Page 24 of Many Ruined Vows on a Forbidden Frolic

“Loreleivnna,” Father’s voice is a bolt of lightning.

My attention swings to the dais, where Mother and Father sit on their thrones. Surrounding them stands the entire council. My gaze lands on Pikr, and that incessant feeling that I’ve forgotten something tugs at my heartvines.

I frown. I rarely see the whole council together like this, for they only gather to discuss politics I’m either not privy to or don’t care to witness, and never have I experienced it from this perspective. All eyes are on Halor and me, standing on the blemished skyrite tile where criminals and petitioners plead their cases.

I squeeze Halor’s hand and glance up. He gives me one of those radiant smiles, and my unease is trampled by a barrage of faith. I need not worry, only trust.

Mother’s hands are clasped in her lap with genuine happiness evident on her gentle features. A soft smile rests on her forest-green lips and reaches her eyes, which are yellow like autumn leaves and bright with lucidity. Seeing this makes my confidence want to bloom.

She severs our eye contact with a weary glance at Father, and my hope wilts. He grips the arm of the Spiritvine Throne so tightly, his hand may as well twine with the vines.

“Your Majesty,” I plead. “You granted me the honor of choice—”

Father raises his hand, and though we are family, I fall silent for the King of Svitaeryl.

“I did not bring you here to revoke your decision.” He thrums his fingers on the arm of the throne.

“Oh.”

“It’s a wise choice. The alliance between Svitaeryl and the Isles of Aethereusum will benefit greatly from this marriage.” He pauses, his narrowed gaze shifting to Halor. “If the Oranther wins the challenge.”

“Challenge?” My voice cracks. I scan the room, surveying the stoic faces of the council. “You can’t possibly mean…”

“Yes,” Father supplies. “A joust.”

The crimson blisteroak leaves above us flash against the skyrite below, bathing the room in the crimson blood of a mutilated monarch lion corpse.

It’s been a while since I learned about the old tradition, an extremely flawed system that treated creatures—particularly females—as prizes to be won. Judging by the thick tension in the room, the vile tradition isn’t as archaic and far in the past as I’d thought.

My head pounds as the walls close in. They say the illusion of the Spiritvine Throne Room drives criminals mad. I’m no criminal, but a crime is certainly taking place.

I breathe, elongating my spine and digging my heels into the skyrite floor. “Who is the challenger?”

Pikr clears his throat.

No.

“I am.”

No, no, no.

The room spins.

The discussion of my fate continues as though I’m not here. Stern voices detail the terms. Thin armor made of lead. No magic. They drone on, laying out the rules of a game that will determine my first mate.

My gut churns. I cast my gaze around, desperately seeking an anchor. My betrothed has dropped my hand. He inquires about the use of some ceremonial weapon important to his status as an Oranther, which I’ve learned is one who can manipulate clouds, wind, and vapor in unnatural ways. A smirk glints in his eyes as he partakes in the scheme, pleased with the council’s answer.

Two soft, warm hands cup my face, and I cling to Mother’s wrists, planting myself in her sunlit eyes, where I still glimpse a hint of lucidity.

“It’s okay, my sweet sapling,” she coos in that calming way of hers. “Uproot your lacrimaes. The Wise Ones know your heart. They won’t let your love be struck down in a joust.”

I search her gaze. She tends to be right about the will of the Nocturn Aevumdivus and their so-called wise plans. But how could ancient shooting star-plants possibly know my heart when it’s such a confusing subject for myself?

“I need air.” I rip away and head for the nearest exit, walking at first, then running, my feet begging for soil.

Hooves clatter behind me. I sprint faster.

I spill into the garden and collapse, my knees plummeting to the dirt. I dig my fingers into the soil and gulp down breath after breath.