Page 10

CHAPTER 10

It turned out planning a battle was entirely different from planning a wedding, and by the end of the first week Elva almost wished for isolation again.

‘Are you ready?’ Advisor Gudren projected from the other side of the closed door, his mental proximity sending shivers of revulsion across her skin.

Her Ever writhed in response under the pressure of his magic, but she forced it down with practised control, unable to determine whether his words were heard by everyone or cast into her mind only.

The uncertainty only added to her angst.

‘My apologies, Advisor, but we need another minute,’ Lady Oriann said from her back as she pulled the lacing again.

Elva grunted as the corset winched tighter.

Oriann huffed, the sound doing something to Elva’s overstimulated brain that made her want to smother the woman with a pillow.

She knew it wasn’t Lady Oriann’s fault she’d been asked to help with the fitting of her wedding gown, but that didn’t stop the snarl she unleashed when the woman pulled the corset strings once again.

‘ Do not test my patience, Elva. The treaty is not yet official ,’ Advisor Gudren whispered.

Oriann didn’t respond, which meant – he was speaking directly to her.

Elva ignored the primal spike of fear this elicited, and instead focused on Oriann’s long red hair.

Her face was narrow, and she wore a fine dress that Elva had come to recognise as the norm for women of the court here; the bodice tightly pulled with ribbons and beading, so unlike the loose fabrics of Vettona.

Oriann pulled again and Elva’s breath loosened in a rush.

She’d never been good with small spaces, and breathing was becoming harder by the second.

‘How does anyone get anything done wearing one of these things?’ Elva gasped.

Oriann’s fingers tugged on the straps, and Elva braced herself against the wall to stop tumbling over.

‘You’ll get used to it.

’

Elva knew a lie when she heard one, but she stopped the retort she wanted to sling at Oriann.

It isn’t her fault , she reminded herself.

Lady Oriann was just doing her job.

Yet logic didn’t matter – she wanted someone to blame: Lady Oriann, Advisor Gudren.

Why wasn’t Fynton here, being poked and prodded?

He was getting married too, damn it.

‘ You’ll need to get used to many things here, Princess.

’

Her Ever writhed in response to the advisor’s words, and her breath came in shallow pants.

Advisor Gudren and the wedding planners stood on the other side of the door, waiting to approve the dress.

Fynton wasn’t present.

Fynton, it seemed, didn’t need to do shit for the wedding save attend the ceremonies.

Indignation choked her, the sound loud and wheezing.

‘Deep, slow breaths. Expand your lungs rather than your belly,’ Lady Oriann said.

Elva followed the instructions, trying to suck in as much air as possible, but couldn’t figure out Oriann’s technique.

There was an allegory here for how smothered she felt, but her brain was too oxygen-deprived to find it.

Neve would have been able to make the joke, but even memories of her friend were overridden when Advisor Gudren began laughing.

The sound grew in her mind, louder and louder, until Elva’s entire being vibrated with his mirth, suffocating.

‘I don’t think I can do this.

’

Oriann tilted her head to one side.

‘Yes you can. Literally every woman in Clochain wears one of these.’

Elva shook her head, the room blurring, and tried to force back the threatening tears.

Way, way back.

The advisor’s laughter faded, but her teeth hurt from the aftershocks.

She felt violated, and didn’t know how to control her emotions when she was so frazzled.

None of the warriors’ techniques were working because they relied on breathwork, and she couldn’t fucking breathe.

She wished Avi was here.

Despite the fact their relationship was tentative, she thought he might understand, but he was waiting with all the men in the other room.

She didn’t dare say more to Lady Oriann, not when she was most definitely a spy sent by Advisor Gudren to report back on her every move.

Even Fynton’s presence would be a welcome relief, if only so her frustration with him could override this feeling of helplessness.

Her lungs ached as she sucked in another breath.

The air was sluggish and her vision swam with black spots.

Holy gods.

‘How’s everything going in there?

’ Advisor Gudren called.

Elva met Oriann’s gaze and the small amount of sanity she’d managed to wrangle back from the edge slipped away as his voice penetrated her mind once more.

‘Do you think you can hide from me?’

‘With all due respect, you need to stop panicking, Your Highness,’ Oriann said, oblivious to Gudren’s probing.

‘ Why are you panicking, Princess? ’ Advisor Gudren purred.

She couldn’t do this.

‘ I thought it was every girl’s dream to see their wedding dress?

’

She couldn’t pretend to be the perfect candidate for a wedding she didn’t even want.

‘ What makes you different, Elva? ’

She couldn’t smile her way through Gudren’s mental onslaught while trying to keep her own Ever in check.

‘ Do you think you’re special?

’

Her fingers scratched at the ribbons encasing her ribs, trying to find even an inch of reprieve.

She wished she was selfless, that she could tolerate this for the good of her people – but who was she kidding?

Neve had been right about her: she was unwilling to compromise when it mattered most.

My fault.

And now.

.

.

now she was living a life that wasn’t just a compromise.

It was an Ending to everything she held dear and she was going to die trying to look primped and pretty for a man she’d spent years battling and she couldn’t.

.

.

she couldn’t—

Her thoughts swelled in volume and her breath came in frantic gasps.

She knew she looked crazed when Oriann took a step back.

Her hands snatched at the ribbons but she couldn’t get a grip, not when pins and needles started shooting up her arms.

She looked at Oriann, unable to see anything but the woman’s flame-red hair, unable to hear anything that wasn’t Neve’s screams and Gudren’s laughter.

Oriann stared back, eyes wide – then she opened her mouth.

‘We’re going to need some more time,’ she called through the door.

‘I tied the corset incorrectly, it will take me a moment to rectify my error.’

A shudder wracked Elva’s body at the words, and she stuffed a fist in her mouth to stop the howl building.

She didn’t know why Lady Oriann was helping her, or why she was responding so badly to this situation.

Advisor Gudren hummed in disappointment, the sound penetrating her subconscious in a way that made her want to crawl out of her flesh, but Elva was saved from dwelling on it when Oriann’s hands tore at the lacing a moment later.

She let the woman pull the corset apart, each yank sending painful stabs into her lungs before release came flooding in.

She inhaled.

Exhaled.

And gazed at Oriann through the mirror.

‘Thank you.’

Oriann glanced up.

‘For what? I tied the corset incorrectly.’

As soon as everyone left, Elva tore from her rooms.

She needed to move her body, remind herself that she was still in control, even if it was a false belief.

Thoughts of the ceremonies slammed into memories of Neve’s death, and neither had answers she was able to understand.

She powered through corridors of the castle, Avi trailing behind her silently.

The urge to train was overpowering, but shadow sparring with her reflection in the mirror didn’t cut it.

She wanted connection, to feel like she was part of the world and not just a puppet in Advisor Gudren’s scheme.

Lady Oriann was the first woman she’d spent time with since arriving, and even though she didn’t trust her, her presence had made her homesick in a way she hadn’t thought possible.

Remi would know what to say to make things better, and the thought made her eyes water before she could stop it.

Gods-fucking-damnit.

I loathe feeling this out of control .

She pinched the soft flesh between her thumb and forefinger, hoping the pain would centre her.

Or, at the very least, stop the tears from falling.

The castle was immense, and she felt so small walking under ceilings as high as the entire barracks in Vincentia.

Soulless room after soulless room flashed before her, until she turned down another long, straight hallway and found herself in a reading room.

Above the doorway, script was etched into the stone: The Six lead with grace while He leads the Six.

It wasn’t hard to figure out who the He was referring to, but it still made her pause.

Everywhere she went there were reminders of the Seacht.

The gods were woven into the fabric of daily life far more deeply than they were in Vettona, emphasising how much of an outsider she was.

She averted her gaze and looked into the room.

It was decked out with rich wooden furniture and bookshelves lined the walls, interspersed with ornate frescos.

It was the only room she’d found which had a semblance of life, and she entered cautiously, her attention snagging on the largest fresco on the back wall.

This painting depicted King Dermont in regal attire, sat atop his throne.

Fynton stood behind him; he looked young, perhaps twenty, eyes painted a flat brown, one hand on his father’s shoulder, the other on the pommel of his sword.

There was no denying he was handsome – the artist had captured the square lines of his jaw, his thick hair and olive skin – but there was something uncanny about it.

She swept her eyes over the rest of the painting, frowning when she spotted a discrepancy in the colours.

On the king’s other side the paint was vibrant, saturated, compared to the slight fading of the rest of the image.

She slunk closer, staring at the wall until she realised the difference in colour made the shape of a human.

The figure was shorter than Fynton, and besides the slight difference in colour, had been erased entirely from the image.

Footsteps approached and Elva turned, about to ask Avi who was missing from the painting when heavy black boots rounded the corner and Fynton stopped short upon seeing her.

Despite her frustration with him, she couldn’t ignore the hope that flared in his presence.

Perhaps it was foolish, but she could have sworn there was a spark of intrigue between them.

Was she imagining it?

Was it just loneliness and desperation that was making her read into things?

Probably.

‘No “How are you, Fynton? Nice weather we’re having”?’ he said, walking towards her.

When she didn’t respond he cocked his head.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘I’m exploring my new home, Fyn,’ she said, testing.

The name felt better than Fynton on her lips, less harsh somehow, and she decided to keep using it – if only to force the notion of familiarity.

His brows rose in surprise, but he said nothing.

They stared at each other in silence.

She didn’t know what to say.

What should one ask their betrothed?

Sure, she’d been in relationships with men before, but they’d always been mutual.

This was uncharted territory and she had no clue how to navigate it.

‘Why has someone painted over this fresco?’ she blurted instead, pointing to the nonexistent figure on the king’s right side.

Fyn looked at the wall and took his time answering.

‘My mother was unhappy with how she was portrayed, but she met her Ending before she could re-sit for the painter.’ He walked towards the painting slowly, brow furrowed as he stared at the empty space.

‘This was her reading room.’

‘Really?’

A smile curved his lips.

‘Would I lie to you?’

She looked him up and down.

He wore a standard issue Clochain uniform, the top two buttons undone to reveal a smattering of dark hair across his chest.

A small rank patch sat over his left pocket naming him a captain, but otherwise he looked like every other Clochain soldier.

Except no other soldier looks as good as him .

She met his gaze and cocked her head to one side, mirroring.

‘Yes.’

‘Why would you think that?’ he asked.

‘Because I would lie to you.’

He exhaled – not a chuckle, but not a scoff.

‘And we’re the same?

’

She shrugged, turning back to the painting.

‘I think we have more in common than you realise.’

The corner of his lips twitched and his eyes sparked, the glinting flecks in his irises enticing.

He crossed his arms, leaning against the nearest bookshelf.

‘What would you lie to me about?’

Elva tapped her chin as if she were deep in thought, then lifted her hand and counted off on her fingers: ‘That I’m excited for the next ceremony, I’ve never felt more at home and I’m really fulfilled right now.

’

He tipped his head back and laughed, the sound warm and husky.

She glanced at his lips.

She was frustratingly aware of him, of every breath and subtle movement.

His presence was overwhelming, all-consuming, and it made trying to act normal exceedingly difficult.

I need to form an alliance with him, not imagine what his lips feel like.

Get a damn grip .

Fyn didn’t notice her strained silence, his attention was taken with the fresco.

‘My father refused to repaint her because she was killed by the Seacht. Said it would be sacrilegious to have an Ever Blessed on his wall.’

Her eyes snapped from his lips as embarrassment licked at her cheeks.

Here was Fyn, finally offering a piece of himself – and the opportunity to bond – and she was busy fantasising about his mouth.

Yesterday I wanted to stab him with a dessert fork, and now I can’t stop staring.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

Also, how did I not know the Queen of Clochain had been Ever Blessed?

Waves of guilt crashed over her and she looked at the fresco again, searching for the missing face of the queen.

‘I’m going to assume that’s new information to you.

My father did an excellent job of suppressing the news.

’ When she didn’t say anything, he continued, voice soft, ‘Having an Ever Blessed queen would have ruined his reputation.’

She looked up at him.

Platitudes were meaningless against the grief of his words.

Fyn met her gaze and shrugged, coughing as he changed the subject.

‘How are the wedding preparations going?’

She winced.

‘That good?’

She swallowed, feeling like there was more to say about his mother but unsure how to go about it.

Pressing felt rude; she’d despise it if the roles had been reversed and he asked about Neve.

Instead, she took his offering, hoping he understood.

‘It’s going to be the wedding of the century, haven’t you heard?

’

‘Oh, I’ve heard.

If we pass the ceremonies, that is.

’

Their eyes locked.

It was Elva who looked away first.

‘I wasn’t aware that our Ending was promised should we fail them,’ she said.

He took a step forwards, glancing at the fresco before looking back at her.

‘They’re a new tradition Advisor Gudren petitioned for.

It’s to make sure our union is blessed by the gods.

’

‘And you consented to forfeiting your life?’ she asked, aghast.

‘I wasn’t consulted.

’

‘Okay... So, what does forfeiting our lives mean in this context?’

He shrugged, and a spike of frustration shot through her chest, dampening her misplaced desire.

Because it is misplaced.

I just miss Remi.

Right?

When he didn’t respond, she tried again.

‘Why are the ceremonies new?’

‘Why do the gods do anything?’

A frown creased her brow as she tried to parse his words.

If being in Cailoch had taught her anything so far, it was that the gods were not to be joked about.

She glanced around the room, concerned their voices would carry and took a step closer, lowering her volume.

‘Is that not something we should be worried about?’

He glanced down at her; without heels she was a head shorter than him, and she could see his thick lashes brush his cheeks when he blinked.

She swallowed and tried to remember what she’d just asked.

‘There are many things I’m worried about, Elva.

’

Their gazes snared, and her ability to answer crumbled as his stormy eyes held her captive.

Without warning the tug pulled from behind her ribs.

She clutched her chest, pain ripping through her body as the silver in his eyes flashed.

It was the same feeling as last time, painful and full of anguish, entirely different from when she sensed others using Ever nearby – yet the feeling did originate from her seed, a terrifying swell of magic she didn’t understand.

It tugged again and she clamped down on her physical reaction, grinding her teeth to stop from shouting.

Only when Fyn took a step back did the tug cease, leaving an empty cavity in her chest.

She hissed as the pain faded, and tried to sense if someone was wielding magic nearby – but her Ever was quiet.

She desperately wanted to ask what the fuck had just happened, but if she admitted to the feeling she may as well sign her own death warrant.

Instead, she scrambled to ask something, anything , that would distract him from noticing how irrational she was acting.

First desire, now this.

What’s new?

Neve’s memory laughed at her.

‘Why do your eyes do that?’

Fyn took another step back, all friendliness gone.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.

’

They stared at each other.

‘Okay, but say you did know what I was talking about, are they—’

‘No.’

‘How come no one else seems to notice—’

‘Don’t you ever shut up?

’

She let his words hang in the air between them before she burst out laughing, a near hysterical sound.

‘If you were expecting a well-behaved wife, you should have married a proper lady-in-waiting. What the hell did you think you were getting into, marrying the Captain of the Vettonian Warriors?’

‘Watch yourself,’ he said, and the growl behind his words had Elva’s senses spiking to high alert.

‘You have no idea what you’re talking about.

’

She supposed she should be nervous, having angered the Crown Prince of Clochain, but his anger seemed trite compared to the morning she’d had.

She couldn’t shake the feeling he was bluffing, and something urged her to keep pushing.

‘What are you hiding?’

His jaw worked in frustration, each movement accentuating the sharp lines of his cheekbones.

‘I already told you it doesn’t have to be like this,’ she continued, impatience creeping into her tone.

‘We don’t have to like each other, but we can at least be allies.

’

He tipped his head back and stared at the roof for a long moment before answering her.

‘We don’t have a choice in any of this.

’

Confusion curdled her stomach, and a rush of emotions she couldn’t untangle washed through her.

She stood opposite him, her mind blank as she tried to articulate a response.

‘Of course we have a choice.’

‘Now that is a lie if ever I’ve heard one.

’

Hearing her own words thrown back at her hurt in a way she wasn’t expecting.

Because despite everything, she wasn’t lying.

‘Are your beliefs so rigid you can’t even begin to believe that this is a genuine offer?

’

He turned his head sharply and Elva let the small flare of victory bolster her.

‘You are running from what our future holds. I’m going to assume you didn’t ask for this—’ She gestured between them, her words coming fast and unfiltered.

Weeks of loneliness and missing home bubbled to the surface, and she was furious that in order to stop a war they started , Clochain had tethered her to this apathetic man.

‘I didn’t ask for this either.

But to keep my people safe?

I will sacrifice my own freedom.

That doesn’t mean I’m sacrificing my ability to fight.

You are ignoring the potential we have to make actual change.

’

Her breath came in short gasps, and her fists were clenched at her sides.

Fyn’s eyes were narrow, piercing.

‘I don’t care about you, or our potential,’ he said, voice low.

‘Whatever egalitarian nonsense you’ve been fed in Vettona is a lie.

I will go through with this wedding, because contrary to your beliefs, I do care for my people and I don’t want to see them die.

’ He took a step towards her, the full force of his height looming over her.

‘But let me make one thing very clear. Whatever you think could be between us? Stop. You may have a voice in Vettona, but as soon as we’re wed – if we’re wed – you’ll be bound by our laws, and they will prevent you from having a say in how this kingdom is run.

’

Elva’s veins turned to ice, her body becoming instantly heavy.

A dull throb pounded in her head, and the unknown tug inside of her squirmed, aching to be let loose.

As if in response, Fyn’s eyes flashed with lightning and he jolted back, nostrils flaring.

They stared at each other, neither moving.

‘You can think whatever you want,’ she snapped, ‘but we’re – for some godsforsaken reason – in this together.

I am unwilling to have my life dictated to me by a boy scared of change, so sort your shit out and come find me when you’re willing to talk.

’

He stared at her, chest heaving, then, without so much as blinking, turned and stalked out of the room.

She sagged against the wall, one shoulder braced against the blank image where the queen was supposed to be, and tipped her head back in supplication.

‘Rivalin, please grant me the gift of foresight so I can avoid whatever that was in the future.’

She could have sworn somewhere, someone laughed.