Chapter 18

"I do not believe it beyond the stretch of imagination that you have never been to court, is that correct?" Kortana asked as the carriage rocked gently beneath them, wheels groaning over the uneven cobblestone streets as they made their way toward the castle.

The soft glow of lanterns flickered within, casting shadows that swayed with each turn of the road. Outside, the night was thick with the scent of damp stone, horse sweat, and the faint, ever-present tang of the sea rolling in from the distant cliffs.

Amriel sat stiffly across from Kortana, trying not to fidget beneath the unfamiliar weight of her new robes that also shimmered faintly in the dim light. The fabric felt heavy, rich, far too fine for her skin, which still tingled from the unaccustomed luxury of the hot bath. Even her hair, now clean and combed smooth, felt foreign to her, no longer tangled and smelling of earth and forest.

Amriel exhaled, shifting slightly to test the range of movement the fine garments allowed her. Not much. The dress, and the corset Lyanna's magic had bound her into, were restrictive and difficult to adapt to when she was so used to her tunics and trousers.

Apparently, the noble women of Khymarh had no need to breathe or run. This was clearly meant for presentation, not practicality let alone comfort.

Outside, the faint hum of the city was giving way to the imposing silence of the castle's outer walls, where torches flickered against dark stone, and guards in polished steel armor stood at rigid attention. The sight of them sent an involuntary pulse of tension through Amriel's spine. She forced herself to breathe through it.

"No," Amriel admitted. "I You would not be wrong."

Kortana nodded. "Then listen carefully."

She leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping just enough to command Amriel's full attention.

"You do not speak unless spoken to. You do not ask questions unless permitted. And above all, you do not correct the King or his council, even if you know them to be wrong."

The carriage jolted slightly as they passed through the castle gates, the distinct clang of metal on metal echoing through the night.

"And what of the Queen?" Amriel asked.

Kortana studied her for a long moment before answering. "The Queen is not your concern."

Amriel narrowed her eyes. "That's not an answer."

Kortana's expression didn't shift, but something behind her eyes hardened.

"You are here for one purpose—to deliver the prophecy and nothing more. The Queen plays her own games, and I suggest you stay far from them."

The words should have put her at ease, but they didn't.

A prickle of unease crawled down Amriel's spine as the carriage finally rolled to a stop. Outside, the faint clang of a bell rang through the castle grounds, a distant, hollow sound that sent a shiver through her bones.

"You are about to enter a room where every word is a weapon, every silence a strategy," Kortana murmured, eyes gleaming as she reached for the door. "So steel yourself, Amriel."

The door swung open.

Cold air rushed in.

The castle awaited.

The castle doors loomed before them, tall and imposing, their dark wood banded with iron and etched with the ancient sigils of the ruling house of Drathex. Massive and unmoving, they bore the weight of history, of kings and queens who had stood behind them, of power that had endured wars, betrayals, and bloodshed. The witch light cast long shadows across the intricate carvings—twin eagles locked in flight, wings outstretched, talons bared—an ever-present reminder of the strength and vigilance of the royal line.

A pair of guards stepped forward from their posts, their armor gleaming. Like the doors they protected, they bore the unmistakable mark of their master. Their breastplates, polished to a mirror-like sheen, were enameled in the same crimson as the banners above, the twin eagles of the royal house embossed in silver across the chest. Heavy black cloaks draped over their shoulders, fastened at the collar with a brooch in the shape of a sword piercing through a laurel wreath—an emblem that denoted their rank among the elite castle guard.

Though their faces were concealed behind closed helms, their scrutiny was palpable. Their gazes swept over Amriel first, lingering for a fraction longer than she liked, before settling on Kortana. The way they shifted subtly, adjusting their stance just so, spoke volumes—they knew her. They respected her. And they would not dare bar her path.

"The Coven is expected," one of them intoned, before stepping aside.

Expected.

Not welcome, exactly.

Amriel forced her shoulders to stay relaxed, despite the scrutiny, and followed Kortana through the threshold.

The corridors leading to the Grand Hall of Khymarh's palace stretched long and vaulted, their arched ceilings covered in ancient murals and stone carvings. Every so often, a stone goblin or gargoyle peered down at their passage from atop the lofty pillars, their weathered faces twisted into frozen expressions of mischief or malice.

Sconces glowing with witch light lined the walls guiding Amriel and Kortana toward the grand chamber ahead. The many silver strands embroidered throughout their gowns glinted like captured moonlight, shifting with each step.

The sounds of music and chatter grew louder, the hum of conversation blending with the deep, resonant notes of stringed instruments. The scent of roasted meats and honeyed wine curled through the air, a sharp contrast to the cool stone halls.

Amriel inhaled deeply, steadying herself. She could already feel the weight of the night pressing down on her—too many unfamiliar faces, too many expectations she had not asked for.

Kortana walked slightly ahead, her stride smooth and deliberate. But just as they reached the final turn, footsteps echoed from the adjoining hall—measured, unhurried, yet carrying an authority that needed no announcement.

Amriel felt it before she even saw him.

Crown Prince Tristan of Khymarh rounded the corner, followed by a routine of courtiers and guards, and stepped into view. But it wasn't the prince, moving with the quiet authority of a man who had led soldiers into battle rather than merely studied war from the safety of gilded halls, who captured her attention.

It was the warrior who followed just behind him. Amriel's stomach twisted.

It was him.

She nearly faltered mid-step, heart lurching in her chest. It took every remaining ounce of control to keep her face impassive, to resist the urge to gawk like some slack-jawed fool. But there was no mistaking him—this was the man who had collapsed on her floor, two enchanted arrows buried in his flesh.

He was cleaner now, dressed in the chainmail and dark boiled leather armor she had cut from him. Evidently, he'd been able to get it repaired. The hood of his dark cloak lay folded back, revealing his bronze features and sharp emerald eyes that cut through the dim corridor like a blade. He swept a casual glance over the room, assessing, always watching.

When he finally looked at her, something cold and unreadable passed behind his gaze.

If he remembered her, he gave no sign of it.

Prince Tristan, unaware of her spiraling thoughts, slowed to a stop before them. His gaze swept over Kortana first, a flicker of amusement passing through his sharp hazel eyes.

"Lady Kortana," he greeted smoothly, dipping his head in acknowledgment. "I should have guessed you'd arrive just before the last bell. You were never one for idleness."

Kortana returned his nod, the sheer veil over her silver-grey hair shifting slightly with the motion. "Your Highness," she said evenly. "Time spent in leisure is often time wasted."

Tristan huffed a quiet chuckle. "And yet you walk into a grand feast. A den of leisure, if ever there was one."

Tristan was built like a man who had spent more time in armor than silk—broad-shouldered, his frame lean but strong, the movements of his body honed by years on the battlefield. He dressed with the understated confidence of a man who did not need finery to command respect. A high-collared tunic of deep charcoal, fastened with silver clasps, was fitted beneath a leather vest embossed with the sigil of his house. His sword belt sat comfortably on his hip, worn and well-used, an ever-present reminder that he was not just a prince but a warrior first.

His face bore the marks of experience—sharp angles softened only slightly by time, a strong jawline, and a faint scar that traced from his temple to just beneath his jaw. Keen eyes, a shade of golden-hazel, were the most striking thing about him. They held an unwavering sharpness, the kind that missed nothing, weighed everything, and made a man think twice before speaking in his presence. Yet, when amused, those same eyes carried a glint of dry humor, an easy charm that could put even the most guarded at ease—if he wished it.

His dark hair, streaked subtly with the first signs of silver, was kept short, more out of practicality than vanity. A well-trimmed beard framed his face, doing little to soften the unmistakable authority he carried with him.

Most might find him intimidating, but not the Coven Leader.

"I walk into a court," Kortana corrected. "A different beast entirely."

The corner of Tristan's mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but something close. There was an ease between them, one that did not come from duty alone. A familiarity, carefully tucked beneath layers of propriety.

Then his gaze landed on Amriel.

His gaze was not lecherous, not laden with the veiled intrigue so common among court men. Instead, it was sharp. Assessing. Like he was reading the spaces between her words before she even spoke them.

And then—

"Nythia's daughter," Kortana announced smoothly, gesturing to her.

Amriel blinked.

Not quite the introduction she had expected.

At the mention of her mother's name, the warrior behind Tristan turned fully toward her. His expression betrayed nothing, but those piercing emerald eyes—

Amriel had felt many eyes upon her that evening, but none quite like his.

A small shiver worked its way down her spine.

"Nythia's daughter," Tristan mused, his voice thoughtful.

A pause.

A flicker of something—calculation, recognition—passed through his golden-hazel gaze, but it was gone before Amriel could place it.

She hated the way her pulse kicked up, how the weight of his attention made her feel exposed.

"It's Amriel, my lord," she blurted, nerves betraying her.

A beat of silence.

"You're Grace," the warrior corrected, his voice even but firm.

Heat crawled up Amriel's neck.

Tristan, thankfully, seemed more amused than offended. "And here I thought I'd met every notable soul in my brother's kingdom," he said, his tone edged with wry humor. "It appears I was mistaken."

Amriel lifted her chin, willing her voice steady. "I've never been one for court, Your Highness. I prefer to remain unnoticed."

His lips twitched, the barest ghost of a smirk. "And yet here you are. Noticed."

Her gaze flickered back to the warrior behind him, but his attention had already returned to scanning the hall, as if their brief exchange had meant nothing at all.

She had no retort for Tristan's words—none that wouldn't sound defensive.

Thankfully, the Coven Leader came to her rescue, "She is under my protection," Kortana interjected, her tone firm, though not unkind.

Tristan inclined his head. "Then she must be worth protecting."

Kortana's patience thinned. "We should not keep the court waiting."

"Of course not," Tristan smiled and extended an arm towards the Coven Leader, who took it gracefully.

But just as Amriel moved forward, he spoke again.

"Try not to look so grim, Lady Amriel. It's a birthday, not a battle."

Amriel glanced up at him, catching the glint of playfulness in his golden-hazel gaze.

"That remains to be seen," she muttered.

Tristan let out a quiet laugh, warm and unguarded.

Then, without another word, he strode ahead toward the grand doors, where the celebration—and whatever awaited her inside—was about to begin.