Page 85 of Of Iron and Moonlight

Njall secured her bindings, then set her carefully into the corner. “I have a few matters to attend to,” he said. “Then I’ll return with breakfast.”

She looked up at him, unconcerned. “Don’t bring that awful jelly again.”

He shot her a disbelieving glance. Watching her closely enough to keep her from vanishing had not been enough; even fae food had become a campaign. She refused the fish jelly outright, spat the amber custard on the floor, and accepted bitter seed cakes only if bribed with honey.

“You are ridiculous,” Njall said, lifting a brow as he finished dressing.

Elara grinned as he reached for his swords. “Your days would be dull if I wasn’t.”

Njall shook his head with a half sigh, half laugh. He tied the cloth across her mouth again, then stepped out, passing a hand over the latch to lock it.

Selenar Castle was quiet today. His chambers were, blessedly, in an isolated wing, spared the usual press of court. Yet the silence felt unusual all the same. It gnawed at him.

Two guards passed on patrol, silver hair and violet eyes dulled by the dim light of the lower halls. They glared as they went by.

His father’s Norrelian sense urged him to keep his head high and ignore it.

His mother's Aurumierran temper answered first. He growled.

The guards flinched and cowered away.

Good, Njall thought. At least his reputation still carried force within these walls, even if his blood kept him at the margins of courtly favor.

As he approached, a male in adviser’s robes emerged from the doorway, head lowered, moving quickly down the corridor. The fae was elderly, silver hair streaked with grey, amethyst eyes dimmed to hollows, his bearing diminished. If Oorlon did not dispose of and replace his advisers so often, Njall might have wondered why the male was unfamiliar.

He had taken only a few steps past when the realization nearly knocked the air from his lungs.

“Father?” Part of him hoped he was mistaken.

The figure paused, then turned with care, lifting his eyes at last. From this angle, Njall saw the dark violet webbing around them, as if bruises had imprinted themselves there. Where Loken’s shoulders had once been broad and proud, they now sloped, bowed beneath years that should not yet have touched him. Fae did not age like this. Not so quickly.

“Son,” Loken said. Even his voice sounded older than it had any right to be.

Concern tipped into anger.

“What have they done to you?” Njall demanded. He stepped closer and reached out.

His father recoiled, stepping back as if bracing for a blow. “Nothing,” Loken rasped. He cowered into himself, like a skittish creature ready to flee at the smallest fright.

Njall let his hand fall. “I can see that’s no truth.” Anger sharpened the words. He had not endured Oorlon’s demands all this time only for his father’s life to be drained from him all the same. “Tell me what’s happening. I can help. I will find a way.”

Loken’s eyes drifted, their focus blurring. “Don’t concern yourself with me.”

Then he looked up sharply, studying Njall as if fixing him in memory. “Good luck in there,” he added, barely above a whisper, before turning away. He continued down the corridor, moving urgently toward whatever terror waited in his own life.

Njall remained where he was, breathing through the surge of his mother’s fire urging him to storm the throne hall in a murderous rage.

This time, his father's reason prevailed. The cost of such an outburst would be paid in blood before he ever reached the dais. The guards. The wolves. And, in truth, whatever his father was facing, Njall could do nothing if Loken refused to speak.

His breathing calmed at last, and he faced his summons.

The chamber was crowded with nobles. Near the dais stood Damlor, his old scar lending him a presence that unsettled the room by memory alone. Njall felt the familiar pull in his gut, accompanied by a chill down his spine when he finally saw the High King.

“My Champion,” Oorlon called from the throne, mirth dancing with the words.

“My King.” Njall bowed. Instinct craved violence. He made the motion respectful.

Oorlon lifted one ringed finger, the black diamond catching the light in sharp flashes. “But perhaps not my Champion for much longer.”