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“You’re saying she saved us.”
“Yes.” Thalindor swallows hard. “But the power required… Your Majesty, she glowed from within, her bones visible through flesh turned translucent. Her will alone held the court’s death throes in check, directing its final moments.”
I circle back to the beds, studying Amalia’s unconscious form with new appreciation. “You found this display impressive? The same guard who once dismissed her as an insignificant mortal?”
Thalindor’s mouth tightens. “I found it terrifying.”
“Terrifying?” I raise an eyebrow. “She saved us.”
“As she ended an entire court single-handedly.” He inclines his head toward her sleeping form.
“A court already dying,” I counter, repeating his dismissiveness from before our departure.
Thalindor closes the space between us. “Consider what she represents now. Even without the court’s power, she commands forces not seen since the sealing of Underhill. Her experience has changed the foundation of what she is.”
I lean over Amalia, studying the subtle shifts in her physical form. Her ears, once rounded, now curve to slight points at their tips. Her skin carries an inner luminescence similar to a fae, and the blood on her chin gleams with the muted sheen of tarnished bronze.
“You fear her,” I realize.
“I fear what others might do to possess her.” Thalindor’s admission cuts through the chamber’s hushed atmosphere.
“No one will touch her.”
Thalindor studies me before answering. “She belongs to no one, Your Majesty. Her actions have made this clear.”
“She falls under the protection of the Silver Sithe.” I catch a strand of black hair between my fingers and tuck it behind her ear, its new metallic highlights shimmering in the light. “The bond she shares with my brother ties her to our Moonwell. In time, she will bloom into a Queen.”
“You can’t predict that—”
“I can.” I lift my hand and admire the way some of her iridescent threads cling to my fingers. “She will.”
Every instinct screams at me to stay, to guard them both from further harm in this court of shadows, but a king cannot indulge such personal desires.
Not when treachery needs to be addressed.
“Thalindor.” My guard straightens, though exhaustion has carved new lines into his features. “Stay with them. Allow no one to approach while I am gone.”
He bows, hand crossing his chest in a salute. “I will guard them with my life, Your Majesty.”
I touch Elionn’s shoulder to reassure myself of his solid presence after months of absence. Cold seeps through the torn fabric of his tunic beneath my hand. “Rest. I won’t be gone long.”
His eyes flicker beneath his closed lids, but he does not wake.
Straightening, I stride to the door and open it. Dark guards wait in the hall, and I stop in front of them. “Take me to King Nyctarian.”
They bow and turn on their heels, striding down halls of black stone. Guards posted at irregular intervals track my progress with neutral expressions, their hands never straying far from the hilts of their weapons. That Kelaros and the other Dark guards did not escape leaves everyone on edge.
The double doors to Nyctarian’s private chambers come into view, carved obsidian polished to a black-water sheen that captures my approach. Guards flank the entrance, their faces carved from the same unreadable stone as their king’s fortress.
“The Dark King awaits you, Silver Flame,” one announces.
I straighten my spine, ignoring the burn of exhaustion in my muscles. The doors swing inward without a sound, revealing the king’s visiting room.
Nyctarian sits at a black wood table inlaid with constellations rendered in tiny blue gems. The patterns shift as I watch, stars creeping across the surface in miniature recreation of the night sky. His fingers trace one such pattern before he turns his attention to me, every trace of his true intentions tucked behind diplomacy.
“Silver King.” He rises, hands spreading in a gesture of welcome. “Word of your brother’s return precedes you. A momentous occasion for the Silver Sithe.”
I incline my head in the barest acknowledgment required by protocol. “Dark King.”
