CHAPTER 15 #2
She only sensed a change in her surroundings, a subtle shift in the quiet day, almost as if electricity was in the air.
When she looked up, Cian was already standing slightly behind her shoulder, his posture strong and grounded as he crossed his arms over his chest. She would give it to him; if he wanted to, he could move quickly and silently, and no one would be the wiser.
Though he had mentioned he was not an honorable man, there were still a few lines she knew he would not cross; the years of discipline would never allow him to stab someone in the back.
For a moment, he looked at her, his gaze steady, as if he was committing the sight to memory. His shoulders looked burdened by carrying a weight she had begun to recognize even when he said nothing.
A single cherry blossom petal had settled on her hair.
Cian noticed it. His expression softened, just slightly, in a way she might have missed if she had not been watching him so closely.
He reached out, slow and careful, and plucked the petal free.
His fingers brushed lightly against her temple, warm and calloused, leaving a faint trail of heat in their wake.
He held the petal for a moment, then let it fall to the ground.
“You found something, I suspect,” he said quietly.
Faelith sighed, her breath trembling just enough for her to feel the nervousness escape with it. She looked down at the journal again, at the page where Melisandre had drawn the silver crest of the oak tree. “I did,” she said. “More than I expected, but certain parts don’t add up for me.”
Cian lowered himself onto the bench beside her, close enough that she could feel the warmth of him, close enough that she could sense the familiar tension beneath his calm. Instead of reaching for the journal, he waited.
Faelith examined the cipher in the margin notes, pointing out a specific line for him to see.
“This,” she said, touching the coded line, “Lady Vaelcourt wrote of a prophecy in the last page entry of her journal, correct? Well she pour her life into all these research notes, hoping to stop it from happening.” Cian’s brow furrowed. “Did she write this for Rena?”
“I think she wrote it for whoever came after,” Faelith replied softly. “Someone who could understand it. Someone who could help.”
She turned another page, unveiling the sketch of the amulet. Cian leaned in, studying the drawing intently. “Melisandre mentions the Lathriel and the Silver Grove. My people, my home.” She traced the ink with her fingertip, feeling the subtle texture beneath her skin.
Cian sat silently, listening with intent. He could probably hear the bittersweet melancholy through her voice and wanted to give her space to continue.
“My mother once told me when I was very young. She said the grove was a gift, and its magic flowed in our blood.”
“The Silver Grove isn’t just a random forest marked on some map ,” she said. “It’s part of a lineage. One that was guarded by the Lathriel"
“They were the oldest of the elven bloodlines,” she explained. "Reaching further back than written histories. When gods still walked the earth."
Cian’s eyes sharpened. “And you share that blood?”
Faelith nodded slowly.
“It means,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, “that the grove is calling to me. That I am meant to remember something I have forgotten.”
Cian’s hand tightened slightly against the bench, the only sign of the tension threading through him.
“Faelith,” he said, his voice low, steady, strong, “whatever this is, whatever it means, you will not face it alone.”
She looked at him, and for a moment the courtyard felt smaller,
Cian held her gaze, unwavering, something deep and protective glinted off his eyes.
“I promise you,” he said, “I will stand with you. Whatever comes.”
???
A few days had blurred by since the dream, though its echo had not faded.
It lingered beneath Faelith’s thoughts like a soft pulse, surfacing in quiet moments, threading itself through her daily routine whenever she paused long enough to feel it.
The Silver Grove remained vivid in her mind, the mist still luminous, her mother’s warning still foreboding.
The city moved around her with growing anticipation.
Preparations for the ball threaded through every corridor, every courtyard, every whispered conversation.
Servants carried bolts of fabric and trays of polished silver.
Councilors exchanged guarded glances. Invitation replies sealed with crests she had come to recognize while she stayed in the capital arrived daily.
During those days, Cian had grown quieter.
She could sense that he was holding something back from her, but couldn’t make sense of what it could be.
She might have been too afraid to ask as well.
With everything going on around them, she chose to trust Cian, he would tell her when the time was right.
He stayed near her whenever he could, a steady presence at her side, but his silence carried weight.
He watched the corridors with a sharper eye, measured every stranger who approached her, and seemed to listen for dangers she could not hear.
When he left to chase after leads, he'd returned with the same guarded intensity, offering little to no explanation only a nod and a promise they would find the answers they needed.
Before leaving her side on those searches, he had spoken to Ashendir.
Although Faelith did not overhear the conversation, she sensed its impact right away. Ashendir remained a constant shadow, always just a step behind her. She suspected that Cian had asked Ashendir to guard her whenever he was unable to.
Simon noticed, but he never openly confronted it.
He greeted her with warmth each time, his charm soft and inviting, his voice steady with reassurance.
Yet Faelith saw the way his eyes uneasily flicked toward Ashendir, measuring him, adjusting his approach.
Yet Simon only spoke of alliances, of trust, of the future the ball could shape.
He spoke of unity, of hope, of the possibility of peace.
The days passed steadily, bringing her nearer to the night of the ball. She sensed the heaviness of the upcoming evening, filled with hope and expectation.
A ladies’ maid arrived at her door carrying a long box wrapped in deep blue silk.
She bowed her head, her voice quiet as she explained that Councilor Simon had commissioned the gown for her, hoping it would honor her people and the night ahead.
Faelith felt a strange flutter in her chest as she lifted the lid.
The dress inside was beautiful.
A crystal bodice shaped with delicate precision, each facet catching the light in a way that made it shimmer like stars scattered across a clear night sky.
The dark blue fabric beneath flowed like water, soft and weightless, shifting between shades of midnight and deep ocean as she touched it.
The crystals along the bodice formed subtle patterns, almost like constellations, almost like the sky she had stared at from home.
She lifted the gown from the box, the fabric whispering against her fingers. For a moment, she held it, letting the beauty of it settle around her like a quiet breath.
Cian wasn’t at the residence today, but she felt his absence like an empty void.
Faelith stepped toward the mirror, the gown draped over her arms as she held it against her; the day of the ball had arrived. This night would not simply be about gaining favor. It would test her loyalty.
She would decide her path, sealing her fate.