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Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she pushed open the door. The familiar smell of aged parchment and ink flooded her senses, grounding her in the moment.
Endreth was stationed at his desk as usual, its surface littered with an array of papers more chaotic than she had ever seen before. An object immediately caught her attention, a jeweled ring resting on a velvet cushion. The ring’s gemstones caught the soft moonlight filtering in through the window.
“Anthea,” Endreth greeted her. His gaze briefly dropped to her midsection before returning to her eyes. “Feeling better, I presume?” Her skin prickled at the unspoken knowledge in his question. She swallowed down her discomfort, straightening her posture as she faced him head-on.
“Yes.”
“Should you require rest in the future,” he began, his tone more factual than sympathetic, “be sure to inform me in advance.”
Heat prickled at her cheeks. Anthea fumbled for words?—
“The ring,” she blurted out, gesturing toward the cursed object on the table. “Tell me more about it.”
He gave her a long look, as though weighing whether or not to delve into the artifact’s history. As he launched into an explanation of the ring’s origins and the curse it carried, she could not help but feel a sense of relief the focus of the conversation had shifted. No more discussing her cycle—everything would resume as usual.
After she had tried the ring on and nothing had happened as expected, Endreth had let her touch a series of dark stones.
Her immunity held.
Satisfied with the day’s progress, she was ready to retreat to her quarters.
“Wait, I have something for you.” Endreth’s deep voice echoed through the room, stopping her in her tracks.
Her eyebrows knitted together as she turned to look at him. In his hand, he held another book, this one had been neatly stowed away at the corner of his table. Her heart beat a tattoo against her ribs as he pushed the book toward her, a momentary dread flaring up within her. Another book on servitude, perhaps? Or worse, one that detailed her responsibilities toward her master.
“Read this,” he said. “Use its wisdom as you see fit.”
Anthea took the book into her hands. Questions burned in her mind as her fingers traced the designs on its cover. Detailed drawings of various plants were depicted with great care and precision.
“This is a guide to herbal remedies. I have marked some pages you might find interesting.”
She flipped through the book, noticing several earmarked pages. She paused at these, skimming the contents. Each marked page dealt with the use of herbs in alleviating pain, including those specific to female physiology. Anthea’s eyes flicked up to meet Endreth’s. He had marked them for her. It was almost . . . thoughtful?—
“Thank you,” she murmured, clutching the book closer to her chest. The words tumbled out before she could rein them in.
He nodded, dismissing her from his study.
10
“No tests today.” Endreth was leaning against a wall, his arms folded.
Anthea paused—his announcement hung in the air, clashing with their habitual routine and igniting a flare of foreboding in her gut. Endreth was nothing if not consistent. It had been a week since he had given her the remedies book. Every day, they had tested her immunity against various objects enchanted with spells. Some she had felt more than others, but none had a serious effect on her.
“Guests from other elven courts are due to arrive tomorrow. Representatives from the Nephrite, Obsidian, Iron and Cattleya courts are expected,” Aegonar said, standing by the window, his gaze focused on the stormy sea beyond. Rain lashed at the glass. The only light in the room came from the grand chandelier overhead.
The words settled in the room, solidifying the shift in their daily pattern. So that was why the servants seemed busier than usual. The evening meals had been more deserted and Alyra had also been absent. Anthea was surprised the elf hadn’t mentioned anything to her about this.
“The Obsidian court?” she echoed, her words a hesitant whisper. Her eyes stayed on Aegonar. His grandmother hailed from the Obsidian court. And with that lineage came a legacy of formidable magic, especially in the darker arts. It was an eerie reflection of the power Aegonar himself wielded, a trait he’d inherited. “The one with the dark magic?”
“Yes,” Endreth confirmed. “The very same.”
“High King Taranath of the Obsidian court himself is visiting, along with his eldest son, Prince Althar,” Aegonar added.
“High King?” she asked. She hadn’t heard of a high king before—Endoral had the title of a king, she was sure of it.
The princes shared a fleeting glance before Aegonar turned from the window to face her. The stormy sea behind him seemed to echo the brooding expression etched on his face. “In Isluma all elven courts are equal . . .” Aegonar’s tone, flat and void of conviction, did not match the words. It rang hollow and false. His expression held a challenge, a silent invitation to push further. So she did.
“But?”
