The prince’s beautiful features are impassive, his gaze fixed ahead. His dark wings and imposing posture make him appear much taller than everyone. I notice a telltale tension in his sharp jawline. He’s on alert. His muscles under the flowing silk tunic the color of a starless night are tensed, the natural reflex of a seasoned warrior.
I wince, surprised, as he grabs my hand, feeling the warmth of his fingers through the soft leather of his gloves. This gesture raises many eyebrows. Is this a warning to everyone that the Anchor is in his possession? Or is this the claim of a male who feels protective when rivals are around?
Then I see the reason: right in front of us, at the grand staircase which leads up to the palace stands Cyrell, dressed in a luxurious gold-threaded tunic. His shoulders are squared and brows furrowed; his glowing eyes follow our progress.
Four hooded figures wearing long crimson robes surround him. The Council of the Elders members are hard to miss or to confuse with simple nobles. The Lower Lands have no king. Their last ruler was abolished, and the council governs the nation. Its four members are elected by the nobles and are usually powerful mages. To avoid corruption, they rule for a maximum of one hundred years.
No muscle moves on Cyrell’s face when he welcomes us; his voice remains loud and solemn, and I wonder if he feels something. The memory of the pain twisting his stoic features when the prince was touching me in the throne room is still vivid, and my eyes linger on him longer than they should.
Dairell squeezes my fingers, and an angry vein appears below his crown. A reminder to whom I belong. I shrug and try to ignore the annoyance simmering inside me.
As thrilling as these dark power games among the Fae are, I’m getting sick of feeling like a pawn. So, I yank my hand from his grip, smile encouragingly in Cyrell’s direction, and vow to seek other ways to defy him. Standing my ground and not turning into his property is the only way I can fight for the chance to get back home when all of this is over.
The stairs, covered in gilded ceramic tiles, take us to a vast courtyard. The Palace of the People reminds me of Eastern European brutalism with its straight gray lines and minimalism. It’s such a contrast to the artful and filigreed palace of Dairell.
The crimson-hooded figures bow, and we follow them into the mastodon structure. Every corner is teeming with dark elves and soldiers, many reluctant to welcome the Dreadful One. The Black Guardians surround us, their ghostly appearance and fearsome reputation cooling the crowds off.
We enter a meeting room the size of a concert hall, a glass dome arching over a massive round table. An excited clamor arises when we take our seats. Bronze mechanical creatures serve us refreshments, the sound of their heavy steps and oiled joints swallowed by the loud conversations.
The discussions thin out when they spot us, and soon, complete silence reins. My eyes sweep over the numerous attendees—dark elf lords, ladies, and some odd, short creatures with unhealthy grayish skin. My heart skips a beat when I notice Diaphonus, shining like the sun behind the clouds, clad in his pristine, white priest’s garments. He holds my gaze and smiles, and I shuffle uncomfortably, remembering my trick to escape him. Next to him, sporting a casually elegant Brioni suit sits Tarcyll. His dark eyes glow up when he sees me, and he bites his lower lip with a fang, like a predator who has just spotted his dinner.
Everyone’s attention is drawn to a councilmember who presents our plan in the lilting language of the Fae.
“Dairell Dunadhainne,” the last two words hang in the air, which thickened after the mention of the Dreadful One’s name.
And when the prince rises, regal and magnificent, his gloomy wings weaving nets of shadows, his presence electrifying the room, many cringe in their seats or look away from this dark splendor.
“Humans have always fascinated me,” Dairell’s voice slices the dense silence like a blood-soaked blade, “and I thought I knew their kind well. Yet I was surprised. Taken aback by the strength and power in their delicate mortal shell.” He pauses and looks at me, and I tremble under the intensity of his peacock-blue gaze.
Everyone is glaring at me, and my palms start sweating. My breathing pattern changes. No. Not now. I will not allow it.
“I can confirm that,” Tarcyll raises opposite us, “Celeste harbors the purest and wildest power of the Serpent.”
“I support my brethren,” Diaphonus confirms, flicking a blond braid back. “The Light had mercy on us and sent us the most precious gift. With Celeste on our side, we have hope to prevail and purge the Siphons from Faëheim.”
Clamor rises in the room, and I distinctively hear the word “extractor” many times. Cyrell’s lips are pressed into a thin line when he rises.
“An Extractor, honorable Elders, cannot contain the power our mortal ally wields,” he politely addresses the crimson figures, yet his hands ball into fists at his sides. “I strongly suggest we proceed with the plan suggested by Dairell Dunadhainne. We—the four Hunters—will gather at the feet of the Sentinel and awaken Celeste’s magic in the only possible way.”
The idea that everyone in this room knows how my magic works and what the four Hunters are about to do to me is cringy. But I have learned that sexuality and magic are serious matters in this realm, and nobody makes indecent comments.
Some nod in agreement with his words. Cyrell has a certain influence over the nobles gathered here.
“We need to stand together to purge the Siphons from our lands. Even if this means allying with our oldest enemy,” the dark elven warlord concludes.
Deafening protests shake the glass dome before the last syllable has sounded off. I can imagine how scandalous it is to disagree with the Elders.
My breathing gets shallow, my chest heaving. I’m so tired of this. I’m tired of having decisions taken away from me, of being powerless in situations that matter, of hiding, avoiding, and popping pills. White hot rage boils inside me, and I decide I’ve had “Enough!”
I slam my fist on the dark wood, unleashing all the anger that has been festering within me all my life, and my eyes widen when the ten-inch-thick wood cracks, and a blinding magical explosion shakes the room, knocking some odd gadgets from the table. In the sudden silence, I can hear glass cracking above my head.
“I have enough power to revive the vines of the Underworld!” My voice is different now, shaking the bronze-plated walls like a rumble of thunder. “Tarcyll, Cyrell, Diaphonus, and, “I pause to look at him and notice, amazed, that he is the only one in the room grinning, “Dairell will help me release and tame that force. And it will be enough,” I roar, slamming the ruined table again, this time only sending sparks across the hall, “enough for all Faëheim.”
I am panting, looking around challengingly. I feel so mad, so righteous in my rage that I could tear the whole place apart.
A soothing caress on my back cools me off. Dairell’s wing is so soft when he brushes it against my skin.
“I stand by Celeste and will support her with all my power,” his voice is loud and clear, the voice of a ruler, “If you dare stand in our way, you will face me and all the power of my kingdom.”
