Their Trendalath robes.
On the shelf above are two jewel-encrusted crowns.
Sadness overcomes her as she kneels, placing both hands on the glass. She presses her forehead against the cool surface, allowing tears to fall for the first time in months. Her husband hadn’t deserved this fate. She hadn’t either. She’d envisioned such a different life for them, for Aeridon. Trendalath had been their home, their kingdom.
As she rises, she doesn’t wipe her tear-stained cheeks. Her breath catches in her throat at the sight of her own two hands pulling on the doors of the armoire. Suddenly, the Sardorian robes are splayed out on the floor, the circlet next to them tilted on its side. The silver and navy robes of Trendalath—their Trendalath—are now flung around her shoulders, the crown somehow both heavy and weightless on her head.
She closes the glass doors, catching her reflection in the moonlight. Her eyes are wet, her lips are stained crimson, and her hair is a tangled mess in the crown. She tears her gaze from the pathetic woman reflected in the glass and moves to the open window.
As beams of moonlight shine down on her, she can’t help but feel his presence—in the last crisp air before spring, in the steady breeze whirring through the trees, in the glinting stars overhead. He’d promised to always stay with her, until the end of their reign. Until the end of time itself. And with those words, she’d felt her heart split in two. Because even then, she’d known the truth—that, with him, no length of time would have been long enough.
BRAXTON HORNSBY
THE KNOCKS ON his door have been relentless and, already, Braxton’s lost track of the days. He’s been holed up in his chambers for lords know how long, only allowing servants inside to drop off his meals. He’d even gone so far as to arrange a distinct knock for the servants, so as to not accidentally answer the door and have to face Cerylia or the other Caldari. No one had yet caught on to his arrangement with the servants. The last person he’d spoken to had been Delwynn—a conversation he’d tried to erase from his memory.
Every time a knock sounds, he’s had to restrain his curiosity from getting the better of him. Might it be Opal?
Cerylia? Felix? Estelle?
Arden?
Surely if Arden had returned, one of the servants would have notified him—but then again, for Arden’s safety, perhaps they’d been directed to keep the news to themselves.
One thing’s for certain. If he doesn’t get out of this room, and soon, he’ll surely go mad.
His next move is completely up to him, and yet, indecision plagues him. All of the options he’s come up with are less than favorable. His least favorite among them? Making amends with Cerylia.
After the way she’s treated him, without even a fragment of respect . . . His blood boils at the thought. He could flee Sardoria, an option that’s certainly more favorable in his eyes. But where would he go? He could return to Athia and try to start over—but would the Caldari ever truly let him be?
He retrieves his mother’s letter from the drawer of the armoire, reviewing the flowing script for what feels like the thousandth time. Recently, another option had presented itself, albeit unexpectedly—one he’d quickly dismissed and never deigned to think of again. And yet, here it is, reappearing. Calling to him.
It’s downright risky and could result in the end of life as he knows it, but he could choose to return to Trendalath. To find the answers he seeks—about his mother, the ring, the Mallum, the loss of his abilities. But, in order to do so, he’d have to face his father. Rebuild a relationship that had hardly existed in the first place. Solidify his father’s trust in him. And then exploit it, just as his father had done to countless others.
The edges of the parchment crinkle in his grip as his father’s face floats across his mind. It wouldn’t be sustainable. Darius would see right through it. The master of deceit would know immediately what his estranged son was up to. But even with all the odds stacked against him, it seems like his best shot—which is really saying something . . .
His thoughts scatter at the sound of rattling at the window. He folds the parchment into a small square and slips it into a book atop the dining table. He hurries toward the window to find a falcon with beady red eyes pecking incessantly at the glass. He hadn’t even noticed the impending storm. He forces the window open, and a blustery wind sweeps the bird inside.
Braxton heaves a jagged breath as the window clicks into place, then turns away as a yellow glow illuminates the room. “Think you could give a little warning next time?”
His jab is ignored as a familiar voice asks, “Do you happen to have an extra pair of trousers?”
Braxton goes to his dresser and retrieves his last pair from the drawer. With his back still turned, he tosses them blindly toward what he thinks is the window.
“Appreciate it. You can turn around now.”
Braxton does just that to find a shirtless Xerin standing before him. “Next time,” he says as he retreats to the armoire, “ask for both trousers and a shirt.” He tosses one over, which Xerin hastily pulls over his head.
“What are you doing here?”
“I—I heard what happened in Trendalath. With Queen Tymond and . . . ”
“Arden,” Braxton finishes for him.
Xerin bows his head.
“I wasn’t expecting company and, to be frank, I’m not really up for it.” He angles his head toward the door, then the window. “Must be nice to have two points of exit. I can’t even seem to find one.”
“I’ll be brief.”
The way he says it indicates that he knows something Braxton wants to know. He feigns disinterest as he sits in an armchair. “Let’s hear it then.”
“Your mother was laid to sea.” A shadow flickers across Xerin’s eyes. “Did you know this?”
“No. How do you?” Braxton counters.
Xerin extends his arms, making a soaring motion. “I was flying over Trendalath, over the Great Ocean, when I saw a canoe filled with lilacs floating by its lonesome.”
Braxton feels a lump form in his throat. Lilacs had been his mother’s favorite flower. Although he’d only been a child, he distinctly remembers the lengths she’d gone to attain them in the colder seasons. Vases adorned with the purple flowers had covered almost every surface of the kingdom—a welcome, colorful respite during those gray winter months.
“Where is she now? My mother?”
“I’m afraid she’s drifted northwest . . . ”
Braxton’s heart sinks. “To Drakken Isle?”
“Yes, but in a cavern, just off the coast.”
For the first time in weeks, Braxton feels a flicker of hope. Perhaps this option will do.
ARDEN ELIRI
I’VE SPENT THE past few days perusing the items in our father’s alleged . . . well, I don’t know what to call it. Hideaway? Sanctuary? Library? My persistence in wanting to come here every day had finally forced Haskell to take the initiative to show me how to enter and exit the enclosure on my own. As much as I’ve enjoyed spending time with my brother, it feels nice to be here without supervision.