Page 50 of What Whispers in the Dark (Promises of the Marked)
T he sky was dark enough for the floating faelights to drift around the grand balcony, casting shimmers like starlight on the potted shrubbery and the multitude of couches and chairs.
Inside the ballroom, Garrik hadn’t left her side since their show on the dais. And to credit Ladomyr’s doubtful fealty, her wineglass was never empty—always tested by Smokeshadows before taking a single sip.
It was nearing the time to gather on the balcony, to witness a display of magic in the skies, when the Master of Ceremonies slammed his saber on the floor and announced loud enough that the High City far below could hear, “ The Serpent Queen of Galdheir .”
Garrik froze. He wasn’t breathing.
Locked in time, he did nothing more than sway. Eyes as wide as the moon himself stared forward at the wall, the tapestries and curtains.
But those next words …
Even her knees began trembling.
“… and our High King, Magnelis. ”
Every face was turned to the doorway. Some began to bow, but Alora swung in front of Garrik, searching his distant eyes. Look at me, she pleaded. Look at me.
Her High Prince blanched of color. A strangled noise came from his throat before he deepened a breath, shoulders tight, and sealed his eyes closed.
But Alora grabbed his face, disregarding what everyone was doing around them, uncaring if it was treason to remain standing, when Garrik, with deathly calm, choked out, “Run. Before he sees.” He didn’t sound like himself.
That beastly voice thrummed from him before eyes like the night opened, and he backed out of her embrace like her touch was a personal insult. Like she meant nothing to him.
She weathered it, knowing … knowing if Magnelis could see …
Dread sliced through her veins. The very blood in her body emptied. Alora shook her head. “I’m not leaving you.” It didn’t matter if the High King flayed every inch of flesh from her body; he would not face them alone.
A smear of black danced behind Garrik’s gray hair, inching closer— closer as the crowd stood and a rumble of whispers resumed.
“Go. Please .” Desperation, anger, and something unending lay there.
But she would do no such thing.
More black, nearer and nearer, until Alora could see his face over the black flames on Garrik’s shoulder?—
Before Garrik could stop her, she side-stepped his body and tightened her fist. Shoving forward, Alora snarled, dead and cold and poisonous, “ How dare you !” If not for needing to remain hidden, her eyes would have guttered with white flames. Would have exploded with them.
Garrik whirled, drawing the blade at his side as the faelights glinted off his obsidian crown and golden embellishments of his dragon-embellished jacket.
Prepared to run through the male who raised him and the serpent of his nightmares beside him, dressed in a black revealing gown, flowing black hair down her shoulders, and ombré-coated daggered fingernails.
“ Silas ,” he growled, as if in reprimand, and shifted his attention to the female when the male didn’t so much as flinch. “ Erissa .” Voice clipped, cold.
The princess—stars damn her to Firekeeper—exchanged a sinister grin with the spymaster, whose eyes glowed a bright shade of … chestnut — those were chestnut eyes instead of his blood-red crimson glowing under the amethyst and ruby crown settled in his long black hair.
“What would our High King think should he see you dressed as pretenders?” Alora yielded to her Shadow Order mask expertly, allowing Garrik time to settle himself without laying ruination to the room.
Through their tether, Alora imagined— felt the brush of shadow along her lower back and around her side.
As if Garrik had swiped his palm there and pulled her close.
Cold, secure, despite the subtle tremble that dissipated the longer he held.
And she half wondered if that touch was more to tame the beast roaring to unleash than steady his panicked nerves.
She imagined her hand cupping his on her side. Unashamed to admit that his touch calmed her, too.
His mind answered with a steadying hum. But on the outside … in the flesh …
Silas dismissively flicked a fleck of dirt off his jacket, giving full attention to his hand and drawing Alora’s to the skin-colored paint completely covering the ruins there.
It was then she noticed his facial markings had been altered with it, too.
A true tribute to the High King. But she couldn’t decide which was worse in that moment: the bloodthirsty predator before her who could convince faeries they were safe in Firekeeper’s realm, far away from him, or the one reigning in Galdheir.
Erissa ignored Alora’s question as if her neck meant nothing to her, and mused, “Lover,” loud enough for the court to hear, and brushed her fingers along the onyx sleeve of Garrik’s arm, bumping her manicured fingers over the golden leg of the dragon embroidered there.
Alora snarled her vicious warning, but it wasn’t her malice that struck next.
Instantly, Erissa’s wrist was crushed by three decades of vengeful pain.
Garrik leaned close to the flowing black wig, voice as sharp as a blade through the skull.
“ Do not fucking touch me .” Before the princess could cry out, he released her with a quick flick of his wrist. His glare promised infernal damnation toward Silas, and the male actually averted his eyes before Garrik stormed away, heading toward the remodeled open wall and balcony.
The crowd had not been murmuring falsities earlier when they spoke of Erissa’s arrivals. This was truly one to remember, indeed.