Page 2

CHAPTER 2

The sunset was spectacular; oranges and pinks bounced off the soft bellies of clouds, bleeding into an iridescent hue on the horizon.

Music from the quartet floated softly on the breeze, broken by bursts of laughter and chairs scraping against stone as revellers found their seats.

The people of Vettona had come to the feast resplendent.

Gems caught the light, and colourful fabrics clashed and melded like a field of wildflowers against the white stone of the rooftop; a brilliant display of wealth, all for show.

Queen Una rose and swept to the dais before the table of honour, a hush rippling over the crowd in her wake.

When all attention was directed at her, the queen nodded sharply, and the attendants manning the south wall pulled the heavy wooden gates back to reveal the Clochains.

A group of twenty men in harsh black uniforms stood in the doorway, eyes wide as they took in the opulent scene before them.

The soldiers stepped back to reveal Prince Fynton, a tall man with short, dark hair that was brushed aside to reveal eyes glittering silver in the dusky air.

They began moving as one, apprehension tangible on their faces as they took in the people around them.

Vettona’s feasts had nobility, but they invited an equal number of people from the city as well.

Fishermen, teachers and healers sat at the tables, their garments slightly faded from wear in comparison to the noble families, but they were nonetheless beautiful.

They sat side by side with the wealthy, heads held high as they assessed the men before them.

It was the first time since the Great War that Clochain and Vettona had formed an alliance, and the air was weighted with centuries of long-standing history.

The soldiers moved stiffly down the aisle, their faces taut with caution until they halted in front of the dais.

‘Welcome,’ Queen Una’s voice rang out.

She gestured for the prince to take a seat in the middle of the head table behind her, but waved away the soldiers who went to follow, directing them to a long table with the rest of the attendees.

Elva scanned the men as they turned, her attention snagging on an auburn-haired man who grinned easily at her mother, and an older gentleman with stripes of white hair.

Her skin crawled at the sight of him, but he disappeared into the crowd before she could get a better look.

With another nod from the queen, the attendants manning the north wall pulled the gate back, and the crowd craned their necks in Elva’s direction.

She slunk back from the crack in the doorjamb and took her position at the back of the group.

As one, the Vettonian Warriors swept through the doorway, each of the soldiers clad in sparkling colours, which contrasted their lethal abilities in stunning dramatic irony.

They strode down the aisle, and no number of pretty gowns could mask the power they radiated.

They marched behind the dais and took positions at the head table, flanking the startled prince, until they all stood at attention behind their chairs.

One remained empty – they had yet to replace Neve in their ranks, and Elva averted her gaze from the spot before sadness could lodge in her throat.

The warriors’ gazes fixed to the north gate where all heads now turned to stare once more.

At her.

Her dress glittered under the firelights, and soft gasps echoed down the tables.

She took a deep breath and sent a quick prayer to Rivalin, the God of Foresight, before allowing herself to behold the sight before her: Queen Una’s solemn expression, her sister’s display of solidarity, the hundreds of eyes staring at her.

She desperately wanted to look at Remi, yearned for the comfort of her familiar gaze, but forced herself to keep scanning the crowd.

Her eyes flitted along the head table, until they landed on Fynton.

She took in her future husband properly: his face was striking – dark eyebrows framed a strong nose, and his cheekbones sloped at angles that looked like they had been carved by an artist.

His eyes sparked silver again, and she frowned.

She was positive he wasn’t Ever Blessed – the ruling gods of the Seacht wouldn’t let him live if that were the case, and her Ever didn’t writhe in warning when she looked at him.

Perhaps it was a blessing from Caius?

Whatever the cause, it was strange they hadn’t heard rumours of his molten eyes in Vettona.

She steeled herself and turned to look at the crowd in front of her, ignoring the thumping butterflies trying to break free of her chest.

This was worse than riding into battle.

She took a step but stopped suddenly when all the guests stood.

Raising her chin, she met the eyes of a man in front of her, familiarity washing through her when she realised it was Hinta, a weathered fisherman with whom she swam at the inlet.

His twinsoul, Ike, stood behind him, their movements mirroring each other with the synchronicity of their bond.

He met her eyes and winked, and she reached out her hand.

He squeezed her fingers gently, his warmth a comfort against the precipice she faced.

She advanced slowly down the aisle, her fingers brushing over her people’s palms in silent farewell as their lips murmured prayers she couldn’t hear.

A scuffle rose near the front of the balcony, and all the Clochain soldiers belatedly rose to their feet.

Elva noted the auburn-haired man was already standing, his posture easy compared to his comrades.

At the head table, Fynton stood a foot taller than Myrra, a look of slight confusion etched onto the hard lines of his jaw.

It was customary in Vettona for royals to interact with their people, but seeing his wary expression, Elva wondered if perhaps it wasn’t the case in Clochain.

Myrra’s voice chanted in her head as she moved: Shoulders back, breath steady.

Show them no fear.

When Elva reached the dais, her mother cupped her cheeks and bent her head so their foreheads touched.

There were a thousand things she wanted to say – had already said.

But saying them again would change nothing.

So, she closed her eyes and let her mother hold her.

The two women stood together as mother and daughter, until Una released her, and Elva moved around the table to stand beside the prince.

She assessed him, eyes raking across his broad shoulders and towering height, and noted his gaze travelling over the jewelled gown, lingering on her cleavage.

A smirk rose to her lips, and she silently thanked Myrra for choosing this dress.

It was a type of armour she was unused to wearing, but armour it was.

Better he thinks of me as a pretty, unassuming thing , she thought, rather than notice the knife strapped to my thigh .

Fynton bowed, and Elva dipped her head in reciprocation.

She heard chairs scraping and Fynton went to sit, but she continued standing.

Noticing her stillness, he quickly rose again, eyes questioning.

‘Tonight, we welcome Prince Fynton as the betrothed to my youngest daughter, Princess Elva, Captain of the Vettonian Warriors,’ Queen Una said.

Elva noted the lack of titles her mother bequeathed Fynton and hid a smirk.

‘Their wedding will take place in six weeks, on the spring equinox in Cailoch. As it would be impossible to transport the whole city of Vincentia to the celebration, I wished to recognise this blessed union in true Vettonian style. Tonight, we usher in a new era of peace and prosperity between Vettona and Clochain. Our two nations will cease the bloodshed that has drenched our shores for centuries and come together in unison against the blight plaguing the lands. We thank the Seacht, the seven gods, for their benevolence, and pay special recognition to Caius, Leader of the Seacht, God of Gods, who has blessed the King of Clochain with his favour. We also pay tribute to Aurelia, God of Beginnings, who blesses the land of Vettona. We acknowledge Avalon, God of Endings, the one whom we all shall meet; Bruna, God of Agitation, for his magnanimity; Illitas, the God of Hindsight, for marking our histories; Premil, the God of Tranquillity, for the path ahead; and finally, Rivalin, God of Foresight: he who sees all.’

Her mother turned to face the head table and scanned the seated warriors, her gaze coming to rest on Fynton.

Elva could feel him fidget next to her, body heat radiating from their closeness.

‘I, Queen Una of Vettona, bless this union between Elva and Fynton. I honour and recognise this marriage, the joining of our two nations, from this day forwards. May your union be joyful, bound in equality and respect. That you fight for what is just, and you keep to the path foresight has carved, for all your waking days.’ Her eyes locked on Elva, and to her daughter she said, ‘If you call, we will follow, until the Ending takes you. To Elva and Fynton!’ She raised a glass, and the balcony erupted with blessings.

Music started to flit through the air, and Elva finally turned to the man her future was intrinsically tied to.

‘So, you are to be my husband.’

‘Not one for pleasantries, are we?’

‘I figured we could skip that bit, considering we’re already betrothed.

’

His eyebrows rose and the silver twinkle in his eyes danced, snaring her attention.

She let herself look at him and was reluctant to admit that he was captivating in a way she hadn’t anticipated.

Perhaps this wasn’t going to be so bad?

There was no denying he was.

.

.

intriguing.

He pulled out her seat, big hands flexing around the wood.

‘Please, take a seat so I don’t look like a bastard.

I haven’t worn these shoes in years and my feet are aching.

’

She snorted and sat, watching as he did the same.

‘I didn’t realise tonight would be so.

.

.

grand,’ he said.

Elva looked out over the crowd and, despite herself, smiled.

‘My mother likes to celebrate.’

He followed her gaze.

Dishes had been brought to the tables and guests were digging into the gleaming feast, enjoying the platters of seafood before them, the towers of freshly baked bread.

‘If I had known this was to be an unofficial wedding, I would have brought my father so we could just have the one. This looks to be more fun than the parties we throw in Cailoch,’ he said, looking out over the revelry.

Guests flitted between the tables, and groups of people stood in clusters, laughing and drinking, eating off plates held in their hands.

The music was lively, and a group of children ran around one of the olive trees, flinging themselves upwards to grab the flowers dangling from the branches.

For years the increased war efforts and the creep of the blight had stripped their nation of indulgence.

It was both incredible and heartbreaking to see her people in such high spirits.

The last of the daylight dipped below the horizon and the firelights hanging over the balcony swayed in the breeze, glinting like the stars above.

Elva picked up her wine glass and turned to face the prince, her dress sending sprinkles of light over his dark uniform.

‘I didn’t realise Cailoch knew what fun was,’ she drawled, fighting the urge to say something more as his gaze swept over the open expanse of skin on her chest, before taking in the tattoo on her forearm.

He met her gaze and grinned unabashedly, eyes flickering.

‘It doesn’t.

I spend most of my time stationed elsewhere.

’

She mulled over his words.

‘Will we spend most of our time elsewhere, then?’

‘It depends.’

She took a sip of her drink.

Her nerves were dancing like frayed ribbon in the wind.

‘On what?’

‘On whether you can keep up with me.’ His eyes shone and the corner of his mouth quirked in challenge.

A grin spread across her face, and she leaned in.

‘I don’t think that will be a problem.

You haven’t even managed to catch me yet.

’

He laughed, a deep, surprised sound that made her shiver.

Raucous shouts sounded from the tables below and they both glanced at the sound, watching as the twinsoul pair Hinta and Ike spun in circles on the dance floor, perfectly matched.

While twinsouls were common, it was always viewed as a blessing to find one’s own.

When she was younger Elva had always imagined she would find hers, but with an arranged marriage upon her, the dream was fading.

If she ever found them the treaty would be in jeopardy, and with it the peace between their nations.

It was a childhood fantasy, and it hurt to relinquish.

‘Your people seem to love you,’ Fynton said after Hinta and Ike stopped twirling.

She cocked her head to one side, unsure what he was implying.

‘Do your people not?’

He took a sip of his drink, shaking his head.

‘My people barely know me. I’ve been sequestered most of my life.

’

‘For your sake, or theirs?’

He looked at her out of the corner of his eye and smirked.

‘What do you think, Princess?’

She scoffed and tipped her head back, taking another sip of her drink.

She couldn’t remember the last time someone called her Princess like that; perhaps it had been Neve.

‘I think you’re downplaying your popularity, Fynton.

’

‘I genuinely wish I was. Alas, you’ve been paired with the disappointing first-born who spends most of his time in soldiers’ barracks.

The rumours of my popularity are exaggerated.

’

‘What rumours do you want me to have heard?’ A smile toyed at the corner of her lips.

It was unexpected, this repartee.

She’d anticipated him to be a distant, spoiled Clochain boy.

But Fynton was.

.

.

not that.

For the first time since hearing the news about their arranged marriage, a flash of hope grazed her heart.

Perhaps, at the very least, they could be friends.

He grinned as he looked at her, eyes glancing to her lips before bouncing back to catch her gaze.

He had a rugged beauty to him, and she leaned forwards, mesmerised by the lightning storm that raged just beneath his irises.

‘Have you heard the one about me single-handedly defeating a coven of witches?’

She laughed, trying to picture Fynton going against the only race of living magical beings who could rival the gods.

‘Funnily enough, I haven’t.

’

He grinned and leaned back, the buttons of his shirt pulling apart to reveal a smattering of dark hair beneath.

‘How about the one where I’ve been compared to the danann in strength and stature?

’

The sparkling wine fizzed in her nose as she snorted.

‘I didn’t realise the danann were handsome.

’ She tilted her head to one side and looked him up and down.

‘In Vettona we call them giants. And you’re barely an inch taller than me.

’

His gaze travelled down her legs, where the slit of her dress revealed most of her thigh.

She wanted to squirm at the trail of heat his gaze left on her skin but kept still as his eyes landed on the strappy high heels laced around her feet.

He raised his brows.

‘I thought lying about size was only something men did.’

She bounced her foot, his eyes followed the movement.

‘I guess we’re even then, huh?

’ she replied, and his gaze snapped back to hers, the depth of the silver in his irises expanding.

As if awakening from a slumber, a small, painful tug pulled at her chest.

She froze.

The tug pulled again, right in the spot where her tiny seed of Ever sat.

She sucked in a breath, trying not to shout as the sharp pain grew, tearing through her chest.

It didn’t feel anything like the beacon her Ever flashed; it was a sensation that came from outside her being, not within, and yet she couldn’t deny it originated from the seed.

Her mind raced to find an explanation: was someone wielding Ever?

It didn’t feel right, and it certainly wasn’t a twinsoul bond – that was promised as a sensation of pure euphoria, whereas this was utter agony.

Her ribs ached, a straining sensation wanting to snap, which then just.

.

.

disappeared.

She jerked, but forced herself to pretend everything was fine.

She took a sip of her wine, hand steady from years of warrior training, even as waves of terror crashed through her.

What the hell was that?

Her thoughts whirred, grasping to find some believable explanation when Fynton abruptly shoved his chair back from the table and strode away.

Elva gaped after him and tried not to panic.

Where is he going?

Surely he hadn’t felt it, too?

With the mysterious tug gone, her magic was quiet.

She hadn’t felt the familiar writhe of Ever which indicated someone using magic nearby, which meant Fynton wasn’t Ever Blessed, right?

Then why did he leave?

Her breath came in shallow pants, and she looked around quickly, trying to see if anyone had noticed, if anyone had—

Cut it out, Elva.

Neve’s voice slammed into her.

If overanalysing was a sport you’d win.

But Ever is not a science, and you are drunk and about to marry a man you’ve spent years trying to defeat – perhaps what you’re feeling is an overblown reaction to throwing your life away for the enemy?

Elva rubbed her chest, the echo of Neve’s voice fading with every passing second.

She slumped into her seat, automatically scanning the crowd for her friend – an unconscious habit that only emphasised the pit in her stomach when Neve’s face was nowhere to be seen.

To distract herself she kept scanning the crowd, pausing only when her eyes landed on Remi.

As if sensing her, Remi looked up from her conversation and met her gaze, a small smile curling the corner of her lips.

Elva wished she could turn back time and relive every joyful moment they’d spent talking late into the night, tumbling on top of each other in the training ring, making each other come.

Letting go of this relationship had been easy in theory when she could justify it with the safety of the queendom.

But faced with the reality?

Remi’s eyes crinkled with understanding, as if she could read her thoughts, and then she bent her head, lowering her gaze in reverence, and brought two fingers to her brow.

Elva bent her neck in return – acknowledgement, and release.

She knew when she looked up, Remi’s attention would be elsewhere.

That this treasured relationship between them was over.

She was so consumed with the rush of feelings washing through her, she nearly jumped out of her seat when a man’s cough brought her back to reality.

‘Prince Fynton has been taken with a headache and has instructed me to tell you we leave at first light tomorrow.’ It was the man with white-streaked hair who spoke to her, his voice soft yet piercing over the noise of the crowd.

Elva turned to look up at him, shielding her eyes from the firelights that hung directly behind his head.

He looked to be the same age as her mother, with a hooked nose that reminded her of an owl.

Everything about him was soft and round, yet the longer she stared, the more uneasy she became.

‘Advisor Gudren, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you after so many years of correspondence,’ Myrra said, raising two fingers to her brow as she looked at the King of Clochain’s head advisor.

The panic that had only just faded returned, and Elva froze again, automatically scanning for an exit.

The King of Clochain’s Head Advisor was the Voice of the Seacht, which meant he was a demigod.

Beloved offspring of the Seacht who ruled, while the gods themselves lived in opulence on the Isle of Reathas.

Advisor Gudren was Caius’ favoured child; a demigod who could send messages through the strands of magic he controlled.

Her Ever swelled in warning and she clamped a hand over her chest, as if the physical movement would stop the magic from revealing itself to the advisor.

Demigods supposedly couldn’t tell if someone had Ever, but she’d never put the theory to the test.

Myrra smiled, completely unfazed a fucking demigod was standing before them.

Fear made Elva’s vision swim, and she choked the feeling back as she looked between her sister and Advisor Gudren, trying to sink into her chair so they didn’t notice her.

They smiled at each other, seemingly having an unspoken conversation.

Which, she realised a second too late, they likely were.

Shit .

After what felt like millennia, Advisor Gudren inclined his head, then turned on his heel and disappeared into the crowd, the writhe of her Ever fading in time with his footsteps.

Elva blinked at her sister, unsure what to say.

‘These guys don’t know how to have a good time, do they?

’ Myrra remarked, taking a sip of her drink.

‘How – why – he’s a demigod , Myrra.

.

.

’ she said.

There was a reason Myrra was the first in line to the throne, and it wasn’t just their birthing order.

Her sister understood the dynamics of politics better than anyone, and whatever had just happened between her and Advisor Gudren was clearly so far over Elva’s head she didn’t know where to begin.

She was already out of her depth, but add demigods, Fynton’s disappearing act and the weird tug to the mix.

.

.

How was she going to survive in Clochain without her sister’s guidance?

‘Stop staring,’ Myrra said, thrusting a drink into her hand.

‘More drinking.’

Elva didn’t ponder her sister’s order, just downed the glass without hesitation and tried to shake her confusion.

‘Princess Elva,’ Myrra said dramatically, sweeping into a bow so low Elva could see the top of her head.

‘Would you care to dance with me?’

Elva blinked, sure she’d misheard, but before she could answer, Myrra grabbed her by the hand and pulled her down the aisle.

They passed the auburn-haired Clochain soldier who sat, eating a large piece of cake, grinning.

His eyes had a faint upward tilt, not dissimilar from her own, but she didn’t have time to follow the train of thought as Myrra pulled her into the centre of the dance floor and nodded to the musicians.

The music shifted to a bassy melody, a tune she and Neve had once danced to, and she couldn’t help the smile that split her face.

Maybe it was the wine, maybe it was the close call with a damn demigod.

Or maybe it was the fact she was leaving everything she knew for a treaty and a man she didn’t know.

But if this was to be her last night in Vincentia then she wasn’t going to waste it.

The rest of her warriors amassed on the dance floor around her, and Elva began moving to the beat, tension melting as she let the tempo of the music wash through her.

Faster and faster she and Myrra moved, a whirl of energy and laughter, their dresses flashing under the firelights, dancing as if it was the night of Endings.