Page 27 of Of Iron and Moonlight

Elara froze, her chest drawing tight again. “Why?”

“Brown eyes,” he said simply.

His gaze flicked briefly to hers, then to her wrists, where the rope had rubbed red welts. After a slow exhale, he drew a knife from his boot and cut through her bonds. Each movement seemed to push through a reluctance heavier than words.

Then he shook his head once and left. Not a moment later, the ship took to the sea again. Elara threw herself back against the wood, drawing her wounded wrists to her chest, and watched helplessly as the piece of land that now held Lorrain softened, then disappeared into a dark stain where water met sky.

Elara set her forehead against the hull, letting out a sound that fractured into something between laughter and despair.

She had been so close.

So terribly close.

Chapter 15

Koraleise

Three mornings after crossing the Empire’s western border, the Niverna broke apart and Selenar came into view. The capital of Norrelia lay cupped between mountain and water, a city of bone-white mortar and glittering glass built in elegant tiers. Before it stretched Selenar Lake, its frozen surface mirroring the clouds and the violet lights tracing the streets like constellations.

Selenar Castle was carved directly into the mountainside above, like a crown set in stone. Its crystal spires caught every source of light and refracted it in ghostly hues.

Kora closed her book, unable to keep her concentration. Wonder tangled with unease as she took in a city that seemed untouched by time. By nightfall, Isander estimated, they would stand before the fae themselves. She folded her hands in her lap, trying to steady her thoughts.

Through the drifting mists, she saw their guard riding alongside, now wrapped in winter cloaks, blade hilts crusted with frost. The easy banter that had carried them through the Empire was gone, each man working through the same quiet, unspoken dread. They stopped rarely. The road had narrowed to a ledge where any misstep meant plunging into the white abyss below. And no one wished to linger beneath the scrutiny of the Niverna peaks overhead.

The duke rode in the carriage again, shoulders rigid against the motion. The fur lining of his cloak cast a deep shadow along his solemn profile, and his grey eyes remained fixed on the narrow space between curtain and frame, tracking the landscape as though it might, at any moment, turn hostile.

During the fortnight on the road, Kora had observed him closely. There was no comfort between them. Not yet. But his initial strangeness had softened into something like respect.

He was thoughtful in judgment and consistent in action. When the carriage sank into mud, he was the first to shoulder against it and push it free. Each evening he checked on every guard himself, and his men moved easily around their duke. They laughed in his presence without fear, followed his orders without hesitation, their trust in him unstated but absolute. Even her own father had never inspired such ease among his staff—and he was merely a viscount.

Most of all, she had been surprised by his willingness to teach her the politics of court. She suspected he was preparing her, arming her with knowledge that might shield the derWhitte name from unnecessary embarrassment. But that would not have required him to listen through hours of her speaking about trade and the shifting fortunes of guild and town.

There were, however, moments when his composure thinned, revealing the sustained vigilance beneath. He engaged in conversation and entertained harmless debate, but only so long as the subject stayed clear of anything too near the heart. And he kept a distance between himself and others, whether consciously or not. This aspect of him unsettled her, and she could not yet discern what it meant for her place beside him.

It was Isander, through their travel, who had become a comfort in his own right. Around him she felt less like a stranger and more like a welcome guest. Something like friendship had begun to form, a quiet warmth against the Norrelian cold.

“We’re here,” Isander said, as if he had stepped from her thoughts.

Kora drew in a breath. From afar, Selenar Castle had seemed ethereal. Up close, that serenity hardened into severity, a seamless union of nature and design. The spires were not crystal but pure diamond, seeming not built but revealed. Selvarath hovered low overhead, casting violet across the silver runes carved into every sharp surface of the castle.

Fae guards waited, armor nearly blending with their metallic hair, eyes lit with a violet that pulsed like distant starlight against the dusk. One stepped forward, spear in hand, its shaft inlaid with runic bands that flickered with his movement. He raised his arm, and a resonant shift moved through the air. The gates groaned open, answering the magic.

When they crossed inside, the tundra beyond the walls fell away. Tempered air warmed Kora’s skin where the cold had bitten moments before as she took the duke’s hand and stepped down onto frost-veiled stone. Some manner of fae enchantment, she concluded.

Servants in flowing white robes moved about with soundless poise, scattering flower petals. Lavender shrubs and other violet blooms lined the paths, blossoms dusted with ice crystals yet unwithered, releasing a perfume that lingered like a dream half-remembered. Glass hung from sculpted trees, fracturing moonlight into shifting arcs across stone and snow.

“It’s… breathtaking,” Kora murmured, her astonishment too large to contain.

Her husband answered with a brief nod, then offered her the crook of his arm. Kora slipped her gloved hand into it and, almost without thinking, leaned closer, seeking shelter in his solid presence. He looked down at her, and something like understanding passed between them. Neither mistook the beauty for welcome.

His free hand settled lightly over hers, and they crossed the threshold.

The throne hall was so vast its expanse swallowed sound. Along either side, columns spiraled upward like storms. Veins of clear diamond lay embedded within the stone walls like rivers of ice, lending the chamber a muted brilliance. Fae nobles moved about and lingered in alcoves, every motion graceful, every face striking. Amethyst eyes flickered with curiosity toward the human guests.

Upon a throne carved from the mountain’s own pale stone sat the king. His face was handsome in the composed and unyielding manner of marble. An intricate silver crown rested upon his brow, set with diamonds so dark they drank the light, contrasting the hall’s radiance.

“It is an honor to host a human duke within our realm,” King Oorlon said, rising and taking a few steps forward. “Welcome to Norrelia, and to the house of the goddess Selvara. You arrive on the eve of Her festival.” A slight curve touched his mouth. “A good omen.”