King Eldarion’s smile is sharp. “During her punishment it was revealed that she had a lovely voice, along with some other enticing attributes. An eastern lord needed a siren for his court, so I sent her to him as a gift. It was quite a prosperous exchange—you should’ve seen the rubies and emeralds he sent in return from his mines.”
Rune. RUNE.Draven’s voice turns loud in my mind, and I look to him, realizing my eyes are watering. All I can hear is my mother’s singing. My father said it was prettier than all the seraphs in Nevaeh combined. But the rest of my mind is screaming.
I make a show of messing with my sleeve, turning my head aside, and let the tears quickly drop as I try to regain some composure. Draven hisses,Rune, let me help you. The field. Picture the snowy field. The king, he’ll be able to tell—
I slam the small access point down between us, severing the connection. I can’t hear anything more. It’s taking everything to not lunge across this table and take out King Eldarion’s eyes. My hand runs down my steak knife. How stupid, how unbelievably arrogant, to leave this in front of me, and then say something like that.
The king’s attention draws to me, and Draven’s warning sinks in under his cool gaze. I remember what Draven said about auras, the way elves can read people, their emotions, their intentions.
I think of that cold snowy field, and a chill washes over me as my emotions numb.
Draven forcibly clears his throat, the sound jarring, and it yanks me from the last of my murderous thoughts. “Fascinating. I would love to hear a voice like that. And … where is your heir, by the way?” He looks pointedly around the table. “I was hoping to congratulate Prince Ronan on his completion of the Kingbreaker Trials.”
Eldarion scoffs dismissively. “He is off at the Ravine, in his second year. Much like you.” It must be their version of the Forge. “The last thing that boy needs is more praise.”
“Could you regale us with the Trials? I hear every Selected child chosen by elves competed in it? I enjoy a good challenge, as I’m sure you know. It sounds like it was both deadly and amusing.” Draven’s asking about my brother, likely among those changelings. I wonder who raised Remus, if he competed in the Trials, how far he got. Draven’s team must’ve found out about the Trials, but he’s clearly still trying to narrow my brother’s placement in it.
Eldarion shrugs, smirking in amusement. “The Kingbreaker Trials were held to see if any of the changeling children from all of our Selections could be worthy of king. To be declared a true elf. It included several deadly rites. My favorite included them scaling a waterfall to collect an object treasured by our people, while sharks stirred below.”
There’s uncomfortable shifting at our table; the rest of the conversations seem to have died out as attention focuses on the king.
The queen quietly says, “We lost many changelings that day.”
“The Master of Games had secured them all to the rock wall with rope, and only my nephew realized he would have to remove it to leap far enough to reach the object.” Eldarion’s lips twist to the side as he swirls the wine around in his glass. “Rather clever.” Though he says it as if his nephew somehow cheated.
“These games sound like fun, to play or bet on,” Draven adds, nudging the king along.
“Sounds like I would’ve been shark meat,” Malik says, and an uneasy laugh ripples around the table.
Images of my brother scaling slippery rock, water splattering his face … I remind myself he’s an adult now, the same age as me, but I keep picturing him as the child we lost.
Whether he competed in the Trials and lost, or won, or was trapped within these halls … it’s all a fate I’d never have wanted for him.
“The prince wears the item now, a symbol of his victory. It’s a beautiful ring,” the king says regretfully.
My eyes snap up, but Draven merely tilts his head, appearing captivated though I swear I can feel his thoughts buzzing even if he doesn’t show it. Those soon turn silent, as he masters himself.
“Prince Ronan will make a fine heir.” The queen seems to note the dismissive look her husband slid Draven at her comments. “He has proven himself, darling, you must admit.”
The table politely nods, though no one speaks up with their support.
Draven looks to me meaningfully, but right now I barely care that this ring might be Seithr, the Kingmaker. I want to know if my brother was one of the changelings lost in these horrific games.
“I didn’t expect a winner to be quite honest.” Eldarion’s smugness makes me want to flip this enormous table. “Many did not survive.”
My brother could very well be among the dead. I could’ve missed saving him, by months.
“What about the other changelings who survived but didn’t complete the rites? What are their fates?” Draven asks. I notice he’s adopted the same dismissive tone Eldarion uses when discussing mortals. A mirror.
“They returned to their host families, or to the Ravine. Unlike the druids, we preferred to keep our lines pure, for as long as possible, so I did not take on a ward myself.” Eldarion reaches a hand across the table, to a small planter in front of us and his fingers lift, coaxing,persuadingthe plant to grow. “I wanted nothing to do with the Selection. I desired only an heir of my own. Yet there is no end to the Curse.” A second plant stretches, its stems entwining with the one beside it. At last, a flower blooms, and I’ve never seen a blossom so strained, as if it chokes on the life forced out of it. “So, we are required to join druids and seraphs, sullying our lines for survival. In the end, I’m glad it was Ronan. As my brother’s ward, he will carry the ruthlessness of my line.”
“He’s certainly something.” Draven’s lashes flutter a moment, like he can’t summon an extra fuck to give about the subject of the winner turned prince. He finally manages, “You must have an account of it and all the competitors who entered somewhere? I am always looking for inspiration. A new challenge.”
“It was all recorded for history. I’m sure we can find a completed account of it for your entertainment.” Eldarion seems eager.
Even drowning in fury, I can’t help but admire the way my princeling manipulates a conversation, leading the king along.
“Is unicorn not to your liking?” Eldarion asks me, and I blink, not understanding him until he lifts his fork, raw meat speared to the end, pearlescent in the light.
