“Since the Elven Queen was overthrown by her own people,” elaborated Zimsy.
“Over a year,” said Maeve.
Over a year since Lithandrian’s people staged a mutiny and established militant control. How the Elven Army managed to obtain Magic no one knew.
Their sudden ability to fight with Magic was a mystery to all citizens of the Dread Lands. Not even Abraxas himself understood. Not that it mattered to Maeve.
She never thought of her crowned Prince beyond the occasional reminder of his existence. They hadn’t been close at Vaukore, and in the years she and Alphard had lived in the Dread Lands, she’d never even laid eyes on Malachite Peur. In fact, rumor had it the Crowned Prince had been away for some time, searching for an explanation and counter to the Elven people’s newfound Magic.
Chapter 2
Maeve’s fingers traced over the worn strip of paper, at a loss for the hundredth time why she had never been able to part with it. She looked up at her reflection in the vanity mirror, tucking her legs beneath her on the stool. Zimsy had braided her hair perfectly for the non-negotiable ball at Castle Morana. Her gown was green, an attire required by all those who visited the castle.
Her gaze lingered on her face. Pale, icy eyes looked back at her, foreign and cold, stark against her dark lashes. She hated them.
Portraits and paintings, even the few photographs of her that existed from her adolescence, depicted her with deep-blue eyes. Sapphire blue. Like her father’s, like her sister’s.
Even like Antony’s, in what little memories she had of her brother.
But Maeve’s eyes were now a hollow, winter icy blue-white now, with no explanation of why or how.
Her fingers still lingered across the small strip of parchment as something sharp slid across her mind. She could nearly see herself properly in her reflection — with blue eyes she missed with every look at herself.
Her hand gravitated towards the feathered quill on her vanity.
She scribbled across the worn paper, daring to mark the blank slate at last.
Why does this strange bit of parchment call to me?
She stared at it for a moment, yanked open her vanity drawer, and tossed it inside.
Castle Morana was just as she remembered: magnificent in its grand appearance, dripping in dark Magic, but entirely void of warmth.
“This room gives me the creeps,” said Alphard in a hushed voice as they stepped into the Throne Room. He wore his Bellator Captain’s uniform, his chest decorated with various pins representing his power and status. Within the Bellator, those who fought for the Dread Prince, Alphard was second only to Roswyn.
“As a top-ranking Dread Knight, I can’t imagine why you wouldn’t want to attend, Al,” said Abraxas, appearing at Maeve’s side.
Alphard didn’t look at Abraxas. His gaze was now fixed upon a redhead and her husband. Maeve and Abraxas exchanged a glance.
Her cousin’s cheeks were flushed, and his eyes sparkled.
“Hello, Brax,” she said with a smile.
Abraxas leaned towards her and quickly kissed her cheek. “Glad you could make it.”
“The invitation didn’t seem optional,” said Alphard.
“Royal things rarely are,” said Abraxas with a dazzling smile.
“Evening, Mavros,” said Roswyn, appearing in their circle with Emerie at his side.
Alphard nodded his head once, barely acknowledging him.
Roswyn cleared his throat.
Alphard tore his eyes away from Victoria Damario and looked at Roswyn. His brows raised in annoyance.
“We’re at Castle Morana, Mavros. You should address your superior properly.”
