Page 22 of Love & Letter Charms
She paused at Lady Coravelle Aerwynne’s panel. The young woman’s portrait showed her laughing at something off-frame, her wide eyes sparkling. “Sweet girl, excellent family. They traditionally manifest air-related magic, and hers takes the formof protective barriers of air. Shields, if you will, that deflect and dissipate other magic. Potentially a good match for you, though mere deflection falls short of what we truly need.”
Swipe. Lady Olivienne Silverglen materialized, her knowing smile suggesting she was in on a joke no one else understood. “Ah, now here is our premier candidate. Glenwhisper magic is uncommon and often overlooked, but as my research confirmed, one of the ways in which it nurtures life forces within the natural realm is by anchoring plants’ roots more firmly in soil—and I believe it might be able to anchor your magic, preventing those troublesome surges.”
Ryden made a sound somewhere between acknowledgment and dismissal, shifting slightly as the room seemed to shrink around him.
Swipe. Lady Floravine Nightrose appeared, her serious expression and dark eyes suggesting depths worth exploring. “Her shadeweaving ability could potentially be another form of barrier magic between your surges and the rest of the world. I’m told nothing can pass through the shadows she shapes.”
Swipe. Swipe. Swipe.
Each panel brought another face, another list of qualifications, another set of calculations about compatibility and potential magical stability. Ryden felt the walls of the room pressing closer with every assessment, his chest tightening until breathing became conscious effort.
His mother’s voice faded to a distant hum as she continued her analysis. This was his life she was methodically arranging like pieces on a game board, his future determined by potential magical compatibility. It was almost as if the ladies in these panels weren’t people to her—they were solutions to a problem, variables in an equation that ended with him bound to someone he didn’t love for the sake of stability he wasn’t even certain would work.
But he had always known it was naive to hope for love. His mother had reminded him as such on numerous occasions. She had not found love in her own arranged match, but had instead discovered genuine love only years later.
“—don’t you think?”
Ryden blinked, realizing his mother had asked him something. “Forgive me, I was … considering the options.”
She studied him. “You look pale. Are you feeling unwell?”
“No.” He forced his shoulders to relax, his hands to unclench. “Simply tired.”
“Hmm.” She didn’t look convinced, but she gestured toward the door. “Go rest, then. We can resume our analysis of the candidates tomorrow.”
As he rose to leave, she reached out, her fingers resting lightly on his sleeve. The sudden gentleness in her touch made him pause.
“Ryden,” she said, her voice softening. “I love you. You understand that, don’t you? This isn’t meant as punishment.”
Something inside him unwound slightly, the tension in his chest easing just enough to draw a proper breath. “I know.”
“I wanted better for you. I wanted you to have …” Her words trailed into silence, her gaze drifting past him to settle somewhere over his shoulder.
“What you found with Ellian?” he asked quietly.
Her eyes returned to his immediately, a flash of something vulnerable quickly masked. “You know we do not speak of that,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
“You’re right. I apologize.”
“If circumstances were different—if your magic was stable and we had the luxury of time—nothing would please me more than to see you follow your heart. But the situation demands immediacy.”
He gave a terse nod, swallowing the bitter taste of resentment that threatened to rise. “I understand. This isn’t your doing.” He hoped his words were true. Hewantedthem to be true. Yet in the furthest reaches of his mind, a quiet thought had always lingered—that perhaps his magic’s instability was not mere misfortune, but the consequence of what his mother had done. But he loved her, and with no proof to support the thought, it was a suspicion he had never dared to voice.
He rose and inclined his head in a formal bow that concealed his expression. “Good night, Mother.”
“Good night, darling. Rest well. Tomorrow we must arrange the formal courtship calendar. Garden parties, riding excursions, evening musicales. We will ensure you have ample opportunity to evaluate compatibility with each Crown Court lady.”
And just like that, the walls seemed to contract around Ryden once more, his lungs struggling against the invisible band that had returned to squeeze his chest. With a careful stride that belied the panic rising within him, he departed before his mother could enumerate further delightful torments awaiting him.
The corridors blurred past as he made his way to his private quarters, nodding absently at the guards who opened doors and the servants who bowed in passing. His chambers occupied an entire wing of the palace, a series of connected rooms that had been his refuge since childhood. He bypassed the formal receiving room and headed straight for his study, his magic swinging the door shut behind him.
He crossed the moonlit space to his desk in three long strides and braced his palms against its polished surface as if it might anchor him to reality. His gaze skittered across scattered papers and books, seeing nothing, his vision turned inward to the gathering storm of his thoughts.
He could do this, he told himself yet again. It was the path countless fae elite had walked before him—a marriage of convenience, of strategy, of magical compatibility. He wasn’t being asked to do anything extraordinary. Throughout the realm, people bound themselves to partners chosen by family or circumstance every day. He should consider himself fortunate to have any choice at all, to be presented with ten accomplished ladies rather than a single predetermined match. Yet what choice was it truly, when the deciding factor would be the stabilizing effect on his magic rather than any genuine connection?
The panic returned with crushing force. He dragged his fingers through his hair, forcing himself to draw long, measured breaths, the same careful pattern he practiced when fighting to control his magical surges.
Yet for all his practiced techniques, there was only one thing that truly brought him peace these days.
