Chapter Twenty-Six #2
“We were attacked. Sir Alric didn’t make it, and Cecily…” Marcel’s voice tightened, the words catching in his throat. “I’m going back. Solange—”
“Go,” she said sharply. “I’ll handle it.”
Marcel nodded once, then turned back for the trees.
“You should go with him,” Ilaria said. “I can speak to my father.”
“With all due respect, princess, I’m bringing you to him myself.”
Solange dismounted with practiced ease before helping her down.
The knight set a punishing pace, and it was a struggle to keep up.
Ilaria’s armor pulled at her shoulders, each step a fight.
Hair clung to her neck in damp strands and sweat trickled down her spine.
She could still smell the fire, the stench of skin burning, and she felt nauseous by the time the throne room doors opened.
The king stood tall, but his posture faltered when he saw her. His mouth parted, but whatever words he wanted to say died on his tongue as he just stared, caught between fury and fear. The mask of the crown slipped enough to reveal the father beneath.
Queen Sybil lurched from her chair. Her heels scraped the marble as she ran to her daughter and swept her into her arms. It was only then that Ilaria realized she was shaking.
“Are you hurt?” the queen asked, cupping her face. “You’re burning up. Edric, I told you this was a ridiculous idea!”
“I’m well and whole,” Ilaria rasped as her father descended from the dais at a clipped pace, his eyes scanning her for blood, burns, anything.
“What happened?” he demanded, voice tight. “Where’s Edevane?”
The queen motioned to the servants waiting at the corners of the room, and they quickly made themselves scarce as she set to work helping Ilaria out of the armor. Ilaria barely registered the sound of buckles being undone or the press of cool air against her sweat-drenched back.
“The rest of the knights are pursuing the demons that attacked us,” Solange said. “There were two of them.”
“What were their types?”
Solange squared her shoulders. Her voice held steady, but her knuckles whitened where her fists curled tight.
“One was an envyborn. Likely the same shadow wielder that we faced yesterday. But Your Majesty, the second wasn’t like any others. We believed it to be another envyborn at first. Its tongue was forked, and yet it had wings.”
The queen let out a sharp breath, arms tightening around Ilaria as if she could shield her from what had already passed.
The king fell silent, his gaze fixed somewhere far beyond the chamber. One breath passed, then another, until he finally whispered, “We’ve burned their homes and cut their bonds, and still they keep adapting.”
He pressed a hand to the bridge of his nose, fingers trembling for just a breath before he remembered himself. His hand dropped, and for a moment he looked so much older than his years, burdened by a terrible weight. “Was there anything else?”
Ilaria’s stomach turned, thinking of the demon’s missing tail.
Did Solange know the truth? Would she tell the king about Aurelie?
She shut her eyes, fearing the worst.
“That’s all,” Solange said instead. “My mother will brief you when she returns.” She stared forward, her hardened expression carved from stone.
The king took a heavy seat. “You’ve done well today by protecting my daughter.”
Solange met the king’s stare before bowing low. “It’s my honor.”
The king nodded, dismissing her in the next breath. “Sybil, we must send word to Frienen. We’ll need to move up the wedding.”
“Up?” Ilaria’s voice cracked. “But there are less than two weeks left.”
The king held her stare, his expression hardened. “If there are more of these hybrids, we may not even have a week.”
She had no say, no choice. The path ahead had been chosen for her, and she was simply being shown the steps.
The queen’s hand lifted to smooth back her hair, but Ilaria felt no comfort in the touch. She felt like silver being polished before a feast.
“You’d best begin your preparations,” her mother said, and while Ilaria nodded, everything within her felt carved out.
Preparations.
There were more of those than her mother realized, far beyond any dresses or ceremony.
She had a new life to be readied, and more importantly, goodbyes that needed to be said.
“I’ll have Mistress Dubois brought to take your measurements,” her mother said. Her voice was unnervingly light, like a song played over a battlefield. “Don’t worry about the dress. She’ll make it beautiful.”
Ilaria exhaled a soft, fractured breath.
She couldn’t have cared less about the gown. All she cared about in that moment was the one person she could not bear to see her wear it. Her fingers curled into her breeches, the fabric twisting beneath her nails.
“Get cleaned up.” Her mother kissed her temple, fingers brushing through sweat-damp hair. “We’ll get you fitted this evening.”
Ilaria didn’t respond. Her throat was tight, her lungs too shallow.
She only followed after Solange, numb, as the knight led the way to her chambers.
The corridor blurred at the edges of her vision, and while she heard the scrape of boots on marble and the rustle of silks as servants passed by, none of it touched her.
Her armor may have been heavy, but its weight was nothing compared to her blood-born duty.
And there was not a single soul who could help her shoulder it.