Lysandra watches my reaction with interest. “Only the rarest of fae marriages bear this mark,” she explains. “A union dictated by fate. It does not fade, nor can it be severed by force or magic. The two of you were meant to be bound, whether you wished it or not.”
I inhale sharply, fighting the helplessness constricting my chest. Because if fate decided to bind me to a man who’s so careless with my heart, I have no idea what I did to deserve such a cruel, horrific punishment.
“We most definitelydidn’twish it,” I say as Riven lifts his hand, examining the identical mark coiling around his left ring finger.
His expression, of course, is unreadable. A perfect picture of apathy.
“Fascinating,” he finally says with a shrug, so indifferent it makes me want to scream.
He doesn’t even look at me. Not once.
“Now, let’s return to what’s important here,” he says to Lysandra, as if it’s irrelevant to him that we’ve beenmarked and bound together for all eternity.“The duskberry. I assume you brought it?”
I huff in frustration. Because it always comes back to thatstupidduskberry.
“Follow me,” Lysandra says, and she leads us to a small table near the side of the chamber, where she and Riven must have placed the other ingredients before I arrived. Then, swiftly, she pulls a vial out from her sleeve, filled with liquid that’s the same swirling colors as, well,dusk.“I took the liberty of mixing it with water myself.”
“A kind gesture,” Riven tells her. “A gift befitting a newlywed royal couple.”
“My pleasure,” she says with a smile that seems just abittoo sweet. “Now, we should discuss the final ingredient.”
“My blood,” I say automatically, but Lysandra shakes her head no.
“Mine,” she says, surprising me and Riven both. “A queen’s blood will do more than grant clarity—it will fortify the drinker’s will. It will ensure that the Winter King is not only lucid, but unshakable.”
Riven’s expression sharpens, as if sensing a trap. “And what do you want in return?”
Lysandra only smiles. “Nothing.”
Riven and I exchange a glance. We don’t agree on much, but we apparently agree on this—fae always wantsomething.There’s no such thing as a free handout in this realm.
The dryad’s deal was proof enough of that.
Bitterness courses through me at the reminder, and I press my nails into my palms, forcing myself back into the present.
“Butwhy?”I ask Lysandra, and from Riven’s confused expression, he’s wondering the same.
“Because this war is larger than you. Larger thanhim.”She glances at Riven, then turns her focus back to me. “And because whether you wish to accept it or not, you’re my daughter, and I will not see you fail.”
The weight of her words settles over me, but I refuse to let myself react to them. Not here. Not now. Not when we’re so close to finishing this.
“That’s very… generous of you,” I say, although I’m far from convinced that there isn’t something she wants.
She, however, doesn’t elaborate, instead simply gesturing to the ingredients laid out in front of an intricately crafted gold chalice.
“Shall we begin?” she asks, and I force myself to focus on the task at hand instead of the doubt churning in my stomach.
She takes me through what to do step by step, and soon, I fall into the soothing pattern of brewing the potion.
“You’re a natural with this,” she notes as I follow her instructions, and I don’t know if it’s a compliment or an observation.
“I’ve only done it once before,” I say, keeping my focus on the potion, powering through the instinct to glance at Riven as I work.
Lysandra makes it easier by continuing to talk to me.
“Magic is written into your blood,” she says, motioning for me to add the flowers I just crushed into the chalice. “Brewing potions requires more than knowledge—it requires a willingness to listen to what the magic asks of you. To letting it becomepartof you.”
I press my lips together, but I don’t argue. Because I can feel the way the potion stirs beneath my touch, responding as if it recognizes something in my soul.
