Daed doesn’t know that I heard his wish to be rid of me, even as he comforted me in the dark of his room, making me believe, if only for a moment, that he truly cared. Those are not words spoken about someone you cherish.
Regardless, I feel as lost and hopeless as the day I stepped foot on the ship destined for Baev’kalath. None of this is within the realms of my control. No matter how much I tell myself that I am the master of my fate, deep down, I know the truth. I am a pawn. And these Fae—these monsters—know it too.
We stride through the corridors, and today, the bitter sting of every Mordorin glare feels sharper, cutting deeper. I try to ignore them like I usually do, but this morning their hatred is harder to brush off, forcing me to quicken my steps, drawing closer to Arax.
“Why are they all looking at me like that?” I mutter, barely audible over his shoulder.
Arax's eyes scan the Blades standing like shadows along the darkened halls, his scowl meeting theirs head-on. “The houses are restless,” he says, voice low and edged with caution. “There’s discontent among the lords, and their warriors feel it too.”
“Because of me?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
Arax grunts in affirmation.
I force myself to keep my head high, but every now and then, my chin wavers, dropping toward my chest. I thought the Mordorin’s hatred had already run deep, but clearly, their well of contempt is endless.
We reach the towering doors of the throne room, and with a grunt, Arax presses his weight into the wood, forcing them open. At the far end, Kaelus and Lanneth sit upon their thrones, their hands resting with eerie stillness on the stone arms.Surrounding them in a half-circle stand the Lords of the Untold Sea—the sons and daughters of Mordorin. Some I recognize from the banquet: Reon of Eyr’Drogul, red-eyed Sarberos of Thal’Morven, and the twins, Vashar and Vasheeth of Jor’Thalas.
But today, the room is more crowded. More faces. More Fae. All of them united in their contempt, their disdainful glares piercing straight through me. One stands out among them—a woman with dark curls twisted into an elaborate ponytail, her eyes rimmed in black makeup that streaks from the corners of her eyes and drags down to her jaw. I don’t know her name, but the jeweled daggers in her belt are unmistakable. The same as Modok’s. Relief washes over me when I see that Modok himself is not present.
As we approach every fiber of my being screams that I don’t belong here. The urge to turn and flee nearly overwhelms me, but I know that’s exactly what they’re hoping for.
Frane and a line of Reapers stand just outside the circle, their presence like a wall of shadows. This is where Arax halts, stepping aside and silently urging me forward. I freeze, unwilling to face this alone. The words nearly rise in my throat to ask him to stay, but before I can give them voice, the circle of lords parts.
Daed’s hand extends toward me.
He stands tall, draped in a sharply tailored black coat that falls to his knees, its fabric gleaming like the night reflected on a moonlit sea and beneath it, his silk shirt is undone just enough to reveal the runes etched across his collarbones.
“Wife.” His voice cuts through the tension, firm and commanding, as his hand reaches out, fingers curling slightly in a silent invitation, waiting for mine to interlace with his.
The burning gazes around us blur into the background, their weight lifting as my focus narrows to Daed. His presence, solid and unwavering, makes those I feared moments ago seeminsignificant. I reach for him, and as soon as my fingers slip into his, the warmth of his touch steadies me. He tightens his grip, not forceful but reassuring, guiding me through the circle of lords without a glance at those around us. His indifference to their scrutiny makes me feel safer, like nothing can touch me while I’m at his side.
We climb the dais, Daed guides me to my throne, gesturing for me to sit with a tilt of his head. I nod, lowering myself onto the stone seat, still unsure if this will ever feel right.
“The princess has arrived,” Kaelus announces, his words almost a drawl as he leans into his fist, watching us closely. “Let us begin. This conclave of the Mordorin houses has been called to discuss the events of last night.”
“And what, exactly, happened last night?” A female voice breaks the silence, sharp and cutting. The speaker steps forward, her bone white hair falling like a cascade of moonlight down her back. Her eyes, deep and shimmering purple, fix on me.
“Lady Ilyra,” Kaelus exhales, a flicker of wariness creeping into his voice. “The life of our dear princess, Amara, was put in jeopardy... by Lord Modok.”
Before his words settle, the woman with the daggers lunges, fury in every motion. Her court reacts swiftly, restraining her before she can reach the center of the room.
“Modok did what you were all too frightened to do,” she hisses, her voice a blade. “This marriage is a disgrace, and every one of you knows it.”
I feel Daed tense beside me, his fists curling tightly at his sides. The tips of his canines glint for a brief moment, but he reins himself in, holding back the impulse to react.
“Lady Nyraxes,” Kaelus’s voice hardens, authoritative. “You’ve been granted your brother’s seat at this conclave. Respect will be shown here. Is that understood?”
Nyraxes turns, her eyes piercing through me like daggers. My chest tightens as the realization dawns—Modok’s sister. That’s why her hatred burns so fiercely.
“I understand,” she mutters, retreating stiffly to rejoin her Mor’Thravar kin, though the fire in her gaze doesn’t falter.
“We, as a conclave, must decide Modok’s fate,” Kaelus declares, his voice steady and resolute. “This kind of reckless rebellion cannot be tolerated.”
Lord Reon nods, the casualness of his strength not so different from Daed. “Eyr’Drogul stands with Baev’kalath. Modok must be made an example of. He not only threatened the life of the princess, but he laid his hands on another Fae’s wife. Both are punishable by death.”
“He obviously felt he had no choice, Lord Reon,” Sarberos interjects, his voice calm yet simmering. He steeples his fingers beneath his sharp chin, his red eyes glowing like embers. “Perhaps our noble royal family should have considered calling this conclavebeforedeciding to marry our only prince to a human—rather than afterwards.”
“Lord Sarberos makes a good point,” one of the twins from Jor’Thalas interjects, though I can’t distinguish which is which. Her sister quickly adds to the fray. “Why must we convene to discuss Modok’s fate when this situation could have been entirely avoided if you had sought our counsel first?”
