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Fyralin leaned in slightly across the table, her fingers interlocked. “In order for you to understand us a bit better, you need to start with the current political situation in Isluma. Tell me, how much do you know about the Obsidian court?”
“Not much,” Anthea admitted. “I know that the high king is Taranath Ceidonius and his eldest son is Althar. I saw them at the Crimson court. Their cruelty toward humans was . . . evident. I know they, in a way, rule the other courts, and they manage that, because, well, because they have two dragons?—”
“Yes, you are right about that.” The queen’s eyes seemed to darken. “On the surface, all courts have equal say and influence in Isluma. But that is far from the truth. In the centuries following the War of Races, there was a power struggle among the elven courts for influence. A truce was agreed upon, but the Obsidian court gained the most—during that time they somehow awoke two dragons—creatures that were supposed to be gone,” she continued, her voice dropping to a whisper as if she was sharing a secret. “Taranath’s father, the king of the Obsidian court at that time, found a way to control them. Along with two powerful armies under their command, they became a force no one could refuse. When the Obsidian court wants something from other courts, you cannot say no, or there will be consequences.” A pained sadness settled over the queen as she looked down at the table. “Our position in this matter is not just political but deeply personal,” she admitted. “You see, I have a daughter as well as my two sons—Synthia. And Althar . . . he wants her as his wife. We have managed to stall, as Synthia is still young, by elven standards at least. But we won’t be able to hold onto that excuse for much longer.” There was a quiver in her voice as she spoke about her daughter. Anthea could see the pain in her eyes—the fear of a mother who was desperate to protect her child.
So that’s why they were running out of time. Anthea remembered the High King had given them a year, she remembered the discussion at the party at the Crimson court. But that was, that party was more than three months ago.
“And as the queen of my court,” Fyralin continued, “it is my responsibility to protect my subjects and safeguard our interests.” Her gaze was sharp, piercing. “When Synthia would be in the hands of the Obsidian court, the High King would have even more power over us. Taranath knows we would bend over backward, forsaking our values, to ensure her safety. We cannot allow that. The very essence of our court is at stake.”
“That’s . . . a difficult situation.” Anthea was unsure of what else to say. “But how does this . . . How do I fit into all of this?”
“There is a prophecy,” Fyralin said. “It alludes to a creature from another world who will be of great importance in the next great war—a war that will restore the rightful balance in Isluma.” Fyralin’s gaze locked onto Anthea’s. “This prophecy has existed since even before the War of Races, whispered among our scholars and seers. It was largely forgotten until recently, considered the ramblings of the old and superstitious. But the latest events have led us to believe that there might be more to it.” The queen paused, studying her face. “We believe you are that creature from another world, Anthea. You are the key to restoring the balance.”
Anthea sat in stunned silence, her heart pounding as Fyralin’s words echoed in her ears. She had come from another world, that was true. But to be considered the key to a war, a pivotal figure in a prophecy . . . that was something else, that was overwhelming, to say the least. She wanted to dismiss it, to deny the absurdity of the claim. A prophecy. About her?
“I understand. It is a lot to take in?—”
A hand slammed down on the table, causing the silverware to jump.
“A lot to take in?! That’s an understatement! You have locked me up, treated me worse than an animal, and constantly told me to learn my place. All this, for what? So you can control me? Mold me into some pawn for your war?”
“Anthea, the actions taken against you were misguided, fueled by paranoia and ignorance. My husband, Galodir, he . . . we were desperate to protect our daughter, and it was thought that ensuring your complete obedience would be the best course. I cannot undo what has been done, but I can strive to make amends.”
“You’ve kept me isolated, spoon-feeding me stories and half-truths. Why should I believe a single word you say now?”
“You have questions, and it is only right you get answers. But understand, I may not have all the answers you seek. What I can promise is you will have the chance to read the prophecy yourself, in its entirety. My husband and my sons will do their best to answer any questions you may have. You will no longer be confined to a room and no harm will come to you in my court; that I swear. However,” she paused, measuring her next words carefully, “you will be allowed free movement within the castle grounds, but always in the company of either Eldrion or Beldor.” Anthea’s lips parted to protest, but Fyralin held up her hand in a placating manner. “Their role is not to imprison you, but to protect you,” she assured. “In your current state, you are of immense value and, consequently, in great danger. There are forces that, given the chance, will use you . . . or worse.”
“And yet, I have a broken wrist and lines on my back. Their protection . . .” She gestured vaguely at the door where Eldrion had exited, her voice holding a bitter note, “has been less than comforting.”
Fyralin watched her, a soft sigh escaping her lips. “Eldrion and Beldor’s actions were not their own, but orders from Galodir.” She paused, glancing at her bound wrist. “We have learned a harsh lesson. From this point forward, you need not fear them. They have shown a deep sense of duty and care toward their tasks, a deep sense of loyalty. I promise you; they will cause you no further harm.” The queen delicately placed a hand over her own, her eyes heavy with a kind of pleading desperation. “We are asking a lot from you. To trust us, to believe we have the best interests of our world at heart. It is a tall order, I know.” Fyralin’s gaze drifted to the untouched spread on the table between them, a small frown pulling at her brows. “You have not eaten anything.” She gestured to the food with a graceful sweep of her hand. “This was prepared for you. I assure you, it is not laced with anything,” she added with a small, warm smile.
Anthea eyed the food but didn’t move.
“I understand your hesitation,” she said softly. “Trust is not an easy thing to offer, especially not in a situation like yours. Please, eat. You need your strength.”
Anthea sighed, staring out at the town below. Her new quarters were luxurious. But despite the upgrade, she couldn’t shake the caged feeling. She still felt the weight of Fyralin’s words on her shoulders, could still hear the gravity in the queen’s voice. Her mind raced, caught between wanting to believe in the sincerity of the queen’s promises and her natural instinct to be suspicious. A prophecy: there was a prophecy about her. It sounded insane.
The elven guard outside her door had been polite; he had asked her if she wanted to go somewhere, if he needed to find Beldor, but his presence reminded her she wasn’t truly free. Anthea had tested the door, pushing it open and peeking out, only to be met with the curious eyes of the guard. She shook her head at him and pulled the door shut with a sigh. She was still being watched.
She picked at the fabric of her new dress, one of the more practical garments she had found in the cupboard in her new bedroom, all were either gray or green. She had chosen one of the gray ones. It was comfortable at least, and clean. Her fingers traced the seams. With a sigh, she leaned her forehead against the cold windowpane. She’d take things one step at a time. For now, she needed rest. Whatever their plans were with her—she needed a clear head for that.
A knock at her door startled her. Anthea sighed, not wanting to deal with anyone at the moment. Straightening up, she walked over to the door and opened it.
It was Endreth.
“You’re not welcome here,” she said firmly, crossing her arms over her chest. Seeing him brought forth emotions she didn’t want to feel.
“We need to talk.” The Crimson prince crossed the threshold of her room. His hand reached out, closing the door behind him. Blue eyes trailed her visible skin, taking note of each mark marring her flesh. “Anthea?—”
“Don’t,” she cut him off. “Just say what you came to say.”
“I am sorry.” He took a step closer, entering her personal space. She could smell him; she could smell the sea again.
“Sorry? You think that’ll mend everything? Make it alright?” She turned away from him, not wanting to see the regret in his ocean gaze. The anger, the betrayal, the confusion—it all came rushing back. Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she asked, “Was it planned, Endreth?” She pivoted around to face him. “Was my capture in the Cattleya court planned? Is that why you weren’t at our meeting point? Did you know this was going to happen? Was it planned?!”
“I . . .”
“Did you know what they were going to do to me here?!”
