“This human, Amara Tyne, Jewel of the Tenders, stands before us beneath the Pale Eye and swears to all who witness that she shall serve her Fae masters and graciously submit to her Fae husband, now and forever.”
My head flings back and the words spill from my mouth before I can catch them. “I do not!”
The court gasps, and I can see the flash of rage in Queen Lanneth’s eyes. The elder’s lip twitches, and his deathly white gaze reflects my anxious self back at me. I hadn’t meant to speak; I had resigned myself to my fate. Everything I do is for The Grove. A pang strikes my chest, realizing in that moment, my heart had screamed its silent truth. The elder turns to King Kaelus, who glares and releases a guttural growl from his throne, leaning onto his knee.
“Your people swore an oath,” he mutters angrily, loud enough for only me to hear, as if to spare himself embarrassment. “You in exchange for our protection from The Legion. You are in Baev’kalath now, girl, and Jewel or not, I will throw you into thesea todrownif you dare defy me. But not before I withdraw all my warriors from The Grove and let your precious forest burn. You are ours now. Do you understand?”
The king’s words sting, his pleasant demeanor evaporated, and once again I’m reminded of how quickly The Mordorin become callous. My eyes well, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s struck a chord.
“Yes. I understand.”
He grits his teeth and leans back in his throne. “Proceed, Archdruid Theros.”
The Archdruid shifts his gaze to the groom, and it dawns on me that these are the only words he intends to direct toward me. My consent holds no value in this ceremony; I am merely a pawn in a game played by those with far greater power.
“Favored Prince of the Mordorin. Son of Kaelus. Heir to the Sundered Kingdoms. Commander of the Ebon Flight. Beneath the Pale Eye, will you take this human as your bride, to use her as you will, to breed her so that the blood of the High Fae may prosper, until such time as she is spent.”
I can hardly fathom the words I'm hearing. I am not a person in this arrangement. I am reduced to a vessel meant to please the prince and bear his heirs until I draw my last breath. Stealing another glance at the silent man beside me, I find myself curious about his reaction to our wedding vows, wondering if he feels even a fraction of the weight of this twisted union.
That is when he speaks for the first time.
“I do,” he replies, in a tone that rumbles deep as the black sea.
“Give me your hands,” the Archdruid demands as he draws a jeweled dagger from his sleeve.
The groom’s hands are adorned with intricate rune tattoos that snake around his sinewy forearm as he rolls up his sleeve, offering his hand, palm up. The Archdruid’s sneer makes it clear that he expects me to do the same. I swallow hard, steelingmyself as I pull back the lace cuffs of my gown and hold out my hand. In one swift motion, he slashes our palms, the cut deep enough to send blood streaming freely onto the floor. I bite down on my lip, fighting the urge to cry out.
I would rather die than show fear or weakness in front of this assembly—or in front of him.
I glance up at the Archdruid, then gasp when I see an inverted crescent burnt into his forehead, but I am sure it was not there before. My heart thumps and I close my eyes tightly before looking once more. This time, the mark is gone. I ignore the figment of my imagination.
“By the joining of blood, she is yours,” The Archdruid declares, his voice reverberating through the chamber like an incantation. The words hang heavy in the air, a promise woven into the fabric of the ceremony. Each syllable feels like a spell, binding me to a fate I never chose. I can feel the weight of the eyes upon us, the spectators leaning forward in anticipation, as if they are witnesses to a great and terrible moment in history. The mingling of our blood signifies not just an alliance, but an irrevocable claim over my very being. I shudder, realizing that this simple act transforms me from an unwilling participant into a possession.
Suddenly, the statue beside me comes to life, seizing my hand in a rough grip and forcing our palms together. A sharp wince escapes me as my wound collides with his, and our blood merges, seeping between our laced fingers like two rivers converging, pooling at our feet.
Finally, he turns his gaze to me.
Moonlight streams through the window, casting a rich glow upon his skin, while his ebony waves of hair fall back, revealing piercing gray eyes that seem to hold the very essence of the storm. They radiate light, a vivid hue that transcends mere color, glowing with an intensity as bright as the moon on a starlessnight. Yet, there’s a haunting darkness beneath the surface—bottomless, fathomless, eternal. The longer I hold his gaze, the more I feel myself sinking, falling helplessly into the abyss of his eyes. Fear grips me, yet my instinct isn’t to flee. It’s to remain here, ensnared by his gaze, waiting for the darkness to consume me.
He leans closer, tall and broad and diabolically muscled, a looming presence that casts a shadow over me, pinning me to the ground. I can feel his breath against my neck, a tangible weight that deepens my sense of helplessness..
“She is mine,” he declares, the words resonating with a finality that sends shivers down my spine.
Chapter 5
When I was a child, I stumbled upon a rabbit caught in a poacher’s snare.
In The Grove, the earth nurtures us, so I had never encountered a trap designed to catch and kill. The rabbit lay on its side, its brown eyes wide with terror, its chest heaving with frantic breaths. It was the first time I truly sensed fear. I tugged at the frayed noose wrapped around its delicate legs until it loosened. The rope had been so tight that it had sliced through fur and flesh, leaving raw, bloody wounds in its wake.
I expected the rabbit to leap up, bounding back into the safety of the forest, overflowing with gratitude for its newfound freedom. Instead, it remained there, its gaze locked onto mine, almost resigned to its fate. Even when released, it seemed to hesitate, choosing to stay rather than flee.
Now, I struggle to recall whether it ever hopped away or if, after long moments of silent watching, I was the one to leave first. Tonight, I understand what that rabbit tried to convey with its eyes—its fear, sadness, and the profound loss of hope. All I can do now is wait for my own release from this snare.
But the question lingers:will I have the strength to run when the moment comes?
The Archdruid interrupts my spiraling thoughts with a harsh, rattling cough to clear his throat, then stretches his arms wide, addressing the court with a voice that echoes through the hall.
“Brethren,” he declares. “I present to you Princess Amara and our crown prince, Daedalus Phaedren.”
