Without the duo manipulating the elements, the sun peeked out of its hideout once more. Steady stream of sunlight flittered through the windows of clear crystal, cascading fragments of rainbow onto the white marble floor.
Golden trimmings intertwined with silver leaves climbed the walls and pillars, adding a soft glint to the display of light below. Chrysanthemums, marigolds and a minority of roses carved out of precious stones adorned the vases of gold that lined the hallway—none of which, Rowan noted, was anywhere near Cornelius’s workmanship.
But all the extravagance only added the oddity of their black parade.
Rowan had half the heart to turn and bolt out of the windows as soon as the doors shut tight behind them.
Flanked between the infantry that paraded behind the royal couples and the ones trailing behind them-it might had been protection in name but she knew they were trapped. Though she could not speak for Cornelius who seemed entirely unaffected, she knew she would not be able to breach the dark shields herself.
Davor Lockhart had clearly outdone himself this time. She had not thought the man was capable of sinking this low. It only proved how foolish she had been to think the man had an ounce of kindness left in him.
A weasel will always be a weasel.
After covering nearly a mile of the castle’s wide hallways, the throne room’s doors of rubies came into view. All the while, Rowan could only force herself to focus on the way Cornelius’s biceps twitched under her fingers and how positively warm his cold body felt against the chill that radiated from her core.
Under normal circumstances, she would have pulled away, chastised herself severely for finding comfort in another—a man, no less—but she could barely think straight with the anti-magick radiating off the reapers’ armours.
Just as Cornelius’s life magick had dizzied her, the crystals conflicted with her own life magick. But different from Cornelius’s cradle of ecstasy, this was one of fire in a furnace of brimstone slowly devouring her limbs. If Cornelius had not been with her, anchoring her nerves, she could not predict what her instincts would have pushed her to do.
She could barely hear Anastasia over the sharp ringing in her ears. “Father would be so delighted to see you,” Anastasia whispered with such sincerity in her eyes, Rowan was taken aback for a moment too long.
“As I am sure we would be.” She nodded, feeling a bitter taste on her tongue as the words tumbled out of her lips. Sometimes she wondered if the princess was really ignorant of their family’s feuds or she was just that good an actress. It was at times like these that she would pray to the gods she knew had long forsaken her, that it was the latter.
The sentries in silver armours standing on either sides bowed deeply before pushing the doors inwards. Bright white light spilled into the hallway, momentarily blinding Rowan’s sensitive eyes.
She held onto Cornelius’s sleeve, drew herself taller and tried to manoeuvre her way with her senses alone. Without missing a step, Cornelius placed a hand behind her and gently guided her forward.
“Lord Darkwoods!” the King’s voice boomed across the threshold before Rowan’s eyes finally adjusted to the lights.
In the throne room of gold, teardrops of amethyst dripped from the chandeliers of silver embedded into the high ceiling. Arched windows of stained glass depicting the ancestry of the Lockharts reached from the floor to the domed ceiling. Each piece was a shard of precious stone, refracting the light that passed through them and cascaded a myriad of colours across the room.
At least a third of Lucidus’s aristocrats crowded the second tier, each dressed to the nines, clad in clothing that rivalled the amount of jewels embedded into the walls of the castle. Below, the royal infantry of mahogany black lined either sides of the purple carpeted floor leading up to the throne.
Four of the Elders were perched upon the raised dais of silver on either sides of a single throne of gold. Each of them displayed a look sterner than the one before. The slanted elevens between their grey brows only deepened as soon as their eyes fell on Rowan.
She drew herself to full height and met their glare straight on, feeling a sudden need to embrace her birth right. One by one, her gaze travelled over the masked aristocrats before singling out the Elders. Within the walls of Lucidus, they were the only ones aware of her Nyphillie nature.
Each of them had been a part from different stages of her life.
Lord Triste, the youngest of the Elders was seated at the furthest left of the throne, the emblem of iris glinted silver against his robe of copper. The Elder from House Izzitea on the furthest right mirrored him with the only difference in his emblem of lily and long hair of silver instead of one that was cropped short.
The younger ones had eyes of pale lilac but not as pale as the ones beside them, seated on either sides of the King. One with the motifs of camellia sewn in abundant onto his robe of bronze while another adorned his with petals of marigold.
Stormhold and Maganti.
Unlike the two earlier, these were the men who had been around since her father ascended the throne. Yet, none of them had stood up for her family in the end. Their sin was as heavy, if not heavier than Davor’s.
Especially the Head of Maganti. Just the sight of his bulbous nose was enough to make the rage in her boil over again.
“It is truly an honour to have you here with us today, Your Grace,” the King beamed, reaching out to squeeze Cornelius on the shoulders as if he really was meeting his new son-in-law and not a Magus of higher status.
If Rowan did not already knew the man he was inside, his appearance and kind smiles might have fooled her the way it did all others in the room. Except for the crown of golden leaves, the King’s robe of white chrysanthemums was a plain sight placed among the Elders’ robe of bronze and gold. Had it been a part of the charade to present himself as a saint, the King had succeeded indefinitely.
Cornelius backed from the weasel’s grasp, his gesture so subtle that none except Rowan noticed the tension in his arms as he folded his hands in a formal Lucidian greeting. “It would seem to me that I have no choice in the matter.”
The King and the four Elder’s faces paled for the briefest seconds before Cornelius turned to Rowan. He placed his hand on hers, gazing into her eyes with such affection it was unmistakeable. “My lady would surely blame me if I were to make her miss her beloved sister’s wedding.”
Both the King and Belius arched their brows at the Duke who seemed entirely unaffected by the duo, his eyes locked only on his lovely wife.
Rowan suddenly found the curved lines on the marble floor an interesting subject to study. Anastasia on the other hand, could not seem to mask the glee of the little girl in her, taking Rowan’s reaction as embarrassment.
Murmurs ran wild among the aristocrats on the floor above. Though Rowan tried to quiet her senses, she could not help but pick up the repeated phrases.
Did you hear that? Is he really the Noxsidus’s beast? The princess’s sister? Had the King two daughters?
“Besides,” Cornelius’s voice carried easily across the threshold. “It seemed appropriate that I should personally extend my thanks to you, Your Majesty, for bestowing Princess Rowan to me.” Cornelius’s hand on hers tightened, “One could not possibly ask for a lovelier wife.”
For spilt seconds, Davor Lockhart did not speak. He glanced between Rowan and Cornelius, a slow smile forming upon his lips. “Indeed. She is her mother’s daughter after all.” Turning to Rowan, he added, “I am glad for you for such a loving spouse, little wildflower.”
Her childhood nickname upon the King’s lips made Rowan cringed. She could not help but marvel at the weasel’s ability to act. Who was he to talk of her mother? Of Queen Leora whom he had forced to take her own life? Her repulsion at the King’s act of endearment caused her grip on Cornelius to tighten involuntarily.
Cornelius squeezed back, channelling his magick to his palm as he did. Putting himself between the King and her, he placed a hand over his heart respectably.
“I believe the journey had tire my lady. If Your Majesty does not mind, perhaps we could leave this for another day?” Cornelius nodded to Anastasia and beckoned her forward.
“Father,” without missing a beat, Anastasia took the cue and sank into a curtsy before the King could proclaim his thoughts on the matter. “The wedding is not on the morrow. We would have plenty of time in the morning, wouldn’t it be wiser to call it a day and continue perhaps, when our guests had rested?” As if an afterthought, she added, “It would sadden the cooks to serve the fine pumpkin soup cold.”
The hard edges of the King’s features softened at the young princess’s words. “Indeed, it would be a pity to let the freshest of harvests go to waste.”
It was a magick unique to Anastasia, one that Rowan could not help but envy. Despite being born a Fulgel, she had always had a natural flair for reading expressions and saying the right words at the right time. Even as a Nyphillie who could read the flow of life magick in another being, Rowan could not be as sure.
“We shall adjourn on the morrow then,” the King announced, unceremoniously dispersing the watchful crowd with a clap of his hands. The Elders rose wordlessly and bowed in his direction with a hand over their hearts.
The sound of wooden stools scraping against the floor echoed throughout the room as the aristocrats filed out, puffed skirts swishing against one another. The Elders were the last to leave, their wizened eyes glaring as they threw their sleeves behind them in a huff.
Cornelius’s reaction was instantaneous. He slipped a hand around Rowan’s waist, drawing her close and breezed past the four, deliberately ignoring them as one would the wild grass that lined their path.
The action took her by surprise. Rowan glanced up from his chest, inhaling his familiar woodsy scent as she regarded his unfamiliar expression. Her eyes were locked on his lips, drawn into an unmoving thin line as he spoke to her.
“The Elders may be ranked higher than a duke in name but do not forget, you are the Duchess of Noxsidus, the consort of the last Magus. No one is allowed to belittle my chosen, not even the Lockhart ancestors, much less those vermin. It was their age that gave them the title, a title of pity I would say. If one were to compare, I had made Al centuries before those four were born and crawling.”
“Though I must say, I aged better.” He stopped, glanced at Lord Maganti over his shoulder and added as an afterthought, “Much better.”
“You are strangely wordy today, Lord Darkwoods.” Rowan chuckled lightly, earning a gentle smile from the Duke.
“That’s my little one.” He pulled her closer to him, bending down to nuzzle against the top of her head. The gesture sent a wave of warmth that cured her of all the chill that had crowded her veins since they’d stepped through the castle’s gates.
“You should know that you’re free to roam the land as your true self now. Nyphillie or not, I swear on my life magick that no one shall ever harm you because of false accusations again.”
His sudden words caused Rowan’s steps to come to a halt.
An invisible hand crawled up her chest, squeezing her heart from inside out. She could not breathe, could not think other than nodding against the Duke’s broad chest, suddenly finding it hard to peel herself from his grasp. Though she trudged forward, moving one foot in front of another, she could no longer feel her legs. Only the synced beats of their hearts, their chest next to one another’s rang in her ears.
Her parents had given her the freedom to be herself but they had reaped her of her freedom to roam the realms. The King may had forced her to hide her Nyphillie nature but he had given her the freedom she had never been spared throughout her childhood.
Yet, no one had ever given her the true freedom she had so craved.
Now a man she barely knew for months had so easily promised her both. But what frightened her most was not his impossible promise.
It was the realization that she found herself believing in him.
The question is, how?
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