Syrena hesitated. Just slightly. “Elira is adjusting as well as can be expected,” she said. “I would caution all of you not to push her.”
“She shouldn’t have to explain herself to you,” I added, my voice low but steady.
“And if you try to force her… my brothers and I might have something to say about that.”
Not a threat. Not quite. But close enough that they heard it.
The tension that followed wasn’t loud—but it was sharp. I saw it in Renlor’s twitching fingers, in Adelaide’s raised chin.
They thought they were sitting in a council chamber. They didn’t realize they were sitting on a fault line.
“She’s a shadowmancer, isn’t she?” Therrin asked, his voice low. Reverent. Or afraid. “Daughter of Alistair. Born of the bloodline. It’s her right to—”
“Her right,” Syrena cut in, “is to breathe. To rest. To recover. Whatever else she chooses is hers. Not yours.”
That landed like a blade.
For a moment, no one spoke.
“Elira will be introduced at the ball,” Syrena added, smoothing the silence into command. “That is all I will promise.”
“And if she refuses?” Adelaide asked, voice like steel drawn slow.
“She won’t,” Syrena said.
But there was something in her tone—just the faintest crack beneath the certainty.
I felt it too.
Elira might walk into that ballroom.
But if they looked at her like a weapon?
She might burn it down.
And I’d help her light the match.
Chapter 4
Elira
The gown itched. And it was heavy.
It didn’t matter that it was silk. Or that the seamstresses had poured hours into the embroidery. Or that it fit like it was made for a queen.
I shifted uncomfortably, yanking at the navy-blue and silver fabric. It swished as I walked through the empty hallways, too loud in the silence.
“You look beautiful,” Maddie said from where she sat on my bed. “Although your hair could maybe…”
I glanced at her.
The journey to Shadowmere had taken its toll on all of us. The scar along her cheek was still fresh—stark against the vibrancy of her violet hair, which she’d swept up into a tidy updo.
She wore a gown of soft dove grey, fitted like it had been made just for her. Beading shimmered across the bodice, subtle but elegant, shaping her figure in a way that made her look older. Stronger.
My own hair hung loose in curls down my back, spilling over the fabric like something unruly. The maids had tried to help, but I’d flicked them away. I didn’t want to be touched.
“It’s fine,” I said, my voice calm—clipped.
