Page 15 of Fate of Echoes and Embers (Heirs of Elydor #3)

Was I imagining it, or did Mev seem nervous as she watched me take a tentative bite of pie? It was surprisingly good.

“There was apparently a skirmish in the northern borders,” Mev said, concerned. “The humans barely held off a band of Gyorian raiders with Aetherian aid.”

“It’s only a matter of time before it escalates,” I said, having experienced the same along the southern border for some time. “Before we left, I heard the Gyorian War Council is eyeing new alliances.”

Marek stiffened. “With whom?” He shot a look at Kael.

“I haven’t been home since before Mev came. Don’t look to me for answers.”

“There must be someone you trust to temper your father’s appetite for vengeance?”

“My men, those I can trust, are working with Adren to help us secure the remaining artifacts. Reopening the Gate has taken precedence.”

“Understandable.” I came to Marek’s aid, my thinking similar to his own. “But there won’t be any humans left when it does reopen if things continue to escalate.”

Mev sighed. “The war could spill over into every clan, dragging Aetherians, Elydorians, and humans into a full-blown conflict. I think me coming through didn’t do Elydor any favors.”

Kael set down his mug. “You coming through was the catalyst we needed to put an end to it, Mev. You didn’t start this. My father did.” He looked at me. “There’s more.”

“Why do I sense this has something to do with Issa?” Marek asked.

“Because it does. Mev and I lingered, none seeming to care either of us overheard.”

“This is the place to come to hear rumors, and to spread them. But we’d best keep our own voices down.” Marek sat back, waiting.

Our table was in the only window, isolated but… his words were wise. I looked out onto the docks, still bustling despite the hour, and then turned back to see all three of them watching me.

“What is it?” I asked, having dismissed Marek’s concern. There would be no talk of me here, surely?

“A human sailor suggested Lord Draven is feeding intelligence to both sides, ensuring that the tension between Gyorians and humans reaches a boiling point,” Mev said.

I startled, surely mishearing. “Draven? My Lord Draven?”

Kael all but growled. “Aye, your Lord Draven. I, for one, am not surprised. He positions himself to take on a greater role among humans, starting with Hawthorne Manor.”

I refused to have this same argument again. “I’ve told you, so many times?—”

“I agree with him,” Mev whispered.

My head whipped in the princess’s direction. Surely, I misheard her.

“Kael had asked I not interfere, given your history with him as your father’s friend and right-hand man.

But if there is any hint of truth to these whispers…

” She frowned. “When we first met at Hawthorne, I had a feeling about him. It was before I knew about, well, all of it. My Aetherian father. My magic. I know now I was sensing his ill intentions.”

“No,” I said. I refused to believe another who I trusted could be so complicit. If it were true, I would never trust my own instincts again. “He served my father well for many years.”

“Your own commander doesn’t trust him,” Marek added. “We spoke of him. Sir Warren told me of an incident?—”

“The two have never gotten along,” I admitted.

“With good reason, to my thinking,” Marek said.

“I concur,” Kael added.

Mev said nothing, but her expression did. Had I been wrong to leave Hawthorne in his hands? I looked to Kael. “He and my father,” I said meekly.

“Were friends, aye. But even friends can be blinded by loyalty. That does not mean he’s the same man your father trusted.”

I swallowed hard. The weight of my decision to leave Hawthorne in his care suddenly felt heavier.

Marek bounded from his seat. Without a word, he left us and headed directly toward the men, apparently, Kael and Mev had overheard. How had he even noticed that? We’d been in the midst of our own conversation. One I was very much anxious to finish.

“What’s he doing?” Mev asked.

Kael smiled. “What he does best.”

As the couple focused on their meals, I continued to watch Marek.

He moved from man to man, smiling. Talking.

Gesturing. He clasped one on the shoulder, as if they were long-lost friends.

This was his element. Marek, among his people, even if they were human, though I would not be surprised if there were a Thalassarian mixed in with that group.

You could find a Thalassarian at every port in Elydor, it was said.

Unlike Gyorians and Aetherians, the Thalassari could pass for humans.

Although often, they had a look . One difficult to describe, but unique to a southern climate where it never cooled.

I watched as he sauntered back to us. When he made eye contact with me, I had some difficulty not feeling as if I had won some sort of prize, to be the object of his attention. His obvious approval at what he saw.

I wouldn’t pretend he had lost his appeal because… it would be a lie of epic proportions.

He sat, leaning forward. “The whispers in Valmyr aren’t just rumors, Isolde.

” It was as if he used my given name to emphasize that he was serious.

“Draven’s been moving pieces on the board for longer than we realized.

I will learn more, but I suspect Mev and Kael’s overheard conversation is the start of it. ”

I felt ill. Pushing away my meal, no longer hungry, I stood. “Pardon me.”

Needing air, I made my way out of the tavern and ran toward the dock. No ships were coming or going now, but all were swaying gently with the breeze.

What had I done?

I whipped around as a hand lay on my shoulder.

“Put the dagger away, sereia.”

Every time he called me that, I had difficulty breathing normally. It was like a lover’s touch, soft and gentle. And all-knowing.

“Come with me.”

Marek guided me away from the lantern-lit docks, past warehouses stacked with crates. The night air was thick with salt and the distant scent of fish, but as we moved deeper into the port’s underbelly, the scent shifted. Woodsmoke, damp stone, and something faintly metallic, like rust or old blood.

He led me through a narrow alleyway between two looming buildings, the ground beneath us uneven, cobbled but worn down by time and foot traffic. A single torch flickered ahead, illuminating a heavy, iron door set into the stone wall of an aging structure.

We didn’t speak.

Marek rapped twice on the aged, wooden door, then once more, in a distinct pattern.

A moment later, the door opened, but the darkness within revealed no one.

Inside, the air was tinged with pipe smoke and the sour scent of spilled ale.

We walked into a dimly lit room, a handful of oil lamps casting long, flickering shadows over rough-hewn tables and mismatched chairs.

A few men and women, lingered in the corners, their conversations hushed as they cast wary glances toward us.

“A smuggler’s den,” Marek whispered, tilting his head toward the farthest table, where an older man with storm-gray hair watched us as we approached. “Are you ready for the truth?”

“Yours,” I asked, “or Draven’s?”

“Mine can wait. Draven’s cannot.”

“I want both,” I said, realizing it was true.

Marek looked me deep into my eyes. “And you’ll get both, before the night is through.”