Chapter 19
The Grand Hall was a chamber designed not just to host celebrations but to remind all who entered of the weight and power of the crown that reigned over it.
The chamber stretched nearly the full length of the central keep, vast and cathedral-like, its high, vaulted ceiling disappearing into shadow despite the glow of countless chandeliers. Suspended by thick iron chains, the golden fixtures bathed the hall in flickering light, the enchanted flames of witch-lights glimmering across the cavernous space like stars caught in a restless sky.
Along the hall's length, massive pillars stood as silent sentinels, their surfaces carved with the tales of kings long dead. Amriel's gaze skimmed over the engravings as they passed.
The rise and fall of dynasties, battles waged in blood and steel, divine favor bestowed upon the worthy—all of it etched into cold stone, meant to endure beyond the flesh of the men who once lived it.
The air carried a thick blend of roasted meats, spiced wines and heady perfumes. Scents of Marr, Veros and Tyr mingled with chestnut stuff duck, herb basted chicken and peppercorn crusted beef.
Servants in black-and-gold livery moved seamlessly through the throng, bearing silver trays piled high with glazed pheasant and honeyed figs, goblets brimming with deep red wine.
The hall was alive with conversation, the air thick with the murmured dealings of nobles who wielded whispers as deftly as warriors wielded blades., punctuated every so often by laughter. Above it all, the court musicians played from their gallery, their instruments weaving a melody Amriel vaguely recalled.
At the far end of the hall, on a raised dais, the head table sat empty beneath an opulent canopy of black velvet embroidered with gold thread. The absence of the King and Queen was noticeable, but no one questioned it.
Power moved as it pleased.
Ahead of her, Kortana walked arm in arm with Crown Prince Tristan of Khymarh, their approach a deliberate, measured thing. If she hadn't known better, Amriel might have thought them a pair perfectly matched in ambition and elegance.
Kortana, ever poised, seemed at home among this world of nobility and wealth, though everyone knew she had been born a merchant's daughter. She carried herself with the assurance of a woman who had long since decided her place in the world—and dared anyone to challenge it.
The Prince held his own next to the Coven Leader. Outfitted in his ceremonial military garb, Tristan moved like a man who had commanded armies, yet spoke the language of rulers with ease. There was no need for pomp or extravagance—his presence alone made people pause, take notice.
A hush fell over the nearby crowd as the Prince and Coven Leader descended into the thick of the gathering crowd. A few nobles merely glanced their way before turning back to their conversations, but many others lingered. Their shining eyes assessing the pair.
Amriel did not need to hear their whispers to know what was being said. Were they allies? Lovers? Speculation would fill the corridors by morning, new rumors spun with the ease of silk unwinding from a spool.
They wear their masks well, Amriel thought, catching the glint of appraisal in more than a few pairs of eyes.
And then—some of those eyes shifted to her.
She felt them, one after another, subtle but pointed. Some curious. Some scrutinizing. Some outright dismissive.
Amriel was used to being overlooked, used to slipping past attention rather than drawing it. But here, in the grandest hall of Khymarh, flanked by figures who demanded notice, she was something new.
They're trying to place me.
A stranger. A puzzle.
She was clearly no witch, so why was she in the company of the Coven Leader? Her gown, though well-made, was not of the highest fashion. She bore no great house sigil, no jewels save the simple pendant at her throat. To those who thrived in the delicate warfare of court, her presence was a question that begged an answer.
She resisted the urge to shift under their scrutiny, instead keeping her expression neutral. If she had learned anything, it was that revealing discomfort in a place like this was like bleeding in the water.
Beside her, the warrior moved in near silence, his presence a quiet but steady force at her side.
He was close enough that she could feel the faint brush of his cloak against her arm, the warmth of him a stark contrast to the coolness of the stone around them.
Amriel exhaled through her nose.
Well, at least he's alive and well.
Did he really not remember her? Or was he simply choosing to pretend?
Two weeks had passed since she had pulled arrows from his body, since she had sat beside him as his fever burned through him. And now here he was—whole, armored, silent. Not a single glance, not a flicker of recognition from him.
You're welcome, she thought dryly as they neared the dais.
She kept her head forward, her shoulders squared and her steps measured. She had endured worse than the scrutiny of courtiers. Yet, as they moved through the shifting bodies, the suffocating weight of the hall pressed in around her.
A voice, low and edged with quiet amusement, broke through her thoughts.
"You look like you'd rather be anywhere but here."
The warrior.
He didn't quite turn his head, his attention seemingly fixed on the shifting sea of nobles ahead. But the words were meant for her.
For a brief moment, she considered not answering, swallowing the tension knotted in her chest. But something in his voice—calm, unbothered—made it easier to respond.
"I would," she admitted, her tone wry.
His lips curved, just slightly. A trace of something—not quite a smile, not quite indifference.
"That makes two of us."
She didn't know what to say to that. So she said nothing. Instead, she focused on the rhythmic movement of bodies as the procession continued, her presence nothing more than a shadow trailing behind the Coven Leader.
As Kortana and the Prince were welcome to the first table on the floor below the dais at the head of the hall, Amriel found herself herded off to the side. Her place, evidently, was seated hidden in the archways with the rest of the acolytes and servants.
She sank into a seat beneath one of the archways, hidden in the half-light where the grand chandeliers didn't quite reach. An observer.
To her left, a young witch in deep mauve sat poised, dark hair woven into intricate braids. Second rank, close to ascension. Soon, she would claim the title of Master, the highest rank beneath the Coven Leader.
The witch made an attempt at conversation—polite, fleeting—until realization struck. Common blood.
And just like that, the space between them grew.
Not that it bothered her, Amriel was used to it.
The acolyte seated on Amriel's right remained utterly silent. His robes bore the insignia of the Head Archivist, and though she wanted desperately to ask about Mara, the air around him was cold, impassable.
So she let the silence settle.
Nearby, the warrior stood—watchful, still.
Curiosity tugged at her, a quiet, insistent pull.
She risked a glance. Brief. Fleeting.
The warrior stood like a statue—tall, unmoving, watchful. The sharp cut of his jaw, the quiet storm lingering in his emerald eyes, calm yet calculating. Even in stillness, he carried the presence of a man ready to move at a moment's notice, his attention flickering over the room in measured sweeps.
He wasn't dressed like the noble guards that dotted the hall, their ceremonial armor more decorative than functional. No, his gear bore the wear of true use, reinforced for war rather than display. Dark leather layered over steel, the edges worn smooth by time and battle. A warrior, not a pawn of court.
And yet, he was here. Why?
She forced herself to look away before he could catch her staring. It didn't matter. He didn't matter.
A sharp note rang through the hall—the final, drawn-out chord of the musicians. The sound lingered for half a breath before plunging the room into silence.
Then—movement.
The King had arrived.
The courtiers turned as one, backs straightening, hands smoothing silks and velvets. A hush spread like a ripple over still water, the arrival of the King, Queen, and Princess Irina drew every gaze in the room.
The air shifted, heavy with expectation. Even the chandeliers seemed to burn brighter, casting gold across the marble floors.
Through the grand arched doors, he stepped forward.
Amriel tilted her chin, craning her neck slightly to see the royal family as they ascended the dais.
Dressed in black robes edged with gold, the King moved with the confidence of a man who had never been questioned. A crown of polished obsidian gleamed atop his silver-streaked hair, and in the dim light, it almost looked as if shadows clung to its edges.
At his side, the Queen glided with an elegance that seemed almost otherworldly, her deep purple gown catching the glow of the witch lights above.
The Queen was a Witch.
A truth known to all. It was whispered about in the same breath as her beauty, her wisdom, and—more recently—the inheritance of her gifts by the princess who walked at her side.
Princess Irina was radiant, a vision of youth and power yet to be fully realized. Her gown was a softer shade than her mother's, violet edged in silver, the fabric shifting like liquid as she moved. The glow of witch light caught in the delicate jewels woven through her dark hair, making her look almost ethereal.
A princess coming into her power. A kingdom waiting to see what kind of woman she would become.
She would never inherit her father's throne. But she was expected one day to serve as counsellor to her father's heir.
Amriel's stomach twisted. She knew what it was to have expectations pressed upon you, to carry a legacy you never asked for. She watched as Irina took her place between her parents, her expression poised, though Amriel could not tell if the quiet tension in her shoulders was nerves or simple restraint.
From her other side, the warrior remained silent, his posture relaxed but his attention sharp.
A deep, resonant voice broke the quiet.
"Honored guests, loyal kin, and devoted subjects of Khymarh," the King began, his tone carrying easily through the vast hall. "Tonight, we gather not only to celebrate, but to bear witness."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd as goblets were raised, but the King lifted a hand, and silence fell once more.
"For sixteen years, my daughter has been raised beneath the watchful eyes of this court, a child of both her mother's wisdom and my own rule. She has been taught in diplomacy, in the histories of our kingdom, and in the weight of her duty. But now, another path opens before her. A path written in her very blood."
The Queen's fingers rested lightly on Irina's arm, a gesture both comforting and affirming. The princess lifted her chin.
"As she steps forward into her inheritance, she will no longer walk as a child of this court, but as a student of a greater power," the King continued. "And in this, she shall be guided by one who has stood at my side in both war and peace, who has long been the keeper of knowledge and the blade in the dark when the realm has needed it."
The hall turned as one to Kortana.
Amriel felt the shift, the silent acknowledgment of the woman beside her. Kortana did not bow—she never did—but she inclined her head, accepting the King's words with the quiet certainty of someone who already knew their place in this world.
"Coven Leader Kortana," the King addressed her directly now. "It is to you that I entrust my daughter's training. As you once honed your own gifts, you will shape hers. As you once served this kingdom in times of war, you will prepare her to do the same—should the gods demand it."
A pause, weighted and deliberate.
"We do not know yet what fate has planned for her. But what we do know is that she carries the strength of her ancestors. That she is not only my daughter, but my heir. And she must be ready for what is to come."
Another murmur passed through the hall. Amriel heard it in the shifting bodies, in the flicker of watchful gazes.
The King lifted his goblet.
"To Princess Irina. To the path ahead."
A chorus of voices echoed back, goblets raised, the words carrying through the great hall like the first gust of a gathering storm.