Glass shattered close. Or far? Maeve didn’t know. A blade flicked across her mind, and the Throne Room snapped into darkness.
A voice, distorted and eager, filled the void around her.
A game? A game of crowns? A game of broken hearts? A game of death? I win them all.
The infinite black space beneath her feet swallowed her whole, tipping her body backwards until the green glowing lights of the Throne Room returned to her vision. Alphard’s distinct scent filled her nose, bringing her mind back to the celebration at lightning speed. She gripped at his chest, fabric coiling beneath her fists, and pressed her forehead into him. His arm remained in a tight hold around her. The spell ripping open inside Maeve, threatening to reveal unknown truths, tore further. Maeve winced, desperate to keep it sewn together.
The hall was silent. Completely still and silent, save for Roswyn’s sharp and encouraging tone.
“It’s alright, Em, let it happen.”
Maeve pressed her heels into the floor and turned, still gripping Alphard tightly. A crystal goblet lay shattered across the marbled floor at Emerie and Roswyn’s feet.
Emerie’s eyes were completely black as Roswyn held her upright. Her voice was raw, and words not her own spilled from the Seer’s blush-painted lips.
“Three were made and given away. Bound in gold and silver chains, the Magic lay, buried beneath another from the protection of the father.” Her fingers curled into themselves as her breathing became labored. “When the night devours the sun, when the holy three join one, the Dread Stone will stand alone.”
She gasped like a sword had just sliced through her stomach, and doubled over. Roswyn’s strong arms were already lifting her back as he supported her weight fully.
When Emerie’s eyes flooded with color, they were already on Mal. She trembled against Roswyn as she took long and strained breaths.
Roswyn held her close, pride beaming in his voice. “Another Em. Well done.”
Maeve’s attention whipped to Mal. His wide green eyes were set on Emerie. Astrea appeared suddenly. With a snap of her fingers, the broken glass vanished, and her hands grasped Emerie’s face. The healer checked her briefly and then smiled. “Well done,” she whispered in agreement.
“The Dread Stone.”
Maeve’s shoulders dropped. The voice from the vision she had just had. It was unmistakable, it was—
Maeve’s eyes locked on the woman next to Mal.
His Queen.
“What a way to step on a Queen’s entrance,” she said, her blue eyes on Emerie.
Abraxas made to smile, but it quickly vanished as he took in the new Queen’s frown.
Emerie stood and bowed to her, her breath still lagging. “Apologies, my Queen.”
Magic swelled at all ten of the queen’s fingertips. It poured from her lips and pooled at her feet. Maeve was so entranced by it, so stunned by the greenness of Mal’s eyes and the dead expression on his face, and utterly caught off guard by his soon-to-be queen’s beautiful appearance.
She had convinced herself that this dark queen who held power over Mal was a creature from a cave. Something lacking in grace. But this woman was more striking than even the Elves Maeve had seen.
She was decadent in an all white gown.
But her Magic was wicked.
She was a match for Mal where strength was weighed. But their Magical signature was distinctly different.
Her long white hair cascaded across her shoulders, shiny and straight.
Her laugh echoed across the hall, unsettling and forced. “There’s no need to apologize when making such grand prophecies, is there?” She giggled.
Alphard’s grip on Maeve tightened.
Abraxas cleared his throat, drawing Judyth’s eyes to him. “Would you like me to continue with your introduction now, your grace?”
“No,” she said with another hollow laugh. “Let them enjoy a night of victory.”
