But Maris knew he had no way of knowing what the gods conspired to unleash.
Back within the castle walls the storm outside never quite broke. It hovered grumbling in the cliffs and sky as if the gods themselves were pacing, planning.
Inside the candlelit dining chamber of Nerium’s western wing, the tension had ebbed into something quieter. Softer.
Maris sat between Serenya and Zairon, her skin still tingling from the magic that had flared through her hours earlier. Hunger had long abandoned her, the weight of looming ruin left little room for thoughts of food.
However a full dinner laid before her: roasted sea fowl glazed in honey, spiced root vegetables, and soft rolls dusted with herb salt. Maris touched little — she pushed around the food with her fork.
Alarik sat across from her. His pale eyes cast downward and unmoving, silver goblet in hand. The weight of the terror’s warning hung between them, unspoken but not forgotten.
Zairon broke the pained silence, ever the balm. “That beast was an echo. A shadow messenger. My grandmother told me about such things. They only come for those the gods take seriously.”
“Then let us not be taken seriously again,” Maris muttered dryly, and the table chuckled, grateful for the crack in gloom.
Serenya’s hand brushed Maris’s beneath the table.
“We’ll find the crown,” she declared with certainty. “Whatever it is, wherever it hides— it’s waiting for you. I saw the light in you today, it scared the hell out of me.”
Maris smiled, small but real.
Later that night, in the soft glow of her chamber, the fire still crackling low, Maris let herself collapse into a pile of silks and pillows on the chaise by the window. The sea whispered beyond the cliffs, like lullabies in another language.
A knock sounded.
“Come in,” she called.
Serenya entered, dressed in a midnight-blue robe, her crown of braids slightly loosened.
“I brought something,” she said, lifting a small, steaming kettle. “Chamomile and juniper. It helps me… when sleep feels out of reach."
"Thank you." Maris sighed dragging her mass of silks and pillows to the floor before the hearth. Serenya packed the tray carefully over to the side table and moved to join her. As she plopped down she pulled a blanket off the chair behind her, laying it in her lap.
They drank curled in front of the fire, knees nearly touching.
Serenya told stories of her childhood —of sword training in the salty coast winds —of the first time she broke a boy’s nose for mocking her leathers. Maris laughed until she nearly cried.
She offered up her own stories of fights with her brothers over blankets in the winter. How they busted the lip of the first boy she ever kissed. And then told of how the gods plague ripped those simple joys from her. It felt strange to talk of her family. It felt like a distant life of another.
An hour passed and their eyes became heavy as the tea took effect and they decide to get much needed rest.
Serenya stood and brushed a hand over her hair before heading toward the door.
“Thank you for being a friend to me.” Maris whispered.
“Of course, I’m next door tonight,” she said. “If the dark feels too heavy.”
It always did but it felt less so now.
As Maris crawled into bed that night, her dreams were quieter not dreamless, but peaceful.
Chapter forty-three
The Departure
-Alarik-
Alarik stood before the war table. The flicker of candlelight caught on veins of starstone embedded within the table. Outside, the waves crashed and wind howled like the cries of gods who’d long turned their backs.
