"You've become a tyrant, Elain."
"Yet you still bow to me. Precious.
And it's Elaina."
Crunch.
Unlacing her fingers, the Crown Princess lounged back in her father's former throne. That archduke—she coughed, former archduke of one of her allied kingdoms—he deserved to be reaped. The thorned magic in her blood thrummed as two of her guards came to haul what remained of her ally to the pigpen—dispose of him.
"My lady," one door guard started. Elaina snapped her gaze from the scuff on her marble floor. "Are you...certain—that was the right move? Garneria was—is an important kingdom to remain on good terms with."
Elaina rolled her eyes, lolling her head to rest on the back of her hand. "Garneria are nothing but barbarians. I'm doing Ryverin a favor by severing ties with them. My people will thank me one day." A flick of her wrist dismissed her door guards in favor of her Guard Captain—Adrian was at her side just as quickly as she liked. "Return whatever remains of the archduke to Garneria. I want those savages to understand the power I can unleash upon them."
Adrian dipped his head and bowed low, the rubies and gold links in his uniform glinting in the light of the morning sun. "Of course, highness. Any of your...special requests I should add to his head?"
Oh, how well her friend knew her. "'Remember my name.'"
The strength of her army, the extension of her power—she would only provide it if she was respected. If Garneria defied her—if even the representative of that kingdom defied her—she would crush everyone with a drop of that garnet blood. A power as strong as hers made her the only true ruler—she just needed them all to understand that. And she would reap whoever came to challenge. Beneath the silk gloves, she felt the thorns and petals shift. Her magic clawing away at her.
How cruel of me, my darling. Elaina dragged her fingers along the length of her forearm, running along where she knew each rose petal lay, feeling the restlessness of the powers residing in her left hand. Letting you get a taste of that nasty old duke and not giving you enough. She would admit it: she favored her left hand. She loved the wild rage and raw magic she could hone through that hand—what she could destroy with just a flick of her wrist.
The petals and leaves on her right hand were still, chilled from the left hand's cruelty. Elaina took a heaving breath, the mental tomb enclosing her powers opening. Her right arm ached, her fingers grew numb—her eyes darted to her left: the gazebo. Mother's dying wisteria. Just at the thought, the aching dulled, but didn't leave. Thorns that had been pricking the fingers of her left hand stilled, like the gift could sense it was time to share with its matching half.
Elaina didn't take her time heading for the side door; she nearly abandoned her delicate heels at her throne. They weren't fast enough, but she reveled in the sound they made on those elegant floors her mother had demanded. Her footsteps echoed through the silent hall—that sound, the loneliness and deafening silence, the magic that gifted her with reaping thrived in the empty feeling inside her. For a moment, she considered it. A ball. A ball would keep away the silence. She wouldn't be alone, she would be happy again. There was a prick in her palm at the thought. She flung the garden door open.
Outside. Springtime. Cool air eased the anger heating her. She closed her eyes against the breeze, breathing deep and drowning in the noise. It didn't suffocate her, it didn't threaten to consume her—the fresh air soothed her. The princess dropped her posture. She could relax in the safety of the world outside her palace. Her eyes caught the wisteria, and her magic thrummed again.
That, Elaina knew she would never escape. She could fill silence, she could destroy anyone against her, she could move far away from Ryverin and never be called by her many names again, and that magic would still find her. Gods save her if she wasn't careful to keep them balanced.
She took a faded purple petal from the drooping wisteria into the palm of her hand, choosing her teeth to pull the glove from her right hand. The only part she dreaded of sow; it wasn't the same as reap—she had to be personal, she had to touch. There was a grimace that took her neutrality for a moment—she hated the name her father had given to her powers. So forward, so obvious—it wasn't suiting her. To who she was.
Still, she accepted it, and she let her powers work as their names suggested. She sowed life back into that damned wisteria, allowing half a smile as the blossoms took shape again and the invasive vines strengthened. Balanced. The petals would leave her be until they saw fit to annoy her again.
Which was always too soon for her liking.
***
It never took much to set off that fire in her chest that made her want to reap a village.
And no matter how many she sat at the head of, royal meetings were always what boiled her blood.
Elaina stared down the long table, trying to keep herself restrained for as long as possible. Brutes reached across the table to steal food from one another, no one was focused on work—she almost let herself mist the food from their plates so they were forced to focus on their Crown Princess. But she kept her hands gloved and folded in her lap, practicing restraint. Did she need the gloves to keep her magic hidden? No. It would show regardless of what covered her skin. But was it easier to lie about her abilities being a gift rather than a curse if her marks were covered? Immensely.
Finally, tiring of being ignored, she cleared her throat, waiting for the table to fall silent. Her left hand crept up from her lap. Fingers in a fist, nails threatening to pierce silk. She gritted her teeth.
"Majesty?" one of the courtiers called, snapping her attention from the hot anger trembling in her hand. Casta, her father's royal advisor. Great. The rat returns to his nest.
"What," she muttered, "could you possibly need, Casta?" The atmosphere of her company shifted. Tension built. The feuding halves of magic coating her soul struggled for control. Frustration tried to manifest as rage, the calm of Miro working to soothe it—she swallowed.
"The archduke of Garneria—where do we stand with that mess?"
Elaina scoffed, swirling her drink. "He made a mess alright," she grumbled. "Garneria are no allies of mine. There are other rats begging to have us on their side; the others will quickly bid for the place those savages held."
The harshness in her voice made Casta turn his face away. The princess fought her smirk. "Once Adrian returns, I will consider replacements for Garneria. Until my Guard Captain is here to be updated on the state of the army he commands, there's no need to rush to decisions, is there?" Jaw tight, Elaina stared her father's advisor down—right into his soul. That pit that was supposed to carry him into the afterlife. No wonder her parents had trusted him so—they'd needed her to sacrifice because she was the only one of the four with a soul—stop it. Don't think about that right now. Blood in her mouth—she'd chewed into her cheek again.
She was about to attempt a new composure strategy when another member of her court thankfully spoke. "What about the fae, mistress? Might one of them replace Garneria?"
That...wasn't a terrible idea. Elaina raised her brows. Her handmaid, her lady in waiting, Nyla, offering a rare opinion out of turn. "Glad to see your new friend has made you bold," Elaina teased—sneering at the blush on Nyla's olive cheeks. Nyla's partner, a woman Elaina had never met, giggled with her companion. The violence in her blood settled—sow had won again. "Explain what you mean, darling."
Nyla hesitated, darting her eyes around her royal company. A nod of her princess's head encouraged her, and, as meek as she was, Nyla tried to project her voice. "The fae are all magical, mistress. They're all like you. If we can align with a kingdom full of magic, perhaps you could have your dream."
Her dream. Elaina leaned back in her seat, gaze distant. A smile quirked the corner of her mouth and she shook her head, looking back to Nyla. "Good job, darling. I'll take up the idea with Adrian; we'll consider it."
Casta, to Elaina's delight, looked outraged. She passed him a wink—Nyla dipped her head to hide the deeper blush.
"You'll wind up going to war with the faeries," Casta spat. His palms braced on the table, he attempted to tower over the Crown Princess. Tried to intimidate her.
"Kneel."
He didn't.
The moment she rose from her seat, members of her court slank backward on their own. Skirts whisked around her legs, blood boiled through her hand—
A flick of her wrist, and she had him by the throat in an invisible fist. Feet lifted off the floor, him clawing at his own neck, that invisible hand pushed him back as she stalked forward. Her left hand curled tighter, Casta's face grew redder, her teeth clenched until she felt they would break—and she dropped him. "Kneel," she roared. Windows shuddered with the sound, candles flickered out—she felt her anger in her gut, it filled her body, the world tunneled in on that one target, and she screamed the word again. A storm wind blew the garden door open, the curtains billowed with it, her dark curls whipped up in front of her—the ground could've swallowed her whole and she would've never known.
This time, he obeyed her. He knelt.
Her fury ceased. The palace went still; the world seemed to halt. How did I...do that? Gods help her, Wilt keep her—she wasn't as controlled as she thought. Before she could try to apologize or explain himself, Cast muttered his own apology. "Spare my soul, Lightbringer."
What soul? She nearly bit back at him—at his sorry attempt at emotion. His eyes were blank, his face turned its usual pallor—she didn't notice a shift in that pit of his. Another scoff, and she turned from where he knelt, one sidelong glance dismissing her court. No one made the mistake of neglecting their respects to her.
***
"The princess returns to her tower, I see."
Adrian's teasing pulled her attention from her sunset meditation. She was sure the coffin she imagined for her powers was locked tight before she greeted him. "Hello, Adrian." Taking his hand, she let him pull her to her feet again—waiting for her to steady before passing her the cup of coffee he'd brought for her. "How long have you been back?" she asked before taking a sip—perfect. Damn you.
"Long enough to get the story on Casta. You're levitating people now?" He stole the water she'd brought with her and claimed it as his own—which earned him a smack to the shoulder. When the laughter died down, he took a more serious tone. "Did Miro tell you anything about that?"
Like the goddesses told me anything. "No," she murmured, setting her cup back on the railing behind her and leaning with it. A glance down at her hands, so nimble and delicate, and she realized what she'd done as she'd paced her chamber after the meeting—her nails had been chewed down to the quick. A swallow. "None of them did. This is...something new." Adrian frowned.
"Who do you think it's from? Couldn't be Miro—Maven, maybe?"
"You think the goddesses of the tides would give me the ability to choke my father's advisor?" she hissed. Her eyes caught the movement of guards below her balcony—not out here. Adrian was the only person left in her court that knew the truth about her magic; she grabbed him by the elbow and hauled him back into her room, quickly closing the balcony doors behind her. Hushed, still scanning the room, she said, "I think this one is Molerin. Which is—not good, considering what I did to an archduke that lived near the Bloodbourne altar."
If she was hoping for serious words or reassurance, she was speaking with the wrong person. Adrian just whistled low, raised his eyebrows, and shook his head. "You are in the shit now, Ellie."
"I know, I know." She was pacing again, her heart was on the verge of leaping from her throat, her blood was cold—"You think it's a warning from her? Would she kill me?" Adrian moved to answer, but she was thinking too quickly to let him speak. Desperately, she grabbed him by the lapel of his coat, near a shiver as she searched his eyes for the loyalty and safety she needed. "What do I do? They didn't tell me how to do this. What do I do, Adrian?" Before he would say anything, his hands came up to the backs of her arms—an effort to comfort her. But he still pulled her out to arm's length when he answered her.
"I think you should go back to Miro. She could tell you."
That wasn't what she wanted to hear. The last time she'd faced Miro—the goddess of nature and beauty and knowledge had ripped the soul from her body in exchange for magic her parents weren't allowed to possess. Elaina could still feel it—she'd died, Miro had killed her—had shot her through the heart and let her bleed her soul into the Wilt and had rebirthed her from the same enchanted roses that were etched into inked scars on her skin, and those silver eyes—the indicator to herself that she, the soulseer, would never be able to use her own to enter the After. "I can't go back to her—"
"—But she's the only one that could give you definitive truth, princess," he murmured. "If you're afraid, I'll come with you—"
"No," she said quickly. "Absolutely not. I care too much about you to let you give up whatever better place comes after just to follow me into the Wilt and hold my hand."
He knew better than to argue. Her mind was set. Instead, he extended his arm for her to grab. "Then allow me to escort you, Crown Princess Elaina." He followed the smooth words with a wink, and she scowled.
"I hate you."
"Of course you do," he said, even as he helped secure her cloak and hood. "Do you want to hide your curse?" He eyed the vines on her arms, then met hers again. She appreciated that he called her marks by what they were, and not the "gifts" her court and people believed they were.
"No," she set down the gloves he passed her, "Miro might be offended if I don't have her art on display."
"A goddess can be offended?"
"Didn't you see what Molerin did to Garneria when they didn't come to Bloodbourne for the equinox? They all near starved to death. I'm not risking Ryverin to appease my own vanity."
Adrian smirked at her words. "Well spoken, majesty."
"Shut up, Adrian."
She distanced herself from her feelings as she and Adrian made quick work of the walk out of the palace; she wouldn't allow herself to let either strand of her magic take control. All the way to the stables, the two of them were silent unless spoken to—and even then, Adrian spoke for the both of them, just as he had when she'd told him—years prior—that she was too scared to speak to her subjects when she'd first returned from the Wilt. Her voice was marred from crying for help and begging; she hadn't wanted them to be afraid of her. Of what she'd become. Her old friend had always taken up for her.
Leaned against the wall and dead-eyed, Elaina waited silently for him to tack his horse—she wasn't coherent enough to ride her own, as much as she hated neglecting Anam. He would have to forgive her for not riding when she could barely see less than four of her two hands. Her mind was blank, she didn't let herself think about the memories decorating what she went through in that beautiful altar to Miro. How she'd bled in that garden, writhing in the monkshood and belladonna—she wondered if her claw marks were still etched in the moss where Miro had let her die.
Clearly, she wasn't succeeding in blocking it out.
The only thing that pulled her out—however brief—was Adrian slowly bracing his hands on her waist to hoist her up ahead of himself. Trying not to startle her. "I know you feel safer on Anam," he said, strained, as he pulled himself up with her, "but he tried to kick me the last time I went in his stall—"
"Elska is fine, Adrian," she said—hated how she sounded. Gritty and robotic, like Casta had when he'd asked her to spare him. She heard him say something, heard him pat his horse, processed his words, but then they disappeared into the void at the back of her mind, like everything and everyone else they'd passed as they left. "We should've gone tomorrow morning."
"Why?"
"Maven will be there. The moonflowers only bloom at night."
"Maven won't bother you." He glanced up at the sky, trying to make out the early rising moon under the burn of the setting sun. "She's probably keeping the tide. It's full tonight."
Minutes passed before she finished processing what he'd said, but he didn't ask her about it. He knew this part of her—the darkness, the light draining from her eyes, the slump in her shoulders—he didn't need to hear her speak to know how low she felt.
That ride was too damn quick. She wasn't ready to face Miro again—she wasn't recovered from their last encounter, and it had been coming on a decade.
"I can go in with you, Elaina," Adrian assured her. She shook her head.
"Just me."
And so he let her, just like she'd told him to. He'd only been able to watch as she knelt before the altar in the pine guarded garden, asking slowly for the Wilt to take her. If he was terrified by the shadows that overtook her, if he was afraid of the fire and lightning that swirled around her left hand—he never said. She wouldn't have blamed him if he left her there.
But there was the goddess she so feared, in all her ethereal beauty, and Elaina knew it was only because they were concealed by the suffocating magic of the Wilt. Miro's poison garden bloomed proud and strong, and the throne of roses she sat on didn't seem as violent as the princess remembered. "My little soulseer, you return to me. What desperation brings you to my altar of your own volition?" Her voice could only be described as something similar to the sweet winds of spring that Elaina loved so dearly: quiet, gentle, low. So different from the snarling gravel she remembered hearing the night she'd been sacrificed.
"I need answers, Queen Mother," she answered, dipping her head low with the words. "You are the true allseeing queen, not I. What must I sow for you to grant me a seed of your knowledge?"
The Wilt would never know how deeply she hated the prayer she'd been taught to chant to the goddess of nature. Still, Miro smiled, coming from her throne to touch the being she'd killed and allowed the Wilt to rebirth—she lifted Elaina's chin, gently, and the silver eyes of a soulless princess stared into the forest green of someone she could never equal. "You have given all you had, child. You have cared for my gift—it is balanced within you. I will answer what your heart wishes to know."
Gods, her heart soared. No bargain? I must be dreaming. "I have done...a terrible thing, dear Mother. The gift her majesty and your sisters gave to me, I have greatly misused. I wish to know if Molerin will grant me mercy for reaping the archduke of her beloved Garneria." Her hands trembled with her voice, but she kept her gaze steady with Miro's, waiting silently for the goddess to answer. It seemed like the flowers themselves followed each movement made as Miro allowed Elaina to rise to her feet with her.
"My sister will not harm you, dear Lightbringer. You returned a soul to her with her own hand. She will understand that you made the choice with the knowledge I gifted you. As you do right by us, we will do right by you. Go now, Daughter of Stars, and return to our kingdom." A kiss to the top of her head, and the Wilt closed around Elaina—she was returned to Adrian outside the garden—and whole. She could've sobbed when she opened her eyes and saw him in all his stupid, grinning glory leaning over her. Laying in the grass, looking at him—real. A real person. Elaina clasped her hands on either side of his face and tried—gods, did she try—not to cry, but flesh and bone and fresh air and the blood in her veins forced her to.
But then, there was a beat. A beat where she came back to her senses. She pulled herself back from Adrian and squeezed her eyes shut, sighing when he asked her what the matter was. "Shit," she muttered. "I forgot to ask about the damn Casta incident."
"Is it that big of a deal?" he asked. Elaina frowned, pulling her knees up to her chin and wrapping the cape of her cloak around her.
"I'm not sure." Her eyes darted back to the entrance of the garden with a shiver. "I...sincerely hope it's nothing. Maybe this was a clause to come out of the Wilt. Powers we weren't ready for."
"Or maybe Miro thinks you'll be able to do something with them?"
"Like what?" she retorted. "Strangle my father's advisor without chipping a nail?" That may have been too far. Adrian was only doing his best to help her—or trying to. "Sorry," she said quickly.
"It's alright, princess." Adrian stood with the agility and grace she expected from someone as well trained and skilled as a royal guard and extended his hand to lift her to her feet with him. "Let's go home."
***
Something about visiting with Miro had reminded her of what had been. Who she was before the Wilt had sapped her soul. It took a lot of strength for her to keep those memories at bay—far more strength than she harbored after facing the goddess that had broken her so wholly. It scared her, being so open again. The soulseer that knew her own soul was gone. She saw it in Miro's eyes—the soul she'd stolen from a child too young and weak to fight back.
"Majesty," Nyla called, flitting to her princess's side with a grace only a faerie born lady could muster. "A letter for you." She handed the stationary to Elaina, who tenderly took it from her with a quick nod of thanks.
As Nyla left her chamber, Elaina's hands still shook from the night before during her attempt to pry open the letter. As though she'd conjured the bastard herself, like her memories returning had called him, her outlaw attempted to return to her. She would know that script as surely as her own.
My dear Elaina,
It pains me to no end to not be near you, my sweet. The agony I endure in this frigid cold is naught compared to the emptiness I lie in without you.
We were so young, my love. So young and so foolish. But I know within my soul that the mistakes we made are not to be regretted. Mine, perhaps, I do regret, for they keep me from your sight, but the mistakes I made in our name are not ones I could detest so easily.
I am returning to Ryverin, Elaina. It will only be brief, but I am returning. The tribe I have taken shelter with from your father's knights are traveling into the city of Lasair as part of a trade route—just miles from the palace, dear princess.
I pray you see fit to send for me. You know I come whenever you call for me—every time.
From the sun, to the stars,
AG
Arlero, back in her kingdom. Her heart could've stopped, she felt light as air. Finally, finally, free from the wrath of their king and queen, she could see the outlaw her father had hated so vehemently. Were the goddesses blessing her? Did she deserve such a blessing?
No, of course she didn't. The goddesses only knew to curse her. Arlero coming back to her was something above the gods themselves. Gods, had she missed him. Missed the trouble they had gotten into, no doubt. But she missed him being near—Adrian was only allowed to know so much; there'd been a time when Arlero had known everything.
She didn't think of the choice she had to make. She called for two—a handmaid and a page. One was sent to fetch her walking clothes, and the other was sent to find Arlero.
***
Smoothing her hands against the pleats of her knee-length skirt, a hooded Elaina waited impatiently for her beloved crook. Her eyes scanned the crowd outside the tavern from her window seat, looking for those midnight locks—then there was something sharp against her back.
"Empty your pockets, Eylra."
Her eyes narrowed and she tried to hide her smirk. "You're brave, Arlo. Trying that in this place." She heard his chuckle and the dagger vanished from her back—his fingers grazed her shoulder as he walked to her front, arms out for the embrace she was lunging for before she'd even bothered to look at him.
"How I've missed you, my princess," he murmured into her hair, holding her close and hugging her tight. She could've sobbed as she breathed him in—all lavender and pine. She'd never known it was possible to miss someone so much. Leaning back, she finally found her senses to take in his face—a devil's smirk permanently holding the corner of his mouth up, his hair was too long, so dark it looked blue, but those umber eyes were the same she'd remembered. Her thumb went to a scar on his cheek, fresh, barely healed. He took that hand into his. "I'm surprised Casta let you out of the palace."
"Casta doesn't know my every step, darling," she purred, pulling him in for a grinning kiss. "I never thought I'd see you again."
"Nor I you, Elaina—you can't imagine the depths I went through to find a group coming back to Ryverin before summer. I was worried my letter would never find you."
She could've stayed like that until the world ended, holding him in the dim light of that tavern, clutching the lapels of his coat with as much strength as her fingers could manage and matching her breath with his. It seemed cruel to have to end that moment. "Walk with me?" He held out his arm for her to take, and she did.
They walked the streets together, both of them so different from when they'd last braved the public together. Her covered, him different from his wanted poster—it felt like a prison in itself. Goddesses save her if Adrian's men recognized them together. Her reunion with her dangerous love may have come at the cost of his hanging. Still, it felt right to be by his side again, listening to nothing but each other and their feet on stone. She knew he was watching every exotic shop, waiting and bracing each second for an ambush.
"Your mother would've thought that skirt scandalous, Crown Princess," Arlero sneered. Elaina rolled her eyes.
"She hated anything you bought me—my father would've had this thing torched if he'd known I still had it."
She could sense his tension at the mention of her father—the very man that had forced him from the kingdom he was born in. "No word on the king yet, then," he asked quietly—she watched his eyes stray from her to the cobblestone streets.
A grim dread filled her chest at the thought of what he'd inquired. "No," she replied, just as quiet as him. "No one knows where he is."
"Good riddance to bad rubbish," he muttered.
Elaina, through damned familial pride, had to bite back. "He would say the same about you being banished." He wasn't fazed by her snark.
"Hey, I'm the best looking crook on any wanted sign." She couldn't hide the laugh that escaped her—not around him. "See, you still think I'm funny."
"I think you're a nuisance."
They chatted and walked for what seemed like hours, catching up and winding down. He complimented her and tried to butter her up, and she shut him down every time—just like before. Staring at the city of Lasair, the orange and red insignias of her house littering every street, the princess normally felt like she was going to suffocate, but with her damned outlaw by her side again, the grand walls and old stone didn't seem as daunting.
"Come back to the palace with me," she blurted, pulling him aside to the cover of an empty shop stall.
"And have that captain of yours flay me? No thanks, darling."
"Arlo, please—I don't care if you have to scale the wall, I just want to see you again. Like we used to."
Arlero frowned as he considered her offer. When they were young, he wouldn't have missed a beat before stealing her away. But now, wanted dead or alive by her father and the army he'd assigned to Adrian, her dangerous lover seemed afraid to love her. "That was a long time ago, Elaina," he whispered. Her heart sank—she felt her face fall, and he was immediately cupping her cheeks. "You know why I can't, my princess." A kiss to the tip of her nose, and he released her. "Besides," he leaned back against a shelf, "we both know how your mother would've felt about Adrian bleeding me out on those marble floors. She might allow that stain to stay there, if she and your dear Daddy ever show back up."
"Misery doesn't suit you, Arlero."
"And wifery doesn't suit you, yet here you are, throwing your honor between myself and lover boy like we're a couple'a rabid wolves."
That was the Arlero she was happy to live without. Spiteful, hateful, downright cruel when he wanted to be. "There's nothing between Adrian and I and you know it."
"Does it really matter?"
"Me being with you broke my father's heart, love."
"Daddy has a heart?"
Elaina, for the first time that day, felt that twinge of pain in her heart. She'd made a mistake, sending for her former lover. "You still want my maidenhead, don't you?"
He let out a low growl, reaching for her hips. "More and more every day,"
"So stop this." She pushed him away. "Stop with this cat-and-mouse, stop trying to get me to hunt you down. Just...be a good man, Arlero. Be a good, respectable man—get a real job, not this fool's thievery. And when my father comes back," she carefully hid the 'if' she felt, "ask him for my hand again. If you can prove yourself to be a good, loyal man, like I know you can be, then he'll give you to me, and you'll be a queen's consort. You'll get everything you've wanted."
The princess was trying, with all her might, to change him. She wanted him to be the person she'd always known he could be. "If you care about me," she whispered, taking his hand in hers, "you'll try."
"You know that isn't fair." Arlero wouldn't look her in the eyes—he kept his gaze away from hers. "There's nothing I can do about the way I am."
"That's not true," she insisted. "You can be better, love. I know you can." Her hand pressed against his chest, she tried to pull him closer, but she knew what he was doing. Holding himself at arm's length, keeping her reaching for him. "I suppose I know you'll never change." She stepped back from him, eyes closed against the afternoon chime of the church bell, "but," she turned from him, "it was a pretty dream."
He didn't stop her. "It was."
***
Arlero,
What we were, my love, was a beautiful dream. For a few fleeting hours, I felt torn somewhere between the luckiest woman alive, and the king's fool. I suppose there's some beautiful alternative for us—in another life, perhaps. Perhaps, had we been different, had I been a peasant girl and you a merchant, or myself the thief that ran at your side, we could have conquered what has ailed you so.
I am sorry, my prince. I am sorry for suggesting you change—I cannot change you, and I know you cannot change for me—for anyone. That relentless spirit is the man I fell in love with, but the good man you can be and the man your life calls for are a raging storm inside you that I, try as I might, cannot calm. I want nothing more than for you to ascend a throne beside me in Ryverin's hour of need, when we need the guidance of a king and queen the most, but, even as my consort, I know you'd be nothing close to content. My love for you will not allow me to try and convince you to come and give away the only life you know.
My only prayer for you, my dear friend, is that you find peace within yourself. Whether that peace be in a bed or at the bottom of a bottle, I pray to the goddesses that have damned us both that you will find peace somewhere in this endless expanse of earth.
Forever yours,
Elaina Dorcha, Crown Princess of Ryverin
She stared down at the letter in her hands, squeezing her eyes shut as she folded it into the envelope. A quick stamp of wax, the seal of her family attempted to close the chapter that Arlero had tried to reopen.
"Should I take it for you, princess?" Adrian asked, gently pulling her from her thoughts. A sigh escaped her as she passed it to her page instead.
"No, Adrian," came her quiet reply. "I'm sorry. You shouldn't have to see me like this."
There was that gentle hand on her back. "It's alright, Elaina. You don't have to be sorry." When she didn't say anything else, he prodded. Like he needed her to say something. "Are you alright?"
"Just...thinking. Of another life. Another world." That wasn't a lie. Her eyes caught the movement of the garden outside her window, and for a moment—a blissful second, her heart wandered to what could've been, had they been given a chance. What a life running wild and free with Arlero would've been like. How she would've felt traversing the snow-capped mountains of Atlas, the people she would get to meet from villages Ryverin didn't reach. Who she could've been if she had been born as nothing but a peasant girl.
But she didn't feel anything. Her heart didn't ache with longing, she wasn't battling with her magic because of her emotions. It was a pretty dream. "I'll never be a proper queen, Adrian," she murmured. "There's—there's something in me that's keeping me from being like all of them." Elaina gestured out over the edges of her palace grounds, towards the expanse of cities and villages that dotted Ryverin and edged along the border to Garneria and the faerie kingdoms.
"You were raised differently from them, princess. Of course you don't think like them."
Even though his tone was helpful, Adrian's condescending words only fueled her frustration. "It's not that," she snapped. Giving up on making him understand, a wave of her left hand ripped the curtains drawn and snuffed the light in her chambers. "You can't look at me and tell me I'm normal, can you? You know there's something wrong with me. You know it, and I know it. Miro and her sisters took everything I had—all I am is just...just these." Her eyes flickered down to the ink-laden scars across her arms, biting down on her cheek as she watched the temperamental magic snake through her veins and felt it gnawing at the void where her soul ought to be.
"Nothing is wrong with you, princess—"
"Stop that."
"Stop...what?"
As she glared at the puzzled look on his face, she felt the darker half of her magic seep its way to the surface. She felt sure it would consume her, she felt sure there wasn't a chance in her to keep it at bay with the way she was progressing—if Arlero wasn't so damn stubborn—"Stop calling me that. Stop acting like I'm above everyone and no one is allowed to talk to me. It's driving me insane."
"There is an etiquette, pr—"
"Stop."
A moment, and she lost her grip on the reap. In the darkness of her chamber, nothing but the light that tried to seep through the curtains could illuminate either of them. Her hands trembled, her mind blanked, nothing was on her mind but the all-consuming need to rid herself of the obstacle in front of her. Adrian watched, horrified—the side of her he'd never seen, the side of his princess he was never meant to know existed. She could choke him like she did Casta, she could crush him like she had the pig from Garneria that she'd never bothered to remember, she could—she could—
Just like with Casta, the windows ripped open. Only this time, the ornate frames were ripped from their hinges and sent hurtling around Elaina and Adrian. Glass shattered against the smooth stone floor, shards scraping bare skin and resting in clustered piles around what remained of each frame. Shreds of silk and velvet scattered around the room with the force of the wind she'd called, and with a gasp, with a jolt of her heart, she finally—finally saw Adrian begin to panic like her father's advisor had. Not him, not him.
What strength she had went in to trying to calm her magic and ease her racing, pounding heart, and keep that darker edge from claiming her dear friend and turning him against her like so many others had. The princess prayed, with all her soul, to the goddesses that damned her that she could stop it, that she'd hurt him enough, that she'd destroyed all that she could destroy, she needed Adrian, she loved him, she didn't want this—
And it stopped. The violent wind, the trembling of her hands, the fire in her chest, it stopped. Adrian stared at her, mouth gaping and brows raised.
"Well," he said, surveying his personal damages, "shit."