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My mission to rescue Elionn is complete.
I’m too tired to consider what comes next.
39
THE KING’S DECEPTION
THERON
Amalia’s blood soaks through my royal robes as I carry her limp form through the obsidian corridors of the Night Spire.
She weighs little in my arms, as if stripping away the magic of the Opal Court hollowed her out from the inside. Each labored breath stirs a storm within me. Relief that she still draws air. Fear that the next might never come.
And beneath it all, a possessiveness I dare not indulge while in public.
Dark Sithe servants shrink toward the walls as I pass, their faces betraying a mix of awe and terror. News of our return has spread, as has the return of the missing Nyt’Fall healers.
A guard steps forward to open the heavy chamber door without my needing to command it. Inside, Elionn rests on a bed of black silk, his silver hair spread across the pillow like moonlight on dark water.
His chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm, stronger than at our last parting. The familiar silver aura of Royal blood surrounds him, though it flickers at irregular intervals, a sign of his continued healing.
“Your brother responded well to the healers’ treatments,” the guard murmurs before withdrawing, pulling the door closed behind him.
I move to the bed, and Thalindor hesitates before he joins me, pulling back the covers. It would be better to clean Amalia before laying her on the sheets, but I dare not cross that line with her while she has no will to choose.
As I settle her beside my brother, her head lolls toward him, as if seeking him even in unconsciousness. Tendrils of Silver light reach from Elionn toward her, met by answering threads of iridescent magic rising from her skin.
My breath catches. I have only ever read about such magical convergence in our histories.
“Interesting,” I whisper, studying this exchange as their magics twine in the narrow space between them, neither dominating as a new power emerges where they meet.
“Your Majesty.” Thalindor offers no apology.
I turn toward him, my cold fury unrestrained. “You disobeyed a direct command.”
“I did.” He stands at attention, shoulders square, chin lifted. The emblem of the Silver Sithe gleams on his breastplate, a reminder of centuries of loyalty that preceded this single act of defiance.
“Explain yourself.” I step away from the bed, drawing Thalindor with me and leaving Elionn and Amalia beyond easy hearing.
Thalindor removes his helmet, revealing exhaustion that has aged him by years. “After securing your escape, I reassessed our tactical position.”
“You mean after you disobeyed my orders and shoved me through the portal.”
His lips thin. “Your orders would have resulted in unnecessary loss.”
I circle him slowly, rage and gratitude warring within my chest. “And what gave you such certainty?”
“What I witnessed.” Thalindor swallows before continuing. “After your departure, the Opal Court began to dissolve into pure magic.”
He pauses, caught for a moment in the memory. “At its center stood Amalia Wolf, transformed beyond recognition, channeling forces I have not witnessed in all my centuries of service.”
My attention sharpens. “Describe what you saw.”
“The court responded to her as if she were its true master, not Kelaros.” Thalindor’s fingers flex at his sides, an unconscious gesture he permits himself only when deeply unsettled. “She guided its destruction, redirecting its power away from the sithes.”
“Where?” I demand.
“To a small portal she held in her hand.” His brow furrows. “It connected to somewhere beyond the fae realms, where raw magic ran unchecked. She funneled the backlash of the Opal Court’s power into that channel, preventing it from destroying our realm.”
