Alphard’s brows pulled together. “Fuck off.”
Roswyn's stone-cold glare faltered, and he loosed a small laugh. They shook hands like old friends, Magic zapping between where their palms met—something that Maeve noticed each time the two men greeted one another.
“So what’s all this for, Brax?” asked Maeve.
Abraxas took a sip of his drink and shook his head. “You’d have me spoil the surprise?” he asked with a chuckle.
He locked eyes with someone across the hall and toasted them. “Got to run,” he said and disappeared, the crowd parting effortlessly for the Hand of the Prince.
Roswyn and Emerie’s attention was pulled elsewhere, leaving Maeve and Alphard to themselves. Maeve’s grip on his forearm tightened where their arms linked. Alphard looked down at her as she stalled beside him.
“Do you feel that?” she asked breathily, referring to an incoming of Magic that had the hairs on her arm standing up.
Alphard looked around them and paused. “No, Maeve,” he replied, his voice filled with pity as he scanned the room.
Maeve cut her eyes up at him. She slowly slid her arm from his at his tone. A tone she often heard when he grew tired of her strange thoughts.
She opened her mouth, prepared with a sharp retort, but stopped short as an oppressive Magic entered the atmosphere. Alphard’s eyes widened slightly. The room stilled, conversation halted, and the firelights flickered and dimmed.
Maeve turned from her husband, her heart racing in the presence of this power that barreled towards her, towards them all.
But she was certain with every drop of Magic that ran through her veins, that the Magic which pressed down on them all like a weight, calledhername. Alphard whispered something to her as she stepped from him, but she didn’t hear it. Her thoughts were consumed by a new and exciting feeling that ate at her with each second that it intensified. It was unlike any feeling she could recall ever experiencing as it raced towards her at super speed now.
Alphard grabbed her wrist gently.
His Magic slid across her skin, trying to ground her as he had done many nights when her own mind felt like an enemy. But this was no “episode.” This wasn’t a feeling Astrea’s potions could tame.
This was something entirelyMagical.
A breath swelled in her chest as the green glass ceiling above them vanished in an explosion of veridian light, exposing the hazy night sky of The Dread Lands. Giant swirls of darkened Magicbarreled down on them, slamming into the hall with a triumphant strike. The darkness was no mere mist alone; it was a Morconis, and the largest of them all in the Dread Prince’s fleet.
The creature’s long, black, inky body tensed as it landed on all fours in the middle of the hall. They were majestically dark, slick, creatures of night, with razor-sharp teeth and long, eel-like necks with wings that were like those of a dragon. Though their massive wings appeared tattered and torn, Magic still allowed them to fly. Magic had brought them back to life. They, like the rumored army of the undead that lurked in the Dark Peaks and the Greywood, were reanimated corpses. Given second life through Magic.
His Magic.
As striking and commanding as the creature was, nothing compared to the man who sat atop it. His Magic continued to bear down on her with constricting force. His entrance to Castle Morana was nothing short of a spectacle, but Maeve knew from the Magic radiating off the handsome Dread Prince, he was much more than show.
Her heart thrummed against her chest as the corners of her visions blurred anything that wasn’t him. She couldn’t even feel Alphard’s grip on her wrist anymore. The only feeling that remained was his overwhelming presence.
He dismounted the tall beast elegantly, landing on his feet with a stare so intensely calm, it should have been sinister. Magic shot across the floor beneath him upon impact. He tucked his hands behind his back as guests fell to their knees.
All black suited the pale Malachite Peur, though none called him by that name who weren’t his closest adversaries. Abraxas was among the few who called him Mal.
Without Alphard’s hand tugging her down with him, Maeve herself wouldn’t have remembered to bow. It wasn’t out of disrespect or rebellion that Maeve was frozen in place.
No. It was the Dread Prince’s green eyes that had been locked on hers since the moment he appeared that caused her trance.
“A joyous evening,” exclaimed Abraxas, his Hand pin proudly gleaming on his chest as he bowed with worshipful admiration. “The return of our Prince to his throne and another realm nearly one with ours!”
Chapter 3
“Alphard Mavros,” said a cool voice.
The voice split across Maeve’s mind like a whip, duplicating itself over and over, growing in its intensity until Alphard’s hand took her own subtly at their sides. His right hand formed a fist and pressed into his chest, where a bright red brand of the Dread Mark lay beneath his clothes.
Malachite lowered his head, and Alphard dropped his salute.
“And Maeve Mavros,” said the Prince, turning his attention towards her. “Formerly Sinclair.”
