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The golden light from the setting sun painted her room in warm hues. She paced back and forth, her hands wringing together anxiously.
The visit to the town with Beldor had gone unexpectedly well. Beldor’s surprising curiosity about her world had distracted her from the treacherous serpentine road they had traversed, and his sincere interest in her tales had been a welcome diversion. It was the first time in a while that she had felt like a regular person, just having a conversation.
The town had been beautiful—nestled in a valley flanked by the nearby mountains, Tharport unfurled elegantly along both sides of the riverbank. The town’s streets were paved with cobblestones, their dark gray color gleaming softly under the sun. Most of the town’s buildings, as Anthea had learned, were primarily two-story structures, constructed from the same dark, almost-black stones as the castle. Beldor had told Anthea it was sourced from the nearby mountains. The buildings were adorned with wooden balconies, often covered with moss and plants that climbed up the structures.
The elf had taken Anthea to various shops and establishments: among them was a cozy inn, a shop that exclusively sold gemstone jewelry—Its window displays sparkled with an array of colors, as sunlight danced upon amethysts, sapphires, emeralds and jade—and an apothecary.
The heart of the town’s commerce, however, pulsed at the river port. Anthea hadn’t noticed the size of it, when she had first been brought here. It was a sprawling area, with wooden docks reaching out like fingers into the water. Anchored there were the grand vessels of the Nephrite court, their majestic green sails folded, and hulls reflecting the shimmering water. Around the port, the marketplace thrived. Stalls brimming with fresh produce, especially fish that glistened like silver, lined the docks. The hum of haggling filled the air as tailors, leatherworkers, and other artisans showcased their crafts. Elven children had played by the banks, their laughter echoing in the distance. The sight of the welcoming townsfolk without any apparent prejudice against her had been a revelation. It had given her hope the world she now found herself in wasn’t as divided as she had initially thought. It had given her hope when this was all over, if needed, she could build a comfortable life for herself here.
But now, back in her room, Anthea was overwhelmed with nervousness. She had taken a bold step—just before Beldor had left her here, back at her room—she had asked him to deliver a message to Galodir, requesting a meeting with him, Endoral, and Fyralin. After the disaster of the day before, surely they would accept her request.
Anthea had realized something as they had rode back from the town: she did care about one group of people—the humans of Isluma. Even though she hadn’t interacted with many, the memories of those she had seen haunted her. The thought of Mila, and the other slaves, had filled her with a renewed sense of purpose. Getting home wasn’t an option for her anymore. Doing nothing wasn’t an option for her anymore. Eldrion had asked her to help the people of Isluma, and she had decided that she would do it, but on her terms. If the prophecy did hold weight and a war loomed, she wouldn’t be fighting for the whims of some elven lords, but for people like Mila. For the humans of Isluma. They deserved hope. They deserved a better future.
Anthea sat down behind the round table, grabbing rolls of paper and an inkpot with a quill in it. She had the power to change something here. As a human who had the ear, however grudgingly, of some very influential elves, she could really do something.
The initial scratchy sounds the quill made against the surface evoked memories of the countless hours she had spent practicing. The unsteady loops and swirls that once plagued her writing had been corrected by Endreth’s gentle guidance. How he’d lean over her shoulder, his breath warm on her neck, guiding her hand?—
She shook her head briskly, breaking the sudden surge of emotions. Now was not the time. Anthea straightened her back, took a deep breath, and began.
She mapped out her main points first: safety for the humans of Isluma, perhaps even a land of their own. A place where they could live freely, without fear of enslavement or subjugation. Just like the town she had seen today.
With each word, her thoughts became clearer, her determination stronger.
Hours seemed to pass and by the time she finished, the moons were up, casting a silver hue on her work. Anthea leaned back, her fingers stained with ink, her mind buzzing with anticipation.
She had prepared as best as she could.
34
“Preparing for a lecture?” Beldor asked with a half-smirk, the light in the room reflecting off his green irises, making them gleam with mischief.
“Something like that.” Anthea pulled the rolls closer to her chest.
The elven warrior tilted his head slightly, his brown plait swinging to the side. “After you.” He gestured to the door with a graceful sweep of his hand.
After several days of anticipation, she had finally received the response she had been waiting for. They were ready to meet with her. She had gone over her drafts four times, each revision more polished and meticulous than the last.
Anthea’s heels clicked softly against the stone floor as they navigated the corridors. With each step, she mentally revisited her points, reciting key phrases in her mind.
Reaching a pair of massive doors ornately decorated with intertwined vines and large beasts, Beldor paused. He turned to face her, a serious expression replacing his earlier playful demeanor.
“Are you ready?”
Anthea took a deep breath, feeling the rough texture of the parchment rolls in her hands, and gave the elf a curt nod.
With a nod of his own, Beldor pushed the doors open.
The room smelled of aged paper and polished wood, bringing back memories of her previous visit. Anthea’s eyes were immediately drawn to the exact spot where the Hand of Death had once sat. The space now lay bare. Her fingers twitched, remembering the chill that cursed object had sent through her. Several other artifacts, which once filled the bookshelves, were also missing. Did they think she was going to start throwing them at their way?
Looking around the room, she noted Aegonar’s presence instead of Endoral’s. He was sitting behind the grand table next to Galodir. Anthea guessed the Crimson king couldn’t make it with such short notice. She only hoped that Aegonar was enough—had enough rights as an heir to the Crimson court to represent his father for what she was about to ask.
“Please, Anthea, take a seat.” Galodir gestured to the black wooden chair across from him.
Anthea took her time as she moved to sit, placing the rolls of parchment carefully on the desk.
“You asked for this meeting.” Fyralin looked at her from her spot beside her husband. “We are here to listen.”
Anthea nodded, her fingers clasping and unclasping in her lap. She looked from Fyralin to Galodir, and then to Aegonar. “After what you have put me through, I believe I deserve some say in my future.”
