Elana wasn’t going to beg him for his silence. She would rather take the punishment than plead with her father’s most prized squire.
Unlike Soren, even with blood on her side, Elana was a stunning disappointment. Her father, who was granted a dukedom after becoming the Northern Kingdom’s most decorated war hero, a SS ranked dark mage. Her mother, High Lady of the Eastern Kingdom and a grade A botanical mage in her own right. All six of Elana’s former siblings had been born with untold levels of mana potential.
And then, along came Elana. As if the duke and duchess had used up all the magic in their bloodlines, from birth, Elana had none. Not one drop of magic ability. Even by commoners standards, she was a staggering failure. And she’d never been evaluated by commoners’ standards. She was the blood-related daughter of the legendary Duke Gerard de Vanquise.
She wouldn’t have been surprised if her father had kept Soren under his wing, despite his affiliation with Antoine, with the intention of adopting him into the family. Gerard de Vanquise needed an heir.
With Antoine being expelled from the family and Elana being… Elana, Soren was a reasonable alternative.
As if he could read the trajectory of her thoughts, Soren sighed, loudly. He closed his eyes, raking a hand through his mussed hair. He usually kept it orderly, but his unkempt waves were on full display. Judging by the damp roots of his hair, a deep storm blue, he was just getting in from a late night of training.
He rubbed the back of his neck and, after a long, pregnant pause, sighed again.
“No, my lady,” he said, shaking his head. “So long as you return to your quarters.”
Her parents' muffled voices were no longer audible. Whatever it was they'd been fighting about, it was over now. All she’d gleaned was that she was, once more, a source of contention for the duke and duchess. Nothing new.
Elana took a long, deep breath to calm herself, tamping down the sharp twinge in her chest. Soren was the last person she wanted concerned questions from.
“Fine,” she muttered, crossing her arms. “I’ll go back.”
Her brow furrowed as she waited for him to get out of her way so she could step out of the alcove. But he didn’t. Instead, he was searching her face. Elana schooled her expression into a practiced mask of indifference.
Illuminated by the narrow ring of light still visible from the base of his lantern, he almost looked like a stranger. His eyes, normally a lavender haze, were painted with the warm orange glow of the fire, robbing him of his familiarity for a brief moment.
Elana straightened her spine, clearing her throat. “I said, I’ll go back.”
Soren didn’t move. She gave him a look, but he simply raised his eyebrows.
“You have a lot of nerve for someone who’s still only an attendant,” Elana said, looking away.
“For a squire as well,” Soren agreed, unhelpfully.
“It’s not as if there’s anything left to hear anyway,” Elana said, gesturing for him to get out of the way. “I’ll return promptly to my room.”
“Of course you will,” Soren agreed, finally stepping aside. He gestured for her to join him. “I’ll escort you there myself, after all.”
“You know, it’s poor etiquette for a man to be alone with a lady after sundown,” Elana sighed, frustration knitting her brow a second time.
“It’s worse etiquette for a lady to skulk around closed doors, listening in on private conversations,” he said, daringly casual.
Elana shot him another look. “This and that are two different things.”
Soren shrugged haplessly. “I’ll keep your secret, if you keep mine, then.”
Elana looked at him for a long while as they walked side by side, but he kept his gaze firmly ahead, with an expression so peaceful, so unperturbed that it was impossible to get a read on him.
He seemed serious about this.
“Fine,” Elana said, after mulling it over.
The ghost of a smile pulled at Soren’s lips. “Fine.”
Elana was struggling her way through breakfast.
It was proving a challenge to keep her eyes open at the table, despite the obvious tension in the air. Conversation at the dining table was always minimal, but today it was especially silent. She pushed her food around her plate, trying to stay awake.
It was rare that Elana slept through the night, but last night she’d barely slept at all. The nightmares were always bad, but last night they’d been worse. She couldn’t remember the specifics, but she was certain she’d died at least fifty different ways by daybreak. The average night she went through maybe ten. Even for her, last night’s dreamscape had been an exceptionally shitty showing.
She blamed the lack of answers and the duchess’ sudden shift.
Elana sighed into her tea. She wanted to ask the duchess about yesterday. If she managed to find the right words, would her mother give her an honest answer? Or would she deflect and change the subject, as she always did?
Her father didn’t give her any time to stew in those thoughts.
“Elana.” The duke’s deep voice broke the silence.
Elana jerked her head up, eyes wide. She crumpled the napkin in her lap as her palms broke out in a cold sweat. When was the last time she’d heard her father address her directly? “Yes, father?”
“The Royal Magic Academy has summoned you,” he said. “Your attendance is required this year.”
There were only three months left until year’s end.
The duke’s eyes, the same deep ocher as her own, narrowed as he looked at her. Iron-faced. Elana glanced at the duchess, who was watching her with an equally inscrutable expression. Neither of her parents betrayed any hint of emotion.
“This… year?” She swallowed. “When, exactly?”
This time, it was the duchess who spoke. “You’ll begin in three weeks' time."
Elana dropped her gaze, staring at a fixed point on the table. Three weeks. She could hear her heart hammering in her chest. That was barely any time.
“You’ll be taking the placement exam next week,” the duchess said. She was using the same clinically detached voice she used for Elana’s lessons. “Do you understand?”
“Marlena,” Gerard interrupted, with warning in his voice. “Elana de Vanquise, look at me,” he asked, his voice brusque. “Is this something you are prepared to do?”
Elana blanched. She didn’t need to look to know what kind of face her mother was making.
“Yes,” she lied, looking up to meet her father’s gaze. “I’m prepared, Your Grace.”
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