Page 25 of A Crown So Cursed (The Goldenchild Prophecy #5)

Gwendolyn understood that, so much as he loved her, Málik could not save her.

She took the cloak from her arm and shook it out, its shimmer drawing a gasp from even the most jaded.

She raised it high, the way she’d once lifted the Sword of Light, and let it unfurl in the strange, cold light.

And then, without ceremony, she swung it over her shoulders, playing this gambit with full awareness of the stakes.

I am home, she thought. I want to be here. I am Curcog, but no less Gwendolyn, and I need not be anything but who I choose.

As the fabric poured over her like water, settling along Gwendolyn’s shoulders, the atmosphere of the room changed—tension though something else, as well.

On her body, the cloak had no color, instead reflecting every living hue. She pulled the cowl over her head, and the transformation began immediately.

She felt the cloak’s magic crawl over her flesh, rewriting her bones, and for a long frightening moment she hovered on the threshold between worlds—a child of Cornwall… the scion of the Fae… slayer of kings… and maker of peace.

Gwendolyn closed her eyes, accepting the consequences.

Cornwall would be lost to her.

Her son as well.

But she knew with every fiber of her being that this was where she belonged.

Her body altered subtly, but noticeably.

Her skin adopted a sheen like Cornish pearls.

Her ears lengthened to elegant points.

Her features sharpened, transforming.

And when she opened her eyes again, she saw the King’s Hall as though for the first time—colors sharper and the souls of her enemies and allies, all burning like cinders in a night field.

Gasps rippled through the court as the cloak revealed her true form.

Her hair, always golden, now shone like a mane of pure sunlight.

Her eyes, once a stormy gray, flashed with quicksilver.

The bones beneath her flesh hinted at a wilder ancestry—cheekbones cut from stone, lips that could speak either blessing or curse.

But it was the aura surrounding her that staggered the assembly—the aura of a god.

And yes, it was true. She was Manannán mac Lir’s daughter—but also the daughter of Ethniu, who was daughter to Balor and the mother of Lugh.

The blood of the Ancients ran through her veins.

A tremble rolled through the halls, followed by Lord Elric’s suddenly pallid complexion, his eyes wide, as though seeing a shade.

Beside him, Lirael’s sneer faltered. She recoiled, her mask of arrogance slipping to reveal naked fear. “This is a trick!” she spat. “An illusion—no more! She cannot be Niamh of the Golden Hair! No! No! No!”

But she was!

Oh, she was!

And now Gwendolyn could prove it.

That was the sobriquet her father gave her when she came to be Aengus’ ward.

No one knew her as Curcog, but Málik. She spread her arms; the cloak somehow billowing in the still air.

“No trick, Lirael. This is who I am, and who I choose to be.” She turned her gaze to the members of the Shadow Court, and again to the curtains behind the dais—seeking Málik.

She could feel their bond simmering through her veins as the court’s mutters grew into a cacophony of disbelief and awe, getting stronger and stronger by the moment as he approached.

Lirael’s challenge, so venomously poised, now faltered against the inevitable truth. No longer could anyone deny her Fae ancestry, but she needed them to understand something more… because she suddenly knew what Esme had meant about her warm, beating heart. Her warm, beating mortal heart.

Arachne was mistaken. She was not merely a Daughter of Two Realms, as the spider woman had implied. She was the Daughter of Three!

All her memories came flooding back— everything .

“I will not forsake my birth, nor any right. I am Fae by blood, but human as well.”

The goddess part was theirs to behold by the golden glow that emanated from her flesh, so bright it illuminated the entire room and all who stood in her presence.

She peered at Esme to see that her sister was smiling—her half-sister, who had so oft risked her life, and who gave up her own claim to the Fae throne to keep Gwendolyn safe. Turning now, she faced the court again.

“I come to you with open arms and a heart that knows the love of many realms. If you will, let this be the dawn of a new age. There are too many who would see our worlds remain ever divided—who believe strength lies in purity and tradition. But I say unto you, with surety, that strength is in love, in hope, and the future we make!”

Her words hung in the air, surprising even herself, gathering energy, swelling to every corner of the hall. One by one, Gwendolyn spied the reactions play across the room—for some, fear and for others, hope.

The old lords of the Shadow Court conferred in harsh whispers, their calculations already shifting. Elric Silvershade smiled, a serpent’s grin, and then clapped.

“Beautifully spoken, lady. But words are not enough. Where is your king? Has he abandoned you already? Or have you disposed of him to usurp his place?”

Another hush fell, then a commotion from the crowd, but Gwendolyn said nothing, feeling Málik’s presence so strong that she knew he would appear any moment. Lord Elric was only desperate and too stupid to realize he had already lost.

At last, Gwendolyn peered up to see the curtain part, and there he stood! Málik, his hair wild, his eyes burning with desperation, but his gaze filled with relief at the sight of her and he halted abruptly to gaze at her… as she was.

Almost bashfully, Gwendolyn lifted a hand to the peak of her ear to find the point, and she smiled… with a mouth full of porbeagle teeth.

The silence that followed seemed to last an eternity.

Gwendolyn feared she would come undone—she had never felt so exposed, so vulnerable.

As powerful as she had felt only a moment before, she was nothing if he did not love her in this new form.

His eyes traversed the contours of her transformed face, his expression unreadable.

The tension within the hall remained palpable, the air thick with anticipation and unspoken questions.

His arrival was both a salvation and a trial in itself.

And then, suddenly, he moved, his strides measured but urgent.

“My love!” he exclaimed.

“Málik!” Gwendolyn sobbed, and in that interminable moment before he reached her, before he touched her, the air between them thrummed with the intensity of their bond.

Ever so gingerly, he cupped her face in two hands, his touch worshipful.

And then he kissed her, deeply and fiercely, as though to proclaim his allegiance before the eyes of all.

Their lips parted with the sweet taste of tears mixed with joy, and for a heartbeat, all worlds twinned in that hall.

Gwendolyn felt herself suffused with a joy so fierce it scarcely distinguished itself from pain.

No one moved to intervene.

All eyes remained upon them, and for that one tiny moment, they were two souls, flawed and whole, united before gods and creatures alike. But as no true Faerie’s tale will ever unfold without treachery, Gwendolyn’s moment of glory was shattered by an ear-piercing squeal.

The first to move was Lirael, her face twisting with ugly rage. She snatched up a ceremonial dagger from the dais—the one meant to cut Gwendolyn’s flesh to test her blood—and flung it, point-first, at Gwendolyn’s breast.

Time slowed.

Gwendolyn saw every detail in motion—the flick of Lirael’s wrist, the whorls of the blade.

Esme was faster. Her sister moved like the wind, intercepting Lirael’s blade with the flat of her palm. Blood sprayed, and a collective gasp rose. But Esme stood grinning through the pain, holding the ceremonial knife aloft, still embedded in her palm.

“Pathetic throw,” she jeered. “Next time, why don’t you try aiming for my heart? It’s harder to miss than yours, heartless bitch!”

She then turned to Gwendolyn and whispered. “This one is going to hurt, damn it. It’s difficult to heal a wound from this blade.”

Horrified, Gwendolyn stood watching as Lirael wailed and her father stared at the floor, refusing to meet anyone’s gaze.

Old Lord Maelon said: “The Rite is done. We are satisfied. The court will abide.” And then he followed his declaration with, “Guards! Arrest Lirael Silvershade!”

At once, two black-liveried guards converged upon the dais, seizing Lirael by her arms—the very support she had intended to use against Gwendolyn turning against her. She fought them, her heels clattering wildly across the floor as she struggled.

“Fools!” she shrieked. “Fools! Bloody fools! Can’t you see it’s a trick? She’s not Fae! She’s not Niamh!” She struggled desperately, her refined facade crumbling into a spectacle of misery as they dragged her away.

The hall, once divided by intrigue, now united in a murmur of approval as her father staggered backward, his obsidian eyes wide and flat with shock.

“Arrest Lord Elric as well,” demanded Maelon, and several of the king’s guards moved to obey, flanking the Shadow Court’s guards as they dragged both the High Lord Minister and his daughter from the dais.

Lirael was still screaming when they reached the lower steps, her voice gone raw, but in the hush that followed her departure, the mood of the hall lifted.

Málik gave Gwendolyn a nod, gesturing for her to speak, and Gwendolyn turned to face the assembly, her presence now as majestic as it was serene, the cloak’s magic still shimmering around her. But rather than cling to the cloak, she dared to shed Arachne’s gift.

Nothing changed. She was no longer Gwendolyn, but still Gwendolyn.

“We are not the past,” she declared. “We are what follows. I will stand for you, if you stand for me?” A ripple of silence traveled down the gallery, as though the assembled courtiers needed the space of three shared breaths to comprehend what had just occurred.

And then, the old lords and ladies all clapped, and Málik took her by the hand.

With blood still dripping from her palm, Esme offered a cheeky salute. “Vivat Regina,” she proclaimed in the language of the Gods.

In perfect echo, a thousand voices replied: “Vivat Regina!”

Their voices rebounded off the halls, until the bones of the palace itself seemed to shiver, and for a moment, even Gwendolyn was swept away by the lauds. Not since she’d won the battle against Locrinus AP Brwt had she received such a thunderous praise.

“You see?” Esme purred, sidling up beside Gwendolyn. “They are only harmless sheep, only ever needing a dragon to lead them.”

She clutched her wounded hand to her breast, where it freely bled, and Gwendolyn leaned close to whisper. “I think the saying goes, ‘they need a wolf.’”

Esme grinned, all fang, lunacy and pride. “Wolf, dragon, sheep—it matters not. Today, sister, you are all three.” She added in a whisper only Gwendolyn could hear, “Maybe now you may return to the business I interrupted. I promise not to intrude again.”

Laughter—actual laughter, bright and buoyant—bubbled up from Gwendolyn’s belly before she could suppress it, and Málik’s answering smile was full of mischief.

“I will second that,” he said, and with that, he caught Gwendolyn by the waist—and with a flagrant lack of royal dignity, spun her around, sweeping her off her feet as though she weighed but a feather.

And in the heart of the King’s Hall, with all the court as witnesses, he then pressed a victorious kiss to her mouth, after which, with the queen in his arms, he departed.