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His jaw tightening so hard a muscle feathered in his cheek.
“Protecting the Drakhar bloodline…,” he rasped, his voice dropping into a quiet, lethal register that barely contained the violence beneath it. “She is my charge. If the water takes her, it’s a failure of my duty.” He locked his jaw, his voice dropping to a harsh, low murmur charged with something far darker than protocol. “I don’t lose what I’m sworn to keep.”
The smooth silver surface was churning. A heavy, rolling current formed deep in the liquid. It didn’t drag me down.
It pushed.
The water rolled over itself, lifting my limp form out of the dark and carrying me toward the eastern stone edge. It deposited me against the rough granite like an offering, the silver silk gown torn and clinging to my skin.
Manem reached the water first, his dark face tight with grim focus as he hauled my dripping, unconscious body out of the liquid and onto the floor.
My chest didn’t rise. My skin was deathly pale, cold as winter fog. And across my arms, legs, and chest, the fresh marks of midnight black and molten gold glowed with a residual heat, hissing softly against the cold air of the cavern.
ELEVEN
The smell hit me before the light did. Crushed wintergreen, stale copper, and the sharp, chemical tang of active magic.
My eyelids felt heavy, glued shut by exhaustion. When I forced them open, the vaulted stone ceiling of the citadel’s medical wing blurred into view, washed in the cold, grey light of mid-morning. Every square inch of my body throbbed with a deep, feverish burn that traced a precise path across my ankles, up my thighs, and wrapped around my ribs like hot wire. It wasn’t the familiar ache of bruised muscle from the training mats; it was a lingering heat buried deep beneath my skin.
I lay still. Years of survival had taught me that when you wake up in an unfamiliar room, you keep your breathing steady and your eyes barely open until you map the space.
“The princess is stable, but the physical manifestation makes no sense,” a hushed, frantic voice whispered to my left. High Mage Vane. His heavy robes rustled against the floorboards. “Look at the ink. It isn’t an echo. It’s embedded into the skin.”
“What about her elemental signature?” another voice asked—younger, tight with anxiety. “We’ve run the silver catalysts three times. There’s no elemental spike. No Stormcall like Prince Aerynn, no foresight like the King. The pool accepted her, but it gave her... nothing we can currently identify.”
“Worse than nothing,” Vane hissed softly. “It gave her a riddle. And the court is already dissecting it.”
Heavy, slow footsteps echoed from the doorway. The temperature in the room plummeted, the ambient warmth of the mages’ magic dimming as my father filled the threshold. I kept my eyes slitted, my pulse tapping a quiet rhythm against my throat as his shadow crossed the floor toward my cot.
“Report,” the King commanded. His voice was level and entirely devoid of relief.
High Mage Vane bowed low. “Your Majesty... the princess’s vitals are secure. But the Remnikai... we have no precedent for this. In the recorded history of the throne, the silver waters have yielded only two isolated anomalies: centuries ago, a candidate emerged marked in shadow, and later, another bore the golden mark. But never together. Never bound across the same skin.”
Vane gestured vaguely toward my covered frame. “These are permanent, physical marks of midnight and gold. Our history has no parchment for a dual gift.”
My father didn’t blink. His green eyes were completely blank, staring down at my face as if reading an inventory list. “And her gift?”
“We cannot determine it, Sire,” Vane said, swallowing hard. “The waters left no elemental print. Her core is silent…for now of course…”
For now? What a way to say they were unsure about everything and just didn’t want to piss the king off.
A heavy silence settled over the cot. My father stood motionless for three long heartbeats, his foresight no doubt tracking whatever complicated futures my survival had created. Then, without a single word, he turned on his heel and walked out of the room.
The moment the mages followed him into the corridor to continue their argument, I let out a long breath and opened my eyes fully.
“You can stop playing dead now, Taur,” a smooth baritone called out from the foot of the bed.
Soren leaned against the heavy timber post. His dark vanguard leathers unbuttoned at the collar, his arms folded across his chest. He didn’t carry the brooding intensity of the other captains; his face held a genuine, easy warmth, the small gold hoop in his left ear catching the grey morning light. But as he stepped closer, I noticed the tight alignment of his shoulders and the dark shadows beneath his eyes. He hadn’t left the room since they hauled me out of the pool.
“How bad is it?” I asked, my voice dry as dust as I pushed myself up.
Soren was by my side instantly. He didn’t offer pity, which I would have fought him on, but his hand supported my back, helping me adjust against the pillows. He slid a glass of cold water into my palm.
“The mages are losing their minds,” Soren said softly, a small dimple showing in his cheek as he tried to lighten the mood. “Which is nothing compared to the galleries. The lords have been whispering since dawn.”
I took a slow sip, the water soothing my throat. “What are they saying?”
His smile faded, his gaze locking onto mine. “They’re saying the three moons chose a half-human over a pure blood. The high nobles are furious. They’re questioning the King’s judgment, and openly wondering if the marks are a corruption—a sign that the line is failing.”
