Page 26 of Touch of Oblivion (Woven in Time #1)

Wren

T he silence after my internal confession is a hollow thing. It stretches long enough for the steam from the tea and food to stop spiraling in the air with its warmth.

“I’ll leave you alone,” he says at last, his voice quiet but not gentle. “But only after I take you to the two courts that may have answers.”

That startles me enough to blink.

He tilts his head slightly, eyes catching in the pale light like polished ice.

“I think your power may be tethered to two of our courts, and I’ve reached out already to visit them today.

The Spring Duke is old, and the Summer Duchess older still.

If there are answers to be found in the seasonal courts, they’ll be found there. ”

I fold my arms across my chest. “And if I say no?” I ask, voice low.

His jaw ticks once. “Then I won’t force you. I know you think lowly of me, but I’d never do anything but support your personal decisions.”

That draws my eyes back to him. There’s no teasing or smug curl of his lips. No persuasive glint beneath his lashes. Just plain truth.

“But I hope,” he says, and it’s the softest he’s ever sounded, “you’ll accept the chance to know yourself, even if you never forgive me.”

The quiet that follows carries a weight of its own.

“I’ll go,” I whisper, then add before he can speak again, “but don’t mistake this for forgiveness, or trust.”

He nods, the movement slight. “I wouldn’t dare.”

***

When I step through the portal to the Spring Court, the change in climate is instantly felt.

For a moment, the air clings to my exposed arms like sap, thick with the scent of fresh-blooming flowers. I’m thankful Sylvin told me to leave the jacket behind before we stepped through or else I’d be suffocating in it.

Dozens of birds cry overhead, their calls melodic and overlapping.

The sky is a clear, almost surreal shade of blue and beneath it a vast valley unfurls between red-rock cliffs that rise in sculpted waves on either side.

Bright flowers push through every inch of soil, leaving no patch left untouched.

Lavender, golden poppies, bluebells with glowing veins and curling edges blanket the landscape in color.

It smells sweet, yet it turns my stomach with the over-powering scent. It’s beautiful and smothering all at once.

Sylvin stands beside me, arms at his sides, his expression unreadable. He doesn’t speak as I take it in.

“I’m assuming it’s always spring here, hence the name of the court?” I murmur, watching a hummingbird with glowing green wings dart between two oversized lilies.

“Yes,” he says, his voice low. “Magic keeps it that way.”

We begin walking down a stone path lined with blooming vines that twist across the ground. Far ahead, the court rises with curved towers of pale rose quartz and marble veined with gold. Green vines spill down their sides in looping, curated patterns.

“It’s beautiful,” I say after a pause, and I mean it, but it doesn’t feel safe.

Sylvin must sense my unease because his eyes cut toward me. “Beauty doesn’t mean kindness,” he says. “Not here. ”

The wind shifts and I catch the distant sound of laughter and music floating toward us.

We round a bend in the path, and two fae step out from behind a flowering archway. Neither bows, despite Sylvin being the High King.

One speaks in a singsong voice, barely glancing at him before acknowledging me. “The Duke is waiting.”

Sylvin nods once, but there’s tension in his jaw that isn’t usually present. Something about that makes me go on slight alert.

We walk on, the sound of our footsteps muffled by the petal-laced path.

The court opens with wide stone steps leading into a tiered garden amphitheater that bursts with life.

Dozens of fae line the steps and balconies, draped in silk and pressed floral armor.

They watch us descend and some whisper behind fans, while others smile too widely, their lips stained with reds and purples.

At the far end of the garden court, lounging in a curved seat made of sculpted gold and twisting lilac branches, sits the Duke of Spring.

He’s radiant.

His hair falls in golden waves down his shoulders, glinting in the sunlight like spun honey, and his skin glows like the sun itself lives within him. His smile is easy and indulgent, but his vibrant green eyes show the calculation within.

“Ah,” the Duke purrs, voice like warm wine. “The High King of Winter…bringing me a gift. How generous.”

I stiffen, but Sylvin doesn’t so much as twitch.

“This is Wren,” he says flatly. “And she is not yours.”

The Duke laughs, soft and rich. “So territorial, Sylvin. I thought you came to share.”

Anger flares within me and I side-eye Sylvin.

What exactly did he tell the Duke?

“We came to find answers and you know that,” Sylvin politely disagrees with a tight smile. “Despite what you’re making it sound like now, for the sake of entertainment and her discomfort.”

Instantly I deflate and remember I can’t take anything the fae say at face value. Sylvin told me the first day I met him that they are masters of manipulation, and I still fell right into that trap.

The Duke’s gaze slides to me, slow and deliberate. He takes his time scanning from my face to my throat, then lower.

I barely suppress the shiver of disgust rolling through me under his perusal.

“So,” he says, dragging the syllable out. “You’re the little wild thing who is trying to find a home.”

I don't let him bait me into answering, and Sylvin moves slightly closer to me, showing silent support.

“We’ve arranged a test,” the Duke says, already waving a hand toward the center of the court. “A simple one to see if she’s ours.”

“Even if she is of Spring, she is no one’s, besides herself,” Sylvin says coolly, “and this was supposed to be a private test, not a spectacle.”

The Duke laughs again, tipping his head back, and the court chuckles with him, like an oddly rehearsed chorus.

“Everything we do here is for entertainment,” he hums, rising from his throne. His robes rustle as he walks toward a raised stone pedestal in the garden’s center. It’s ringed in soft moss, and atop it sits a shallow bowl of soil.

“Wren,” he calls, motioning for me to approach. “Come and place your hands in the soil of our court–it is imbued with magic waiting to be commanded. Speak your name and will something to bloom.”

My heart beats hard in my ribs, not from fear of failure, but from how wrong this feels.

I glance at Sylvin.

His jaw is clenched, but he nods once, not commanding me forward but offering his support with the movement.

So I step forward. The second I touch the soil, I breathe in slowly, letting my fingers rest in the warmth for a moment. I reach for the magic and will a lily to sprout, but there’s no hum and no flicker of recognition…just silence .

I withdraw my hands and let them hang dirty at my sides, proof of my failure and with nothing to wipe them on.

The Duke tsks softly, feigning disappointment. “Ah. A shame.”

There’s a smattering of soft, polite laughter from the balconies. My cheeks burn and something hardens in my chest.

“She’s not one of ours,” the Duke declares. “But at least she’s lovely to look at, so she’s not entirely worthless.”

Sylvin moves forward before the Duke can speak again, voice sharp and dangerous. “She doesn’t need to pass your parlor trick to prove her worth.”

“She failed,” the Duke says, not unkindly. “It’s not an insult. It’s a fact.”

Sylvin takes another step forward. “The magic of this court may not answer her, but if you ever attempt to humiliate her again, I won’t be as courteous in my response.”

My chest squeezes with the show of his support. I shouldn’t want it after what I saw in him earlier. It shouldn’t matter, but it does…I don’t want to look worthless to him.

The court goes quiet and the Duke holds Sylvin’s gaze, and for a moment, the sweetness drains from his face. “How protective you've become. ”

Sylvin doesn’t respond, he settles for raising his chin higher.

The silence stretches between the tiers of blooming balconies and the ground we stand on as the Duke narrows his eyes.

I watch Sylvin’s own eyes narrow in response as he whispers, “You’ve forgotten who took your mantle of High King.”

The air around us chills with his words.

So that’s why there is so much animosity here. The Duke was the High King of all fae before Sylvin rose to power in the Winter Court and contested the title.

It starts beneath his boots, a fine lace of frost spreading outward in delicate spirals across the stone. The warmth of Spring falters beneath it. Flower petals curl inward and vines flinch.

The Duke’s smile remains in place, but the light behind it shifts.

“Sylvin,” he says lightly, fingers lifting as if to dust the air, “I know Winter is fond of dramatics, but surely you wouldn’t freeze the garden simply because your companion didn’t bloom.”

“This place,” Sylvin mutters with disdain, “forgot the difference between theater and cruelty.”

A flurry of snow dances suddenly in the amphitheater and frost clings to every surface.

The Duke waves his hand with a flourish, and a surge of magic pushes outward like a tide. Flowers erupt from cracks in the ice as the vines lash from beneath the frost, shaking it off.

Sylvin may have a flair for dramatics, but his magic is all brute force. It simply endures, reclaiming the new life in his cold grasps. He freezes them mid-bloom, locking thorns and petals in time.

Gasps ripple through the balconies above us as the power-struggle unfolds. I swallow the lump growing in my throat, rubbing my bare arms for warmth as winter prevails.

The Duke steps forward, but he no longer smiles as he lifts both hands and grits his teeth. I imagine he’s calling forth every ounce of power he has to push back Sylvin’s.

Though his court pretends not to see it with gazes averting and fans fluttering.

“I came to get answers,” Sylvin murmurs casually as he tilts his head. No part of him seems to struggle to overpower the Duke. “Not to have my guest mocked, and certainly not to see you attempt to judge a power within her that you can’t begin to understand.”

“She stepped up to take the test of her own free will,” the Duke says, voice quieter now but brittle at the edges as he forces the words out between clenched teeth. “And she received her answer.”

“You readily agreed to host us,” Sylvin replies, gaze hardening as he lifts his hands. “But if this is how you treat your guests, then perhaps Spring needs a long, hard frost to reevaluate itself.”

The final pulse of magic unfurls from Sylvin wordlessly as ice crawls up the side of the Duke’s throne, creeping along its gilded vines until it’s completely covered in a sheen of ice. Sylvin’s outstretched hands suddenly tighten into balled fists and the throne crumbles into blocks of ice.

The Duke doesn’t speak as Sylvin lowers his hands back to his sides, but I can see the fury in his trembling frame and tightly pursed lips.

He would lash out if he could, but it’s clear from the averted gazes and murmurs in his crowd that he can’t combat Sylvin.

Sylvin’s power settles through the Duke’s court as a reminder of who holds that mantle now.

He humiliated the Duke with the same elegance they tried to use to humiliate me. He didn’t shout or physically harm the Duke. He simply reminded them who he is and who they invited into their garden.

Sylvin lets out a trill of a laugh then while turning his back to the Duke and presenting me with an arm.

He lets his voice carry for all to hear as he says, “I’m sorry I wasted your time here with a duke I thought had more knowledge and power than he actually does. ”

I take his arm and finally let my lips curl up to match his, because whatever else he’s done–whatever choices I still can’t forgive–he didn’t do this for politics or power…he did this for me .