Page 96 of All the Chaos of Constellations
Star reading is the most basic form of celestial magic, it can be taught to anyone.
Asher’s words replayed in her mind.
“Try to get some rest now, darling.” Trysta stifled a yawn, disguising it behind the back of her hand. “Tonight is the final evening of the Firelight Festival, and then it will be time to finalize your wedding preparations.”
Novalise’s thoughts were a blur, a whirlwind of confusion and mistrust. She never would’ve imagined her mother was capable of conspiring against Queen Elowyn, but now shreds of doubt wove their way inside her, overwhelming her with uncertainty. There was still a possibility it was all a misunderstanding, nothing more than a rumored fallacy. Yet, she couldn’t quite let go of the unsettling notion that maybe, just maybe, Asher was right.
Either way, she would have to uncover the truth.
Trysta headed down the hall, then paused, turning back to glance over her shoulder. “Oh, and Nova?”
Novalise clasped her hands together to keep them from trembling, schooling her expression into one of innocence. “Yes, Mother?”
“Stay away from Lord Firebane.”
Novalise opened her mouth to object, but Trysta continued, not allowing her to get in another word.
“You do recall what happens when someone interferes with a wedding, do you not?”
Novalise swallowed, her throat thick and dry. She’d almost forgotten about the disastrous aftermath when one fought for love. “A fight to the death.”
“Exactly.” Trysta smiled and this time, it was laced with warning. “Let’s not give Lord Firebane the wrong impression. Surely you wouldn’t want to be the reason for his demise.”
With that, her mother turned away from her a final time and strolled down the hall, leaving Novalise alone and wrenched with fear. Icy beads of sweat slid down her spine. Her palms grew clammy and damp. Her heart thundered, pitching with panic so her breathing hollowed out, weak and uneven. If Asher fought Prince Drake, there was no way he would survive. The Shadow Prince would destroy him, end him.
Terror crippled her and she swayed, collapsing to her knees. The cold stone of the floor was jarring, biting through the thin fabric of her gown. She wrapped her arms around herself, rocking back and forth, squeezing her eyes shut. This was all her fault.
She couldn’t lose Asher.
She couldn’t let him die for her.
Stricken, she sucked in a gasping breath. The air wouldn’t come. She tried to swallow, to dislodge the knot of hysteria clogging the back of her throat, but it was impossible. Her chest ached, her lungs were too tight.
A broken sob escaped her, breaking her.
Then she heard it. The soothing calm of a voice, a gentle caress down the bond tying her to Asher.
“Breathe, Starlight. Breathe.”
CHAPTERTHIRTY-EIGHT
Asher stood beneath the hot spray of the shower, letting the scorching water sluice over his skin.
At Cyra’s request, he’d gotten at most three hours of sleep, but preparations for night two of the Firelight Festival were already underway. The last thing Asher wanted to do was to entertain the lords and ladies of Aeramere while pretending to be a formidable host all evening. Though the first night of dancing took place outdoors, the second night was usually held in a ballroom, something Asher could not stand.
He absolutely detested the idea of people milling about his private residence, cavorting with one another in a show of debauchery and affluence. Some always arrived far too early, while others often overstayed their welcome. It grated on his nerves, left his patience raw, watching them drink his wine and state their overtly obnoxious opinions on everything from the decorations to the number of books piled neatly upon most every surface in his house.
Asher turned off the shower and dried off, wrapping the towel around his waist. He stalked from the bathing suite to his bedroom, then flung open the doors to his wardrobe in search of something suitable to wear. He would’ve preferred it if pants and a collared shirt alone were deemed socially acceptable, but he had no doubt he would suffer Cyra’s scorn if he didn’t at least put on a trim coat.
Donning pants, boots, a crimson collared shirt, and a sleek black coat, Asher tossed a careless glance in the floor-length mirror next to his wardrobe. His hair was still damp, so he ran his fingers through it, adjusting the singular curl of silver so it fell in his face. Suddenly, he was flicking away imaginary flecks of dust and tugging on the sleeves of his shirt, ensuring he was more than presentable.
He’d never cared much for his appearance, but tonight he would have to face Novalise. After their argument, he’d been determined to seek out Queen Elowyn and demand she break the bond. But in the early morning hours, Novalise’s emotions had slammed into him with a force greater than anything he’d ever known. Panic had consumed her, owned her. The rapid beating of her heart echoed in his ears, and her shallow breathing caused his own lungs to tighten. It didn’t matter if he was still angry, it was torture to feel her suffering. He’d whispered to her then, to soothe the relentless terror washing over her. The moment he slipped into her mind, her thoughts calmed.
Eventually, her heartbeat slowed, and her breathing evened.
But she hadn’t replied.
All things considered, it was probably for the best.
