Page 11 of A Crown So Cursed
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
It hurts to breathe, but the ache feels like a sweet torture as it renews sensations long forgotten. Her proximity, the very air that swirls around her, is intoxicating, and with every step she takes toward me, the world seems to right itself after long being askew. My courtiers whisper among themselves, their voices a cacophony of indignation…
“It cannot be!”
“That’s her!”
“Banríon na bhfear!”
“Why isshehere?”
And so on, and so on…
A tide of protests rises as they recognize her—older now, with a measure of wisdom etched into those once-youthful features. There is newfound maturity in her carriage. But her fire remains.
“Kingslayer!” someone shouts, and my guards advance.
I lift a hand, commanding them to a halt.
At once, they obey, placing hands upon the hilts of their swords, ready to draw at my command.
Again, I will not.
If Gwendolyn came to me now with sword in hand, commanding me to kneel, I would lay myself prostrate at her feet.
Lirael stiffens as she passes, a mask of fury settling over her delicate features, her too-blue eyes narrowing to slits as she watches Gwendolyn with barely concealed malice.
Lord Elric stiffens, too, his smug expression dissolving into one of surprise, then contempt, and he leans into his daughter to administer words of prudence.
It is still my court; one word from me would see them arrested. For all his power and influence, he does not yet possess my crown.
Gwendolyn never hesitates in her stride, and I’d have flown down those bloody stairs to sweep her into my arms, but I suddenly fear I’ve lost my mind.
What else might explain her presence here when the portals are idle?
Surely this is a dream? But if it is, I should never wake…
And then I scent her…the evidence of our bond—as real and true as the blood that courses through my veins.
I once warned her that our mating would mark her as mine, and there it is, like the lingering refrain of a half-remembered melody I cannot will away, no matter how I try. The shape and substance of it floods my senses, sweet as blood oranges at high summer.
It is not a mere human memory, nor the feeble chemistry of mortals.
It is a living thing, the ancient magic of our kindred, a thread woven deeper than conscious thought. And though I know the bond should have faded after all these years—should have withered like so much neglected vine, it thrums with life and I am overwhelmed by it, nearly brought to my knees by its relentless certainty.
The crown, my Shadow Court, the bitter eyes of every peer and pretender—none of it matters beside this echoing pulse. I cannot remember if I ever felt so alive…or so vulnerable.
The court, for all its pride, senses it too.
Some shrink back as though burned.
Others lean in with a kind of hungry awe.
Her eyes hold mine—a myriad of emotions swirling within their depths.
