Theia’s shoulders slumped and she stifled a sob. “You can’t marry that awful fae, Alora. Their marriage customs will bind you to him forever, then you will never escape him. Once he gets what he needs from you, he will kill you.”
Alora already knew that.
Eldrik married her for the sake of tradition and propriety, so no other lord could rebel once he was legally owed the crown of Argyle. Her hand secured him the throne. An heir secured him the kingdom.
Her body chilled at the thought of being forced to lay with that man, to birth his child. Her stomach churned with the urge to vomit.
Theia’s fingers trembled as she straightened Alora’s veil. Neither spoke for a long while, the air heavy with everything they didn’t wish to say.
At last, Theia’s voice broke, tears gathering on her lashes. “Do you think it’s possible…to learn to love someone you were forced to marry?”
Alora’s throat tightened.
She knew Theia wasn’t asking about Prince Eldrik.
Alora turned, catching Theia’s hands. “Love is not a thing that can be forced,” she said softly. “But sometimes… it finds us in the darkest of places, when we least expect it. And when it does, we recognize it, even if the world tells us we should not.”
Theia’s eyes shimmered, searching hers, but Alora pressed on, her voice firmer now.
“Flee with Caelum. Start a new life in another land far from here. And be happy.” Alora embraced her. “Goodbye, my sweet dreamer.”
A heavy fist banged against the door, making them flinch.
“Make haste in there!”
Theia hugged her tighter. “I… I prepared a parting gift for you.”
Alora smiled faintly, swallowing the lump in her throat. “Oh?”
Theia turned, rifling through the closet stacked with folded towels and bath oils. When she returned, her hands trembled slightly as she offered her a bouquet of flowers. Oleanders. Pale pink and perfect, their scent soft and cloying.
Alora inhaled slowly. The flowers were beautiful, and utterly lethal.
Her gaze flicked to Theia’s, and their teary eyes met with understanding.
It was a mercy.
An escape in a world where men offered none.
Alora nodded once, a barely perceptible motion. “Thank you,” she whispered.
She kissed Theia’s cheek, then slipped away without turning back. The bouquet was a symbol of love, but she had no need for poison.
Her escape had already been secured when she’d slipped the crimson spindle within the boning of her corset. She would drive it into Eldrik’s neck—or her own.
Either way, Alora vowed, she would not end this night as his broodmare to rut and breed.
She would bow to no crown but her own.
Two new Calveron guards waited in the antechamber of her bedchamber. One a hulking brute, the other a petite woman whobarely reached his elbow. Neither were faces she knew. All the ones she did were dead.
Alora silently followed them down the corridor. The castle was silent as a tomb, torches sputtering in the draft. The bodies had been cleared away, but dark red smears staining the stone were left behind. Perhaps as a warning.
Here be what remains of those who defy us.
Alora walked with slow, deliberate grace, her fists clenched to still their trembling. She kept her chin high, refusing to let them see the fear roiling beneath her calm. Even if her heart raced with every step that brought her closer to the end.
They passed under the great archway and into the throne room for her wedding. The air smelled sweet, flowers and Calveron’s banners adorning the walls. But tension roiled like a storm cloud trapped beneath the ceiling.
