Page 15 of Love & Letter Charms
Aurelise watched as a girl with hair like polished obsidian offered a reserved smile and glided toward the throne with perfect poise. The Silverglen family was known for theirrare glenwhisper magic—that gentle enchantment that coaxed vitality from the natural world, making flowers bloom more vibrantly, streams flow with crystalline clarity, and even the air itself feel lighter with unseen potential.
“Lady Willow Blackbriar.”
Each name sent a fresh wave of whispers through the crowd. Aurelise watched as the chosen ladies stepped forward, savoring the blissful invisibility that came with no longer being the focus of hundreds of curious eyes.
“Lady Aurelise Rowanwood.”
Her heart stuttered.
Her hands went instantly cold.
No.
Chapter Three
Prince Ryden had not truly believed,until the very moment the words fell from his mother’s lips, that she would actually go through with this madness.
“Please,” he had begged her just that morning, abandoning all pretense of his usual cavalier demeanor. “I am asking you, as your son rather than your subject, not to make a public spectacle of my romantic prospects.”
“Darling, you are a prince,” she had reminded him. “Your romantic prospects were destined for public consumption from the moment of your birth. That is simply the nature of royal existence.”
“But a Crown Court?—”
“Furthermore,” she’d added, her expression softening just slightly, “it is unlikely romance will factor significantly into the proceedings, I’m afraid. We both understand what this is truly about.”
Indeed, he understood all too well.
Authority magic—the hereditary gift of the royal bloodline—should have been his birthright in the truest sense. It should have manifested as it had in his mother, as it had in rulers stretching back through generations: a steady, commandingpresence that made others naturally inclined to listen, to follow, to trust.
The magic didn’t compel obedience—that would be tyranny. Rather, it enhanced the qualities that made someone worthy of being followed. It clarified the voice, strengthened the presence, created an aura of competence that soothed tensions and inspired confidence.
In his mother, the magic was poetry. She could walk into a room torn apart by conflict and, through nothing more than her presence and perfectly chosen words, guide opposing parties toward accord. Her voice carried across vast crowds not through volume but through some ineffable quality that made people want to hear what she had to say.
In Ryden, the magic was chaos.
It coursed through him like a river, sometimes a gentle current, steady and serene, at other times a storm-swollen torrent, surging and crashing with violent force. Without pattern or warning, it would rise, stirred at times by unchecked emotion, yet just as often for no discernible cause. In those moments, his voice crashed over all who heard it, sweeping them along in its force. Not persuaded, not influenced, butcommanded, their free will stripped away as surely as if he’d placed chains upon their minds.
The mere thought of it made his stomach twist.
This, then, was the true purpose of the Crown Court. Finding a partner whose magic could complement his own, create the stability that would allow him to rule one day without becoming a tyrant who commanded through magical compulsion. Marriage bonds, according to his mother’s exhaustive and entirely confidential research—for there were few who knew of his condition—were the only proven method of achieving such permanent stabilization between complementary magics.
His mother reached the end of her announcement, and the crowd erupted in excited whispers. And of course, at this precise moment, Ryden felt his magic stir restslessly within him. He clenched his hands in his lap. Not now. Not with everyone present.
The air around him began to shimmer, so subtle that only someone looking directly at him might notice. But his mother noticed everything. She shifted slightly in her throne, and Ryden felt her own magic unfurl like a protective barrier, sliding between him and the assembled crowd with the ease of someone who’d been managing his surges since he’d first manifested at seventeen.
She leaned toward him, her expression never wavering from its regal warmth. To any observer, it would appear she was sharing some pleasant observation with her son. “Your eyes, dear,” she murmured, her voice barely a whisper.
Ryden immediately ducked his head. He knew what she meant—when his magic surged, his ink-blue eyes darkened to something closer to obsidian, an obvious tell to anyone who knew to look for it. The air around him still trembled with barely contained power, and he could feel the words pressing against his throat, demanding release. If he spoke now, if he said anything at all, it might emerge as a command that every soul in this ballroom would be compelled to obey.
He forced himself to breathe slowly, counting each inhalation. Four counts in. Hold for two. Six counts out. The breathing technique his mother had taught him years ago, though it grew less effective with each passing Season as his power strengthened.
This was happening. The Crown Court, the supervised courtship, the inevitable selection of a bride who would serve as his magical anchor for the rest of their lives. He needed to accept it. He needed to find someone suitable, someone whose magiccould cage his own. Then these unnatural surges, which should have stabilized within days of his manifestation but somehow still tormented him years later, would finally subside.
Perhaps it wouldn’t be entirely unbearable, he consoled himself as his magic began to settle. Some of the chosen ladies might prove interesting companions, at least.
Lady Coravelle Aerwynne would certainly be eager to please—perhaps too eager, given her near-swoon at his earlier wink. Lady Olivienne Silverglen had a reputation for wit that might provide amusing conversation, and her glenwhisper magic could very well prove to be the perfect complement to his authority magic. At least, that was his mother’s reason for choosing her for the Crown Court.
Then, of course, there were several unpleasant options, most notably Lady Ellowa Brightcrest. Ryden had to suppress a wince at the thought of her. Both he and his mother knew perfectly well he would never choose her, but her inclusion served other purposes. The generations-old feud between the Rowanwoods and Brightcrests had only recently begun to cool, like embers finally fading after a long blaze. If his mother extended an invitation to a Rowanwood without including a Brightcrest as well, she risked reigniting tensions that were, at long last, giving way to fragile peace.
