Rowan parted the velvet curtains with the back of her hand and glanced out of the windows. The sky was as dark as their black sedan throttling through the lifeless forest of death. Mist clung to the woods like a stubborn veil she could not shake off from her view. A storm was brewing and she doubted any of the dried barks could withstand the light touch of wind, much less a violent one.
They would have to speed up if they were to reach Darkwoods Keep in time. Immortal or not, she was not immune to the force of nature, especially not in a place where life magick was close to none for her to take to begin with.
It was ironic how she was dressed in the best of dress but every inch of her skin felt uncomfortable. Even the satin ones she reserved to seduce her meals felt less repulsing than the gown of lace and pure silk she had on.
At least then she did not need to make a display rack for the gold and sapphire they sewn onto her gown. Those would only get in the way if she needed to escape. As if an itchy wig and layers of gold dust caked on her were not a good enough torture. Already, she was missing her leather boots.
She sighed. This time, it did not escape her handmaiden’s ears.
“I am sure His Grace would love you, my lady,” came Marie’s standard answer, clearly not reading her mind. As always. “You need not worry about it.”
Duke of Darkwoods would love me. Sure. Might as well tell me I am not a Nyphillie and we’re not heading to the beast’s lair, was what Rowan thought but she knew better than to voice it out loud. Knowing the King, if the Duke had really asked for her hand like he deemed, the old weasel would not have sent her at all.
“If I was the Duke, I would want my sister instead,” she lamented, acting the part of an insecure princess that she was not. But to the naïve young Fulgel, her acting was passable. Anastasia had always been the favourite princess of Lucidus—the only one in the knowledge of Lucidians, in fact. It was no wonder how Rowan had always appeared to be the victim of the King’s favouritism in her handmaiden’s eyes.
If only she knew.
“Do you think father…?” Rowan stopped, tasting the foulness of the word on her tongue. If she was not already frowning as a part of her act, the sudden change of expression would have been apparent.
The young Fulgel’s silver hair, almost transparent, came loose from her bun. She was barely seventy of years, yet, she looked much older than Rowan who was a hundred and thirty. Now, she looked as if she had just aged another century. “My lady, you know the King dotes on you like he would his own daughter.” The thunder in the background made Marie sounded even unsure than she was.
Rowan smiled wearily before returning her gaze to the gloomy sky. Dotes on you like his own daughter. Rowan had always found how optimistic Fulgels could be a mystery. She was only lucky he had not realized she had been feeding off his lapdogs.
—or maybe he had considering where she was now.
Noxsidus, as its name implied was the land where light never reaches, where life was scarce. Yards after yards, only the gloomy sky and trunks of wizened trees filled the expanse of their peripheral. Gust of wind ghosted around the branches, causing them to sway in an eerie dance. Claws of shadows waved with them, beckoning unguarded voyagers into the dead swamp beyond.
Not a single rodent nor beast roamed the land. Through the mist that clung to her windows, Rowan could sense not a speck of life magick in the air. It was impossible for her to imagine how it was a land where the Maguses of life once dwelled.
How could she keep her strength in a place like this? She would be rendered mortal in days.
That sly fox. She shook her head. No, that would be an insult to the beast. The King was worse than a beast. The beast at least did not prey on its own kin.
Speaking of beast, she wondered if the Magus who lived in the Keep was as bad a beast as they painted him to be. Even if she had just fed, her powers full, she doubt she could ever subdue a magically inclined Magus, much less one that had lived over thousands of years.
Who was she to stand against the oldest Magus alive? Once he sees her and found she was not the one he sought, she would be destroyed in cold blood. The King probably thought it would be great to let two monsters kill each other and save all his troubles. But she did not plan to perish. Yet.
Darkwoods Keep’s obsidian twin towers came into view, darker than black against the moonless sky. Red roses emblazoned upon flags of mahogany danced in the still air of the night, their weathered petals had darkened to the colour of blood.
The stallions drawing their carriage trotted to a stop, snorting as they stomped anxiously. Their fear hung thick in the air, a scent that Rowan was all too familiar with. They were more afraid of what lies beyond the walls than they were of the Nyphillie sitting in their carriage.
But they could not be blamed.
Even with her enhanced night vision, Rowan could barely grasp her surroundings as she stood in front of the colossal wooden drawbridge. Gust of winter whipped her false locks around her bare shoulders and made her shuddered involuntarily. Even the usually high temperature of her blood could not stop the shiver that ran through her body.
Thick barks of dark wood merged with the Keep’s jagged stone walls, distorted in their forms. It appeared to her as if the trees had grown protectively into the walls, the fangs of an invisible guardian with its mouth agape over the stone structure.
Green climbed its body and dust clouded its windows of stained glass, making it hard for Rowan to discern whether they were originally red or blue or the mixture of both. It seemed too old, too deserted to be the home of someone so powerful even the King was fearful of.
“Your Highness,” a baritone of voice broke the silence spell casted over them—the same moment Marie stumbled down the carriage and cursed under her breath.
Rowan snapped her head around, alarmed. The man had taken her by surprise. She could always feel another’s presence long before they notice her. It was her second nature, but for once, her instincts failed her. She had not felt an ounce of flowing life magick before the man spoke.
It was only when she met the man’s slit eyes that she realized why.
They were a deeper red but his hair was as dark as hers under her silvery disguise. Though wrinkles crinkled his eyes, his back was straight and his stature sturdy. He held himself tall, a hand placed respectfully on top of his heart. Pale white skin, almost translucent, peeked out from the collar of his crisp suit of black and purple.
It was strange enough to see a Nyphillie dressed in anything richer than cotton, it was stranger to see one out in the clearings without any form of cover.
“We have been waiting for your arrival.” The man waved two pages nearby to their carriage. Marie’s surprise was painted on her paled face as she stared after the boys, both clearly Nyphilles from head to toe.
The two returned, empty-handed except for a sealed crate of wood.
The man turned back to Rowan, an eyebrow raised. “You do not have any luggage with you, Your Highness?”
“No,” she shook her head, eyes still trained on the pages Rowan’s own surprise mirrored Marie’s, though years of practice kept it from showing on her face. Three Nyphilles out in the clear without disguise. “We travel light.”
He nodded for the pages to guide the stallions away before bowing low to Rowan again. “Well then, please follow me.”
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