A Gift
ELORA
Unlike most of the other nobles and ladies, Elora had not been granted a handmaiden—but that was fine with her. She found it a strange custom, to have someone always tending to her daily needs so closely. It wasn’t something the Ashen people ever did, so she had no problem brushing out the tangles in her long, white hair while she sat at her vanity. In fact, it felt like a luxury, still after all these weeks.
She stared at the reflection in her mirror, eyes drifting to the ornate, silver coronet embedded in her forehead. Leaning over the dressing table, she let a hand drift up to it and gently caressed the smooth, metal. Once she became Queen of Irongate, she wondered if she’d have to wear their crown atop this one, or if the one in her skin would be accepted among the Ironblood. Knowing these proud people, she doubted it.
Elora sighed, sinking back into her chair. A small price, she reminded herself, words that had been echoing in her mind for days, if not weeks now.
It seemed that was all she did with her newfound freedom: dwell on the past and gripe about the future.
Things might’ve been different, if she ever had anything topreoccupy herself with. But there was never anything to do. None of the lords and ladies of the castle would engage with her, so pastimes such as carrying on conversations, let alone participating in games or outings, were well out of the question. Not even the servants would dare look at her, if they allowed themselves to cross paths at all.
Irongate Castle was proving to be a cold and lonesome place, not too dissimilar to the dungeons Elora had spent most of her second life in. At least in the dungeons, she had occasionally been surrounded by other miserable offenders—as well as innocents. Not all of them would ordain to conversing with an Ashen like her, but some would. Some of them would pass the long hours moaning over the woeful and unfortunate circumstances that had led them to where they were, the two of them commiserating over grievances and lost opportunities.
Those were the only times she ever felt seen down there. Ever felt real.
When the queen had released her, Elora hadn’t realized that the unending boredom and loneliness would linger, leaving endless hours for her mind to wander. It seemed that was all she did these days, her thoughts drifting to all the things that haunted her, all the questions she had trained it not to ask.
Why had no one come for her?
That one, more than any of the others, cycled through her mind every chance it got.
Because, at least when she’d been locked away, part of her had been able to convince herself that they had at least tried to come and save her. They were the most powerful Ashen in Eynallore, her family. They had fought wars and navigated countless rescue missions before her, so she could assume they had been doing the same for her.
But the queen already publicly announced Elora’s betrothal to the prince—certain that the prince was going to agree uponhis return. She sent news of their engagement to every corner of the realm. And in the weeks that followed, they’d received congratulations from nearly every kingdom still standing.
All except for Eynallore.
Except her family.
Not that they were technically evenfamily. Since the Ashen had lost their memories following their resurrections, none of them knew who they belonged to before they met their grim deaths. But there were bonds among them that could not be described by any other word than familial.
For her, that had been with Aethic and Dinian.
Aethic had been declared the Hand of Death almost immediately following their long and cold ascent up the Ghostlight Gulf, following their resurrections. But to her and her sibling Dinian, Aethic had been more than just a leader of their people; he had been a father. And still, she missed them both dearly. Missed the unsolicited but protective advice Aethic would give her about minding her touch whenever she planned to venture out into the forests surrounding their kingdom. She missed the way Dinian would tease her about her fascination with the plants and stars, telling her that she got along better with them than anyone living.
They had loved her. That much, she had been certain of.
So then why hadn’t they come for her? If not when she was first captured and taken into the fortified bowels of the Caeloran kingdom, then what about after? Why had their faces not been among the first she’d seen when Caelora had fallen? Why did they let her slip into Irongate’s clutches, and why had she been here ever since?
Most importantly, now that she was freed, why weren’t they reaching out now?
They knew her better than most. Knew that she would notwillingly choose to marry a prince of an enemy kingdom, or any man for that matter.
Elora slammed the hairbrush on the vanity. The mirror wobbled but righted itself. Part of her hoped it would tip and shatter into a thousand sharp pieces, because that was how she felt. Unstable and broken.
It didn’t matter if they reached out, Elora told herself. Soon she would be living a new life. In some ways, she already was. According to the people here, being the daughter of the Hand of Death made her a princess. And soon she would become a queen.
Though she tried sitting up and wearing the title with bravery, the thought still soured her stomach.
Elora felt herself hunching back over when a knock came at the door. The person on the other side didn’t wait for a reply before they barged in, and Elora wasn’t surprised to see it was the queen.
As was expected of her, Elora stood quickly from where she sat.
“Oh please, don’t rise on my account.” Though Signe spoke with sweetness, there was still a bite of warning in her tone. A sense of power that Elora dared not challenge. Obliging the queen, Elora sat back down, but twisted in her chair so that she could give the woman her full attention.
She buried her surprise and fear, leaving space for only politeness and dignity. “I wasn’t expecting visitors this late, my queen. Is everything alright?”
