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Chapter 24
Areanel
Areanel had been wrong to hope.
To hope meant believing there might be some semblance of good in her father, and oh, how wrong she had been. She must have royally fucked up the mission to be summoned to the throne room by the king. Either Areanel had displeased her father in some way, or he had another mission for her—but which was it?
Knees aching from being bent for so long, Areanel stood at the foot of the dais, head bowed with her right fist over her heart. The statue of Edre the Eternal may have towered over them, but her father was the looming presence in the throne room. The king sat stock-still, one hand resting on his staff, the other on his knee, as he lounged back in his throne, piercing gaze boring holes into the top of her head.
The drum of his fingers along the handle of his staff was the only sound in the otherwise quiet room, until it suddenly stopped. At once, Aerileas curled his hand around the staff, Feneril.
A pulse echoed through the room, vibrating beneath the ground and rattling her bones. Her entire body locked into place, tensing at the sudden sensation of her powers ebbing away. What once was a vast depth within became a shallow pool, and that familiar blue blaze was suppressed, becoming little more than a flickering flame.
This always seemed to happen when her anxiety built, and Areanel wasn’t sure why—she needed her powers most when she was around her father—but like a mental dam, her anxiety pushed her powers down, refusing her access. It made her feel weak.
Useless. Just like her father always said. She hated it and hated herself for feeling that way. Her power was strong, second only to her deceased brother, Ivan. She could topple kingdoms if she so pleased.
Or she could have, had it not been for her time in The Pit.
Fear threatened to burn her from the inside out, to boil her blood and melt her bones, and dread coiled like a serpent. Areanel was afraid—had been afraid of what she was truly capable of after all she had endured in that prison.
She had hoped then, too.
The gnawing pit in her stomach grew as steps echoed around the hall.
A rustle of clothes and the shuffle of feet to her right told her others had been summoned, too.
‘You summoned us, my king.’
Areanel internally cringed as Elmrynn’s gruff voice echoed around the hall.
Tilting her head a fraction to the right, she stole a glance, finding the Soldazt had positioned her brothers in a straight line, eldest to youngest. First Elmrynn, stood at attention with his head held high, subtle steel in his eyes. Then Nymlaris, who hooked an arm around Sevain so their injured brother could lean on him. Internally, Areanel sighed. He was okay. He was alive. In the chaos, she hadn’t been able to see beyond the pools of blood, but his injuries were clearer now. A sling wrapped around his shoulder, and the bandage that wrapped around his left leg was stained red. Areanel frowned. Why was he still bleeding? Surely, the healers would have stitched the wounds closed.
Her gaze fell upon her twin. As the youngest of her brothers, Percival was last in line, but his look of utter terror was not what Areanel had expected to see. Percival was as pale as a phantom, and growing fear started to take root in her gut.
In the back of her mind, something screamed at Areanel, telling her to run. There was only one reason Percival would be this concerned—their father was angry. And when their father was in one of his moods, he usually took it out on them.
But… they had done everything right. She had done everything right. The villagers were secured in the old ruins, the rebels who had ambushed them were dead, and they’d even secured a prisoner to question.
What could have irked him?
Areanel concentrated on her breathing, heart rate accelerating. Her father had not punished her in so long; maybe he would not do so now.
Aside from her brothers, the only other soul—if you could even say they had souls; Areanel did not believe they did—in the room were the five Soldazt, the king’s personal guards, loyal to none but him. Wearing their blue and silver armour—the colours of Andrea—the Soldazt, as always, had their faces covered, with nought visible but their eyes. With no pupils, the solid colour—a deep purple, almost black—was a depthless void that seemed to see beyond to your soul. They moved synchronously, like puppets on a string. Even at a young age, Areanel had found them strange. She never saw them eat, sleep, or rest, and there was an underlying, indistinct scent when they were around, like rotten flesh, that made her nose scrunch. They were stationed around the king at all times, even when he slept.
To Areanel, the idea of having a guard so close all the time was suffocating.
‘Rise.’ Her father’s booming voice cut through the deafening silence.
The sudden noise had her whipping her head up. Rising to her feet, Areanel subconsciously moved so her stance was a shoulder’s width apart. Her hands came to her rest at the small of her back, where she clutched one of her wrists and squared her shoulders. Raising her chin, she stared up at her father. ‘Have we done something to displease you, my king?’
‘Displeasure would mean I had confidence that you would achieve the most basic of tasks.’ His voice was cold. A deadly calm that had Areanel tensing every bone in her body, and she forced herself not to move an inch. He was looking for weakness, and she refused to give him the satisfaction.
Deep in the darkness, the monster shall claim all. Maybe her mother’s words didn’t refer to her at all; the look on her father’s face was entirely monstrous.
Dropping his feet so they were planted on the floor, the king gripped his throne and leaned toward her. ‘I warned you, Selyë,’ he seethed. ‘I explicitly told you what would happen after you forced my hand. Did I not say your actions would bring those rebel scum to us? And look at what it has done!’ His arms spread wide. ‘Rebels crossing into our borders!’
The former king shall fall whilst his kingdom burns. Was he also afraid of the prophecy that had plagued Areanel’s mind ever since her mother had uttered the words?
