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THE MOONWELL
CAELAN
The moment my brother, the Silver King, leaves our realm, the Silver Sithe screams. The spire shudders around me, walls vibrating with raw magic, and a desperate tug sinks into my bones.
Servants gasp as the first wave hits. A vase shatters somewhere down the hall. Someone cries out. The air ripples with unstable glamour and is filled with the metallic scent of magic burning out of control.
The court recoils from the absence of its King, its primary anchor, and panic erupts as if a single breath has been ripped from a thousand lungs at once.
Guards stumble from their posts, bracing themselves on the walls as Silver light skitters across the stone. A councilor nearly barrels into me, his complexion pale as he clutches at my sleeve.
“Prince Caelan. The wards. They are collapsing. What do we—”
I shake him off and push forward.
The spire has become a storm, every corridor choked with people shouting orders, pleading for guidance, or trying to stay upright. Magic slams through the hall again, harder this time, and a servant drops to her knees, hands over her ears as if she can shut out the realm’s cry.
I stagger under the pressure as it turns its hungry attention to me, searching for a new conduit to brace itself upon. My knees threaten to buckle, but I force myself to remain upright.
Without hesitation, I shoulder through a knot of guards as I force my way deeper into the spire, ignoring their frantic questions. My footsteps echo through the suddenly thinning crowd as I reach the lower halls, each step matching the frantic rhythm of my heart.
Silver banners hang motionless along the walls, their stillness unnatural in a palace usually alive with subtle currents of magic. The silence that follows rings in my ears, broken only by my ragged breathing and the whisper of my robes over marble.
The once-locked doors to the Moonwell stand open, as if the palace itself anticipates my arrival. Inside, moonstones pulse with power, painting silver paths across the floor that lead to the center of the chamber. There, set into the marble, wait nine anchor stones, the slabs of pure silver carved with runes older than our sithe itself.
“Hold,” I whisper, though I’m not sure if I address the sithe or myself.
The stones gleam with internal light, pulsing with increasing urgency.
I drop to my knees before them, palms hovering inches above their surface. Heat radiates from them, warning of the power contained within. I’ve accessed these stones before, of course, all Royal siblings train to maintain the court. But never alone. Never bearing the full burden.
Taking a deep breath, I lay both palms flat on the central stone. Cold fire races up my arms in streams of Silver light. My muscles lock as the court’s magic floods into me, testing, probing, reluctant to accept this lesser vessel in the absence of its King.
“I am blood of his blood,” I grit through clenched teeth. “Born of the same line as he who wears your crown.”
The Silver flares in response, sinking deeper, wrapping around my bones until they ache with ancient power. Sweat breaks across my brow, trickling down my temples as I force my breathing to remain steady.
Even with the distance that separated Theron from our sithe, he still held the power through me. But now he is gone, cut off the way Elionn was cut off.
If Lunaria were still alive, if there were another Royal to share this burden… But there is only me, and while the sithe’s magic recognizes me, it wants more. Demands more than I’ve ever given before.
I trace the pathways Theron maintains, invisible channels that carry power to every corner of our sithe. Some are worn smooth by centuries of use, while others strain beneath the corruption of the crystalline blight.
My fingers tremble as I follow them, pouring my own essence into maintaining what my brother has held for centuries.
Time slips away, the light from the moonstones shifting across the floor as hours pass, but I dare not move. Responsibility bears down upon my shoulders, as heavy as any stone placed there. My silver hair clings to my neck, damp with perspiration despite the chamber’s chill.
A creak echoes from somewhere deep within the palace, the court dissolving at its boundaries without enough power to contain it.
I push more of myself into the connection, and the magic devours my offering.
Blood trickles from my nose, filling my mouth with the sweetness of berries. I swallow it back, unwilling to break concentration even to wipe it away. The warm liquid trails down my chin, dripping onto my silver robes where it blossoms into dark purple stains.
My thoughts drift despite my efforts to focus on the magic.
What if they never return? What if the Opal Court consumes them all—Theron, Elionn, Amalia—leaving me the last of our line?
My hands tremble on the stone, the connection wavering with my fear.
