The Calveron soldiers roared with laughter. Alora shuddered at the horror of it, her chest heaving for air. The world closed in on her, pressing into her bones like the cold floor.
“There, there, my sweet,” Eldrik crooned, stroking her cheek with bloodied fingers. “To the victor goes the spoils.”
She wrenched free with a feral hiss, tears streaking her face. He chuckled and tossed Laurent’s head onto a silver platter a soldier held out, and it landed with a wet splat. Then they hauled Alora to her feet.
Picking up her father’s crown, the prince climbed up the steps.
“We wed tomorrow at sunset,” Eldrik declared. He placed the crown on and sprawled upon the throne. “Argyle has a new king now.”
Alora’s screams of rage echoed off the walls of the castle as she was dragged from the throne room. All around soldiers laughed as they ransacked the castle, tearing down flags, breaking furniture, dragging ladies into rooms. Her vision blurred as they hauled her past her father’s portrait on fire.
They Alora into her chambers and locked the door. Her legs gave out as she collapsed to the floor, sobbing.
She should never have left the Midlands.
These were the consequences of her choices.
And she had to face them alone.
CHAPTER 17
Alora
Rain drummed against the windowpanes, mirroring the dread that curled through Alora’s chest like a slow-moving poison. She sat stiffly at her vanity with her back straight and her hands folded in her lap to hide the way they trembled. Her thumb pressed against her fingertip scar, turning her finger white.
Theia brushed out her golden-brown hair with gentle strokes. Tears lined her lower lashes, but she did well not to cry. Most of the servants and castle guards had been slaughtered in the invasion, including her ladies-in-waiting.
Neither spoke.
Alora’s reflection was pale, ghostly even, her dull eyes swollen and rimmed pink from weeping. Eldrik had a floor-length mirror sent to her room, forcing her to gaze upon herself.
She looked more like a sacrificial offering than a bride.
The wedding gown was a sickly white that clashed with her pale skin, made of thin layers of gossamer and silver silk. Thefabric shimmered like liquid moonlight. It hardly covered her modesty, leaving her arms bare and cleavage for every eye to see. The translucent fabric was beaded with silver drops and pearls, like dew on morning leaves. The peculiar fabric itched, and the pointed shoes pinched her feet. The delicate, whimsical fae clothing would have better suited a lady of the fair folk.
The Calveron guard at the door watched them meticulously, a silent sentinel sent to assure she arrived at her own sentence without difficulty.
Theia lifted the lark pin to place in her hair, but Alora shook her head. She wouldn’t mar her mother’s memory by wearing it to a ceremony built on blood and manacles. The sun lowered in the sky, counting down the minutes until she lost the last thread of her freedom.
Alora rose with a sigh and headed for the bath chamber. “I need to relieve myself,” she announced feebly.
Of the contents in her stomach.
The guard attempted to follow but Theia intercepted.
“She is a princess!” Theia said shakily but with every ounce of bravery she could muster. “Do not demean her further by taking away her privacy to use the damn chamber pot!”
The fae guard curled his lip but said nothing as Theia rushed her into the bath chamber and shut the door.
“Alora…” Theia’s voice was barely a whisper as she gripped her shoulders with shaking hands. “I received a note from Caelum this morning. He and a small group of his men managed to escape the castle last night. They are waiting in the tunnels beneath the throne room. They plan to attack during the ceremony and steal us away.”
Alora blinked, her lashes heavy with unshed tears and her heart warmed. She sadly smiled, taking her best friend’s hand.
“No…” Her voice wavered. “He would get himself killed, Theia, and I have enough blood on my hands. When I am taken,run to Caelum and flee this place. I will not see you both die for me.”
The words were bitter on her tongue.
Defeat. Regret. She would wear those words like a veil tonight.
