Page 9

Percival watched from the side as the female with aquiline features enveloped Areanel’s hand within both of her own. Her too-large doe eyes struck Percival with a bolt of nostalgia. He couldn’t explain the sudden happiness and grief that welled like a fountain within him. The young female reminded him of a friend, if he could even call her that, gone too quickly from this realm.

The nymph’s appearance was dishevelled, and honeyed, amber strands fell from her tight braid. Her dress clung to her body, covered in sweat, dirt and ash, but her most prominent feature was the expression displayed on her face: fear. Pure terror. Percival noted the way she shivered, too afraid to speak.

‘Tell me your name, little one.’ Areanel crouched in front of Percival, trying to coax something from the poor girl. He would never get used to how his sister’s demeanour could change in an instant. In that aspect, she was like their father. Far too many times had he witnessed the king’s rapidly changing moods.

‘N-Nemelda,’ she stuttered.

‘Nemelda, darling. Will you tell me what happened? How did this terrible tragedy occur?’ Percival moved out of the way as Areanel knelt until she was eye level with the young nymph. He was well aware of her tactic—she wanted to appear disarming. Maybe the child wasn’t aware of Areanel’s reputation.

‘They were dressed in dark armour, like shadows. They came in the night and carried jagged swords. It felt as though their weapons were syphoning all the magic. They carried this with them,’ she said, and her trembling hands reached into the pocket of her torn dress. Her nimble, dainty hands shook as she handed Areanel a piece of cloth.

Percival peered over his sister’s shoulder to get a better look at the cloth, but could only make out the frayed edges of something blood-red before Areanel shoved it into the pocket of her black leathers.

Areanel did not turn, but he caught the way her brow creased into a glower as her hands shook slightly before she clenched them into tight fists.

‘What is it?’ he asked.

The derisive line of her lips told Percival that his sister was far from calm, but her voice did not waver when she ordered them. ‘Tell our brothers to set up a shelter for those who have lost their home. Sevain—’ she turned further away from Percival, and he could no longer gauge her thoughts ‘—get her some food, and help Elmrynn and Nym to get the villagers situated. Percival—’ she spoke over her shoulder, already striding away from him. Percival followed as she approached Winter, swinging up onto the wolf’s back before throwing him a stern glance. ‘Return to the castle with the rest of our brothers when you are done here. Inform the princes that I will be calling for the Council to meet. I expect you to be there.’

Percival’s voice was lost to the wind, words unspoken as his sister launched into a sprint. Winter’s paws struck the ground with heavy steps, bolting back to their home.

Chapter 5

Areanel

Areanel stormed up the palace stairs, calling over her shoulder a message that she would be in the library should anyone need her. She did not wait for a confirmation that she had been heard, throwing herself instead into the bustling fray of maids and councilmen that meandered the halls before rushing down to the library, located in the palace’s lower bowels.

Rushing past the large windows, hewn directly from the mountain’s walls, Areanel spied the land she called home. Below, the smooth marble city stood elegant and proud. Carved around the ruins of a stone castle at the mountain’s base, the ribbon-like streams from the moonlight glimmered onto white stone, looking as though starlight walked the earthly cobbled paths.

The City of Andrea was well known for its beauty and its strategic location near the edge of the forest. The palace lay below a towering mountain—had been built into its very stone—and bordered a nearby lake. If war broke out, the palace would be protected by natural elements.

The sunlight filtered through the forest—filled with ancient, tall trees and no paths—illuminating Areanel’s route. The people of Andrea knew the forest well, and she spied the stable hands returning with horses collected from Vennedove along the treeline. The city natives knew how to navigate the forest without guidance. It came naturally.

Skidding to a stop, Areanel halted outside the enormous library doors before shoving her shoulder into one, pushing it open and huffing at the exertion before readying herself for her research.

Searching the Royal Records was far more difficult than Areanel remembered. She had frantically searched through the shelves, fingers trailing over each leather-bound spine as she looked for anything even hinting at the Northern Tribes, but hadn’t found anything that might answer her questions. The quiet bustle of scholars, working like diligent ants, had become a droning murmur in the background—one she barely noticed. But it was not enough. Areanel had gathered what she could and made her way to the old office, hidden in the vast library’s depths. Moving the tattered tapestry that hid the entrance, Areanel slipped into her quiet sanctuary. She needed to think.

She could not stand the constant need to peer over her shoulder niggling her brain. Whenever paranoia set in, it made her feel like her father.

Too many questions swam through the fog as she sat on the floor. Legs crossed, Areanel leaned back against the too-large desk, remembering when she told her brother that the furniture made the room feel cramped and small. He had only laughed and told her that it was his office, so he could do as he pleased. Areanel missed how the room had brightened with his laugh; Ivan had been her eldest brother, jovial and kind—though everyone said he’d only ever shown that side of himself to her.

The room’s shadows suddenly grew more prevalent as memories of her brother’s smile invaded her thoughts. Sorrow was a dreadful viper that hissed at her mind and snaked around her heart. Why couldn’t she remember him without feeling as though she were drowning in grief?

Areanel drew her knees closer to her chest, picking up one of the books. A large coat of dust had collected on the records, and Areanel had searched for so long that her dry eyes began to itch and droop. How long had she been here? It didn’t matter—because if she had heard that Vennedovian nymph correctly, her news could mean the clans of the North were involved in the destruction of the village. Areanel was determined to find out the truth.

Hidden between the pages of books lay the answers Areanel needed, yet she couldn’t pinpoint what she was trying to prove. The symbol on the blood-red cloth that the nymph had handed Areanel was almost identical to the one her brother used to carry—but that didn’t mean he had anything to do with it. Right?

Ivan was dead.

Maybe that was why Areanel had thought to come here—the small office hadn’t been used in over twenty years, and the scratchy rug Areanel sat on had become worn and tattered. Still, she could not bring herself to move anything. If she did, Ivan wouldn’t have been the last person to have touched any of his belongings. Their father had already erased any trace of him from the rest of the palace; this was the last place to retain even a hint of her brother, and Areanel refused to let it go.

She ran her finger along the spine of another book, subconsciously picking at where the brown leather peeled away as she forced her mind to focus on the attack on Vennedove, not on memories of her brother. So, blinking back tears, Areanel sifted through what the Vennedovian nymph had said. If Nemelda had felt the attackers’ weapons draining their magic, then… Areanel’s eyes narrowed. The Northern Clans were the only people known to use such weapons, and there was a time when they had been loyal to Ivan. But how had they created more weapons if Ivan was dead? Ivan had been the only person in all of Idyssa with a bonded dragon, and the stone required for the weapons Nemelda described could have only been fashioned by dragon fire.

To Areanel’s knowledge, there hadn’t been a sighting of any dragon besides Ivan’s bonded, Valduin, in centuries. Could her brother have survived? Or was someone else using his emblem to garner attention?

No. Ivan wasn’t alive. That couldn’t be it. Her brother wouldn’t have left her here by herself. He would have come back. He would have. Areanel didn’t doubt that. Ivan was the only one of her brothers besides Percival who actually cared for her—not because of what she could do for him or how he could use her. He cared about her.

All she needed to do was find out who built the weapons and how they had managed to do so, then she would be able to prove that he had nothing to do with this. If someone was perverting and using his name to attain fame… Areanel would enjoy cutting them down.