She turned her gaze back to the crowd. “No one can. Not anymore.”
Those around her watched with heavy expectation.
The dining hall, that evening, was loud with laughter and clinking goblets. The hum of strained joy pulsing beneath the vaulted stone ceiling. Strings and pipes softly played lilting and mournful hymns dressed with enough cheer to pass as celebration.
It was a fragile illusion.
One Maris let herself believe in, for a little while.
She sat near the end of the high table, off to the side where the shadows were kinder and the pressure less sharp.
The enchanted light hit her black gown of silk making it shimmer with glittering radiance. Her hair rested in intricate braids set by the twin wraiths. Kael had sent for them in Nythra the moment he realized she had no servants of her own in Calanthe.
A goblet sat untouched before her. She didn't wish to dull her senses, not when they were the only thing keeping her anchored.
Alarik had wandered off to speak with an admiral from Virellia. Kael was across the room, deep in conversation with his generals, glass in hand, though his eyes strayed to her often.
The crowd felt looser, though still frayed. A mixed court in mourning disguised as a celebration. They needed this. The soldiers. The courtiers. The people. They needed laughter, music, and to see their three kingdoms in arms together under one roof.
Maris excused herself softly from the table and slipped into the far corner of the hall, where the firelight curled over a row of tall windows and the sea glinted black beyond the glass.
That’s where Valea found her.
“Skirting the party?” the general said, coming to stand beside her, goblet in hand.
Maris smiled faintly. “Not skirting. Just… breathing.”
Valea huffed a dry laugh, sipping her wine. “Breathing is a bold luxury these days.”
They stood in silence for a moment, both watching the cliffs in the distance. Thunder rumbled like distant drums.
Valea’s eye shifted to Maris’s hair and her voice dipped. “I used to braidherhair like that. Astrielle’s. Before balls, before anything of importance. It made her feel strong. Like she could swing a blade and still be beautiful.”
Maris turned to her slowly, but didn’t speak.
“She was so sure she belonged to something greater,” Valea continued, her voice raw. “She wanted purpose. Glory. A place at the center of the world. I told her she had time to find it. Told her not to rush or force her way.”
Maris laid a hand gently over hers. “It wasn’t your fault.”
Valea’s jaw tightened. “But I raised her. Trained her. Taught her how to fight. And she used that strength for betrayal.” Her eyes shimmered. “I thought I gave her armor. Maybe I gave her poison.”
“No,” Maris whispered. “You gave her belief. A dream. What she did with it… is not yours to carry.”
Valea nodded, a stiff motion that barely held. She didn’t thank her. Didn’t cry. Just drank, and left the firelight behind.
Maris found herself walking slowly through the crowd again. The king Thauren spotted her before she could slip away, raising a brow and waving off his captain to approach her.
“You look divine, it's a pleasure to meet the force of the gods, face to face,” he said lightly, offering a crooked grin.
“It's an honor to have you fight with us,” she replied with a bow .
He laughed softly, then gestured toward the long balcony. “Walk with me?”
She nodded, and they stepped out into the cold night air. The ocean wind whipped her hair loose. Thauren kept pace beside her, hands behind his back, his sea-glass eyes scanning the black horizon.
“I’ve been meaning to ask someone,” she said after a pause. “Elenwe… your sister, what was she like?”
She had wondered about her, how she was weaved into both Kael and Alarik’s past. Their tension.
