms—her Gift sang to mine like a siren’s call.
I had never felt such raw, undiluted power.
Before her Gift could manifest at a year old, I locked it away where no one could find it, where it would wait dormant until I chose to wield it.
Getting the girl herself within my grasp ten years ago was a stroke of fortune, thanks to you.
I have carefully moulded her into a biddable vessel, crushed her beneath isolation and fear until she became exactly what I needed. And now—was that all in vain?”
“It hasn’t unlocked on her twenty-first year as it should?” The General shifts his weight, looking uncomfortable.
“No, it did not,” I say, my blood boiling.
“I even tried to get that useless son of mine to help me unlock it early with his Amplifier Gift. She is nothing but dead weight without that Gift. Something must have gone wrong with the lock spell.” I prowl the length of the room, predatory, restless.
“And that damn fool seems to have abandoned his duty to follow his cock.”
The General lets out a gruff laugh at this.
“Are the Thorn Guards ready?”
“They are, Your Majesty. We have trained the extra Amplifier Fae taken from the workers hard. They are ready.”
“Good. As soon as we get this marriage out of the way, we will march. Prince Kiernan will go with you. He will have the Bond by then. At least that’s something.”
I pause. A distant memory surfaces, demanding recognition.
I stalk towards the bookshelf, scanning the spines.
There—a small blue leather-bound volume I remember Kiernan bringing to me, questioning the Marriage Bond, unable to read the Ancient Fae text.
As I scan its pages, hope kindles in my chest, cold and sharp as a winter dawn.
I smile to myself. He missed the most crucial part, useless, uneducated idiot.
All is not lost.
I snap the book shut.
“Oh, and Samil—my condolences on the death of your wife. A regrettable casualty. We shall find you another soon enough. A warm body is easily replaced.”