Page 26 of Stolen Magic (All That Glitters #2)
LYSANDRA
T he door of the hidden archive groaned shut behind me—and with it, the composure I’d been struggling to maintain finally faltered.
I walked briskly through the corridors, not caring if my footsteps echoed too loudly and drew unnecessary attention; royal decorum felt meaningless with the tumult churning inside me.
I needed distance, space to think, to breathe .
By the time I reached the upper halls, I’d schooled my expression into something calm and composed, but it did little to quiet my unrest. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, gilding the empty corridor in gold; I felt none of its warmth.
For all the relief I should have felt in escaping the prince’s presence, our interaction still haunted me with questions and confusion.
He can’t be sincere .
That was the first clear thought that pierced the haze. Prince Callan had spoken words I never expected, let alone from the son of Eldoria’s king. He hadn’t just acknowledged the crown’s sins —he’d mourned them, almost condemned them…admissions I never believed someone of his bloodline capable of.
My instincts, honed by years of survival and betrayal, screamed it had been nothing but another calculated ploy. Perhaps he’d realized what the ledger we’d discovered meant to me and had craftily woven whatever words necessary to earn my trust—a diplomatic maneuver meant to disarm me.
And yet another smaller, more fragile part of me had believed him.
The sincerity in his eyes, the weight behind his words, and the break in his voice when he spoke of his kingdom’s greed hadn’t sounded rehearsed but personal, as if the confession had cost him something.
It was just another piece in the increasingly confounding puzzle.
Only a few days into this charade, and I was already fraying from the strain of trying to decipher his true character and intentions.
Could he really not know the full extent of what his father had done, and not non-complacent in the king’s crimes?
No , I couldn’t believe that. If I started thinking he was innocent it would unravel everything—my mission, my hatred, my entire reason for taking the princess’s place.
I couldn’t soften simply because he gave a convincing show of humility.
Still, his haunting words lingered, carving out a space inside me I’d tried to keep hollow.
You’re not an outsider, not to me . It should have been easy to dismiss his words as a clever ploy of charm, a princely tactic designed to win hearts and loyalty…
but against every reason to doubt him, a reckless part of me believed he’d meant every word.
I swallowed my rising unease. I couldn’t afford to be swayed—not by kindness, nor by tenderness, and most of all not by someone who might still be part of the force that had destroyed everything I had ever loved.
I tightened my arms around my chest as I moved through the corridor, hating the warmth stirring inside me—the part that kept questioning what I’d come here to do.
I hadn’t come to be swayed by gentle smiles and meaningful glances, but to take everything from Eldoria and make them pay—to stop them once and for all from their destructive path of greed that had destroyed countless families like mine.
I repeated the words like a spell, but they no longer offered the protection against my inner storm they once had.
I entered my chambers, sighing as I sank into the soft seat next to the bouquet of violets.
Myst padded towards me, a strange look in her eyes, but before I could speak to her, there was a soft knock on the door and a girl slipped in.
I nodded at Melodie, my new Eldorian handmaiden, and she curtsied politely.
“Can I get you anything, my lady?” she asked softly, her eyes demurely downcast.
“A glass of water, please,” I said absently, and she hurried to pour from the pitcher on my nightstand. Despite my distraction, I couldn’t help but notice her movements seemed clumsy and sluggish; at first I presumed it was mere nerves but soon I realized it was something more.
During the long years of poverty and survival, hatred for the kingdom that had taken everything from me had been my lifeline.
I had never imagined I’d feel an ounce of sympathy for anyone from the land of my oppressors.
Yet try as I might to ignore the stirrings of empathy they persisted in their onslaught against the armor I’d built around my heart.
I studied my handmaiden’s reflection in the mirror as she set the pitcher back down. Melodie was young and timid, assigned to me by the king upon my arrival.
Throughout my sojourn in the palace I had kept my distance—not because I blamed her for her monarch’s crimes, but because I didn’t trust anyone assigned to me by the court.
Whether that suspicion came from self-preservation or the guilt of knowing I was the one worth suspecting, I used it as a shield protecting me against the pain that could come from getting close to anyone.
But even my hardened heart couldn’t ignore the girl’s pallor, growing steadily worse by the moment, her eyes glassy, her hands trembling as she struggled with the buttons of my gown. More than once, I caught her steadying herself against the vanity, thinking I wouldn’t notice.
I wrestled with my conscience longer than I should have before worry reigned victorious. “Go lie down,” I said at last, my concern causing the command to emerge more sharply than I intended.
She blinked at me, startled. “I’m fine, my lady, I?—”
“That wasn’t a suggestion.” I crossed the room before she could turn away. “You’re unwell. There’s no sense in working yourself into collapse.”
“I’m truly—” she began again, her voice raspy and her eyes wide with fear of failing at her new position, but she was already swaying, gripping the wardrobe for support.
She lifted her chin in that stubborn Eldorian way that reminded me all too much of the people I’d taught myself to despise and stood taller in an effort to mask her trembling, but as a master of deceit myself I saw through the charade.
“No, you’re not.” I said, more gently this time. I extracted the gown she held from her hands and nudged her toward the door. “Go lie down. I don’t need a fainting girl on my conscience.”
She looked as though she wanted to argue, but her resistance finally faltered. “Thank you, my lady.” With an unsteady curtsy, she retreated into the adjoining chamber. I waited until I heard the quiet creak of her settling on the cot before I slipped from the room and made my way to the kitchens.
The scent of bread and roasted herbs met me as I descended the servant’s stairwell—comfortingly familiar in a way that made my chest tighten.
The kitchens bustled softly in the lull between breakfast and luncheon.
I found a quiet corner and rummaged through the apothecary shelves until I located the dried leaves I needed: chamomile for calm, ginger for nausea, elderflower for fever, a pinch of thyme for strength.
I moved with practiced ease as I measured them into the teapot.
The scent of the herbs rose up to meet me, invoking the memory of a different cup of tea that I had laced with something far more potent. The guilt, long buried under layers of resolve, bubbled up to the surface. My shaking hands gripped the edge of the counter until my knuckles ached.
Gwen had trusted me. And I had repaid that trust with lies. I had made myself believe my actions had been justified, a necessary price to pay for the greater good, but in the aroma of this honest brew and no deception my hands, the lie tasted bitter.
I blinked hard and swallowed the guilt down, forcing my hands to steady as I stirred.
But I couldn’t completely escape the guilt prickling beneath my skin at the thought of the princess, along with the ever-present worry that never remained absent for long.
I could only pray she was alright, that whatever damage I’d done hadn’t taken root beyond repair.
I was just reaching for the kettle when footsteps sounded behind me.
The spoon clattered against the cup as I spun around to find Callan standing in the doorway, brow lifted not in reprimand but curiosity.
Sunlight from the high windows gilded the edges of his dark hair, making him look less like the composed prince from court and more like the man I spent time with in the garden—the one who disarmed me with his smile like he’d stumbled upon something precious.
“I didn’t expect to find you here,” he said lightly. “What are you doing in the kitchens?” He eyed the teapot curiously.
“I’m making tea,” I replied, more defensively than I meant, especially considering for once I was doing something decent rather than my usual schemes.
He tilted his head. “For yourself? Perhaps our cooks don’t know the Myronian techniques?”
“For Melodie, the handmaiden assigned to me. She’s ill.”
His brows rose in visible surprise. He studied me like I was a puzzle missing half its pieces. “So you came to brew it yourself? You could’ve summoned a healer, or sent a request to the apothecary.”
“It’s faster than waiting on a summons.” I tried to keep my tone even, but his scrutiny made me self-conscious. I focused on the steam rising from the pot, strangely embarrassed by this simple act of goodwill.
“Most in the court would have ignored something outside their responsibility entirely.”
“This is the most efficient way to ensure she receives the proper treatment in a timely manner,” I countered stiffly.
When I finally dared to look up, his expression had shifted—his gaze softer now, contemplative. The tea steeped quietly between us, its warm scent curling the air like something sacred. “You don’t have to pretend, you know,” he said after a moment. “Not with me.”
I glanced at him. “Pretend what?”
“That you’re not capable of compassion.”