Page 13 of The Bound Mage
“Please—” El snorted, giving the dress a little shake. “You deserve to wear something that makes you feel powerful. Like a queen.”
Araya scoffed. She was no queen. But she let El help her into the dress anyway, the fabric hugging her torso before it flared out at the waist in a waterfall of deep purple and shimmering silver. And she couldn’t help but return El’s smile when the other female stepped back, clapping her hands in delight.
“What did you want to do with your hair?”
“I usually just braid it back—” Araya stopped at the look of abject horror on El’s face. “Did you have another idea?”
El ushered Araya to the vanity, weaving the front sections of her hair into a delicate crown with practiced ease, leaving the rest to flow over her shoulders in loose, cascading waves. The dress really did bring out the shift from deep red to violet, emphasizing how the purple entwined with deep burgundy.
“I love your hair,” El said as she stepped back to admire her work. “It’s beautiful.”
Araya swallowed hard, staring at her reflection. Her hair was one of the most fae things about her—something she’d spent her entire life hiding. To see it highlighted and celebrated instead…her chest ached with a feeling she couldn’t quite name as El gave her a final satisfied nod.
“Perfect,” the other female said. “Now for me?—”
She flicked her fingers, a ripple of magic brushing away the dust and smoothing the creases that had settled in the layers of her own dress.
Araya caught her breath, her heart racing in her chest at such a casual use of power. But El just looped their arms together, half-dragging Araya toward the door.
“Come on,” she said, her grin bright and full of mischief. “I have a feeling you’re going to make quite an impression at dinner.”
Araya laughed, letting herself be pulled along. She slipped and slid in the ridiculous silk slippers El had dug out from the back of the wardrobe, but the other female only clutched her arm tighter, both of them giggling like children as they stumbled through the halls.
“Alright,” El whispered when they finally approached the carved double doors to the dining room. “Brace yourself.”
Araya laughed, but the sound died on her lips the moment they stepped inside. El hadn’t been joking—silence crashing over the room like a wave.
Thorne sat beside Nyra across the table, his expression tight as he looked from El to Araya. Nyra had gone rigid, her grip on her goblet white-knuckled. Her gaze flicked toward the head of the table, where a golden-haired male gaped at them with what could only be described as abject horror.
And then there was Loren.
Araya’s breath hitched in her throat. Loren had bathed—thoroughly. His hair, once matted and unkempt, now sheared to his chin. The filthy, ragged prisoner who had haunted her dreams for so many months was gone, his prison rags and borrowed clothing replaced by a finely embroidered black tunic and pants, paired with shining leather boots.
But it was his eyes that froze her where she stood. Those sharp, vivid green eyes burned with a fury that set her heart racing in her chest.
Araya swallowed hard. She was almost certain his anger wasn’t directed at her, but it still struck her like a physical force, stealing the air from her lungs, making her legs feel weak. The air in the room changed, crackling with something charged and dangerous.
“El…” the golden-haired male beside Loren gripped the prince’s arm like he expected him to erupt. “Are you mad?”
“Mad?” El said, sweeping the room with a stare that could have made kings falter. She stopped at Loren, meeting his anger without a drop of fear. “Did you honestly think I’d let you send her a tray to eat in her room again? Our parents would be horrified by how you’re treating her.”
“Eloria,” Loren snarled through gritted teeth, his voice dangerously low. He ripped his arm free of the other male’s grip and barked something in Valenya, his words quick and harsh.
Eloria. The realization hit Araya like a punch to the gut, stealing her breath. El—the female who had laughed with her, dressed her, and done her hair—wasn’t just some kind stranger. She was Princess Eloria of Valendral. The fae regent.
Loren’s sister.
Chapter
Four
Eloria.
The name sat like a stone in Araya’s chest, heavy and cold. Only a lifetime of schooling her reactions kept her expression neutral as Eloria grinned at her, those green eyes—so clearly the same as Loren’s now that she saw them side by side—still sparkling with mischief.
“I told you they’d be cross,” the princess said in a loud whisper. Then, with effortless grace, she swept across the room and claimed the empty seat beside the golden-haired male at the head of the table—leaving only one unoccupied chair.
Right beside the glowering prince.
