The moon hung like a silver medallion in the midnight sky as they finally emerged from the castle's western gate. The hour had crept well past midnight, the constellations of the Warrior and the Witch Mother hanging low in the sky—a fitting alignment for this night of transition.
Queen Elara stood at the top of the granite steps, her silver-threaded robes catching the light as she moved, the enchanted fabric seeming to ripple like water with each subtle shift of her body.
Surrounding the queen, Princess Irina's nine sisters, full and half, formed a half-circle of varying heights and colorful silks, their jewels winking like stars. Several handmaidens hovered at the edges of the farewell party, some openly dabbing at wet eyes with embroidered kerchiefs while the princess's courtly friends wept openly. The king's absence hung in the air like a physical thing, a void more noticeable than if the throne itself had been dragged into the courtyard.
Amriel observed it all from her position near the waiting carriage, her back pressed against the lacquered wood as she tried to make herself smaller, less intrusive in this family moment. The weight of her discovery—and the king's peculiar reaction to it—pressed against her ribs more painfully than any corset.
Of course, what could be considered a normal reaction to hearing such a thing?
Amriel tried to see their encounter from the king's point of view. A man in his position, there was no doubt he would have been approached with such things before. And it would always be left to him whether or not to believe. For what he thought, the kingdom, perhaps even the realm, would feel.
As much as the world might think poorly of him in this moment, perhaps there was a reason the king had not attended. Such that might involve the fate of the realm.
In place of the king, Prince Tristan descended the steps, his midnight-blue cloak billowing behind him with each purposeful stride. The warrior walked a step behind, one hand resting on his sword hilt as his eyes continuously scanned the courtyard, even here in the heart of the most secure place in the realm. His gaze swept over Amriel without a flicker of recognition. She felt a knot form in her throat, a tangle of frustration, relief, and something more complicated that she refused to name.
It made no sense, she barely knew him. He'd spent a single night in her care before vanishing without a trace. But that didn't change the fact she wished he'd recognized her.
Perhaps the head wound was worse than I believed.
Queen Elara approached her daughter, their resemblance striking in the moonlight—the same high cheekbones, the same proud carriage. But where the queen's Power sang around her like a beautiful, controlled melody, Irina felt like a barely contained storm.
"Remember who you are," Queen Elara said, her voice carrying across the courtyard, melodious but firm. "The Power does not define you; you define how the Power manifests."
The traditional farewell of a Witch Queen to her daughter. Amriel had only ever read of such moments in the dusty tomes kept in her village's small library. The common folk were not welcomed to attend such family events events.
Princess Irina bowed her head in acknowledgment, a single dark curl escaping the elaborate coronet of braids adorning her head. "I will bring honor to our lineage, Mother."
No hugs, no tears from either mother or daughter—such displays were considered unseemly for those touched by the Power. Emotion clouded judgment, and clouded judgment led to magical catastrophes, or so the old teachings claimed.
The younger princesses were less restrained, breaking protocol to swarm their departing sister with embraces and tearful goodbyes, their voices rising and falling like songbirds as royal decorum temporarily gave way to genuine sibling affection. Prince Tristan allowed it for several moments before clearing his throat, the sound cutting through the night.
"The hour grows late, niece," he said, his voice gruff but not unkind. "Coven Leader Kortana awaits, and it wouldn't do to keep the most powerful witch in Khymarh waiting—royal blood or no."
The prince's horse, along with a routine of mounted guards, stood waiting off to the side, ready to escort the princess safely to her new home for the next seven years.
Princess Irina extricated herself from her sisters with practiced grace, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her light violet gown, a change from the rich yellow silk and Rhylor lace that had cost more than most families earned in a year that she'd worn for the celebration.She approached the carriage, and for the first time, her dark eyes locked with Amriel's.
A moment of understanding passed between them—two women standing at the precipice of change, neither fully in control of the forces propelling them forward. Amriel inclined her head slightly, a gesture somewhere between the respect owed to royalty and the acknowledgment of a shared fate.
The warrior opened the carriage door. For a heartbeat, Amriel found herself close enough to him to catch the scent of leather and steel and something uniquely him—a scent that had filled her small cottage on one stormy night. His forearm brushed against her shoulder as he steadied the door, and she felt a jolt of... something. Not Power, but something equally disquieting.
He frowned slightly. Amriel quickly averted her gaze, suddenly fascinated by the intricate carvings on the carriage door—twining vines and protective runes, ancient symbols of safe passage worked into the wood by craftsmen who understood that in this world, beauty and function were often inseparable.
With a final glancing farewell, princess Irina entered the carriage and transformed into acolyte Irina.
Kortana followed, bidding the Queen and the Crown Prince farewell with a graceful nod.
Amriel climbed in last, acutely aware of how out of place she was in this tableau, a common herbalist, now seated in a royal carriage opposite one of the most powerful women in the realm.
The door closed with a solid thunk and the carriage lurched forward, wheels crunching over the courtyard's cobblestones as the horses began their steady pace toward the Coven Tower that loomed in the distance, silhouetted against the star-scattered sky.
Princess Irina maintained her composure admirably as they rolled away from the castle, but Amriel noticed how the girl's fingertips pressed white against the velvet seat cushion, betraying her inner turmoil. Only when they passed through the outer gates and turned onto the main thoroughfare did Amriel catch the single tear that escaped, tracing a glistening path down the princess's cheek like liquid starlight.
The tear remained unacknowledged, unwiped away—a silent rebellion against the stoicism expected of those who wielded the Power.
Some might think such emotion excessive for a short journey; after all, the Coven Tower was visible from the castle, perhaps a half-hour's ride through the capital city. But Amriel understood the true distance being traversed tonight. She had seen enough witches come and go from—some returning changed, others never returning at all—to know that crossing the threshold of the Coven Tower meant leaving one life behind entirely.
The carriage jostled over a particularly uneven section of cobblestones, and Amriel winced as her shoulder bumped against the hard wooden frame beneath the velvet upholstery. Silence stretched between the three occupants, broken only by the rhythmic clop of hooves and the occasional shout of a night watchman as they passed.
Beyond the carriage windows, the capital city of Khymarh unfolded in layers of shadow and light. Streets Amriel had only heard of in travelers' tales materialized before her eyes—the Glassblowers' Quarter with its eternally burning kilns casting orange glows through workshop windows; the Scholars' District where enchanted lamps burned blue-white in tower windows despite the late hour; the sprawling Market Square, now empty save for stray cats prowling between abandoned stalls.
"It's late. You will spend the night at the Coven Tower," Kortana declared, her tone leaving no room for discussion. The Coven Leader's eyes reflected flickers of witch light from the street lamps they passed—spheres of enchanted glass containing magic that never dimmed, never needed fueling. Amriel had marveled at them earlier that evening, but now they felt like watching eyes following their progress through the slumbering city.
Amriel's lips parted instinctively to protest—she needed to return to her cottage on the outskirts of the city, needed the comfort of her own small space after a day that had upended everything she thought she knew. But fatigue crashed over her like a physical wave, the accumulated stress of the day's revelations draining the last of her reserves.
The tome, the king's reaction, the strange familiarity with which Kortana had regarded her... and most disturbing of all, the whispered words the king had uttered before fleeing the chamber: "If Nythia were here…"
Nythia. Her mother's name, spoken by the king himself. With recognition, no less.
What was my mother to these people? The question circled Amriel's mind like a hungry wolf, never settling, never finding rest.
The carriage wheels rattled over the courtyard stones of the Coven Tower's outer bailey, the sound echoing against walls of pale granite that soared upward until they disappeared into the night sky.
The clattering hooves of the guardian routine came to a stop just moments before the carriage rolled to a stop. Princess Irina stirred from her silent contemplation of the passing cityscape. In the glow of the enchanted lamps that lined the Tower's entrance, Amriel could see that the princess had composed herself entirely, no trace remaining of that solitary tear.
Glancing down, Amriel realized she'd been clutching her own thighs so tightly her fingers had cramped.
The Warrior, evidently always part of the princes routine, opened the carriage door, his face impassive as he offered a hand first to Princess Irina, who accepted it with regal poise, and then to Kortana, who ignored it completely, descending with the fluid grace of one who had navigated these steps thousands of times before.
When his hand extended toward Amriel, she hesitated, something rebellious and prideful rising within her. She didn't need his help; she'd managed perfectly well without the assistance her entire life. But exhaustion made her clumsy, and as she moved to step down, her foot caught on the hem of her borrowed dress.
His strong fingers closed around her forearm, steadying her with surprising gentleness. For a heartbeat, their eyes met, and something flickered in the depths of his gaze.
"Careful," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that she felt more than heard. Up close, the scar that bisected his left eyebrow was more pronounced—a souvenir from the same battle that had nearly claimed his life.
"I don't need your help," she replied, more sharply than intended, pulling her arm from his grasp. The contact had unsettled her more than she wished to admit.
The Warrior's expression hardened, and he stepped back with a curt nod. "As you wish."