The massive doors to the Great Hall swung open, and Amriel's breath caught in her throat as she stepped into the Grand Hall. Unlike the austere stone corridors they had traversed, the hall exploded with color and light.
What immediately drew her eye was the ceiling—a feat of architectural wonder that seemed to defy gravity itself. Massive iron chains suspended golden chandeliers, each as wide as a man is tall, their enchanted witch-flames dancing like captured stars.
Light and shadow played against towering pillars carved with the history of Khymarh's rulers—battles won, kingdoms conquered, divine favor claimed. The stone faces of long-dead kings stared down at her, their empty eyes judging her presence in this space where people like her didn't belong.
The scents hit her next—a thick blend of roasted meats, spiced wines and heady perfumes. Scents of Marr, Veros and Tyr mingled with chestnut stuff duck, herb basted chicken and peppercorn crusted beef.
Ahead, Kortana glided forward, arm linked with Crown Prince Tristan's as if this were the most natural thing in the world. The Coven Leader moved with perfect poise, her silver hair catching the light like polished metal. Despite her merchant's daughter origins, she wore power as naturally as her violet robes.
Prince Tristan matched her step for step, radiating quiet authority. His ceremonial military garb bore none of the excessive ornamentation favored by other nobles—no need for it when his mere presence caused whispered conversations to falter, necks to crane in his direction.
The crowd parted before Kortana and the Prince like water around stone. Nobles with names older than some kingdoms bowed their heads in acknowledgment. Even those who only offered the barest nod couldn't hide the calculation in their eyes as they assessed this pairing of Crown Prince and Coven Leader.
Then, inevitably, those same eyes shifted to Amriel—a curiosity trailing in their wake. She felt each gaze like a physical touch, some curious, others coldly appraising. Who is she? Why is she here? What value does she hold?
She fixed her expression into something she hoped resembled neutral dignity rather than the nervous discomfort churning in her stomach. In her blue gown—beautiful by her standards but plain among these peacocks—she stood out for all the wrong reasons.
No house sigil adorned her breast. No ancestral jewelry glittered at her throat. No circlets adorned her right arm. Just a peasant in borrowed finery.
It doesn't matter what they think, she told herself, You're not here for them.After tonight, you'll never see these people again.
To her right walked the warrior in silence, close enough that she could feel the faint brush of his cloak against her arm. This close, she could catch his scent—leather and steel and something forest-like, so at odds with the cloying perfumes surrounding them.
Each step he took was measured, his emerald eyes scanning the crowd with practiced vigilance. The duel swords hung across his back weren't ceremonial, neither was the dark leather armor he wore beneath his dark cloak.
Two weeks ago, he'd been unconscious on her cottage floor, blood seeping between her fingers as she'd extracted enchanted arrows from his flesh. Now he stood beside her, seemingly whole, with no acknowledgment of what had passed between them.
You're welcome, she thought dryly as they neared the dais.
She kept her head forward, her shoulders squared and her steps measured. She had endured worse than the scrutiny of courtiers. Yet, as they moved through the shifting bodies, the suffocating weight of the hall pressed in around her.
Did he truly not remember? The question gnawed at her as they progressed through the hall. Or is he simply pretending?
"You look like you'd rather be anywhere but here."
His voice caught her off guard—low, tinged with quiet amusement, barely audible above the surrounding conversations. He didn't turn toward her as he spoke, his attention seemingly focused on scanning the crowd.
For a moment, Amriel considered ignoring him, swallowing back the knot of tension in her throat. But something in his tone—the absence of mockery, perhaps—made response possible.
"I would," she admitted, keeping her own voice equally soft.
A slight curve appeared at the corner of his mouth—not quite a smile, but an acknowledgment. "That makes two of us."
The simple confession, so at odds with his composed demeanor, eased something tight in her chest.
Before she could respond, they approached the dais where an attendant, dressed in the Royal Houses colours—Black, Gold and the Deep purple of Kortana's gown, materialized at Amriel's side, quietly gesturing her toward the archways where servants of those seated at the head table were placed. Beneath in the side archways, hidden in the shadows, Amriel and those seated with her, were expected to observe from a respectful distance, but not so far as to be inconvenient if called upon.
Kortana and Prince Tristan were escorted to the first table, at the head of the stunning great hall, just below the raised dais.
She sank onto a hard wooden bench, relief washing through her at being removed from the immediate spotlight. Here, at least, she could observe without being observed.
To her left sat a young witch in robes of deep mauve, her dark braids arranged in elaborate patterns. Six silver bracelets on her right wrist. This one was in the upper ranks of her schooling. Amriel knew that less than three out of every ten acolytes to enter the Coven Tower, ever received their sixth bracelet. Most simply did not have enough of a connection to the Power to draw enough magic to complete the tasks required to reach the upper circles.
The girl's eyes flickered to Amriel's own wrist, and finding it bare, immediately lost any brief interest she may have had once she registered Amriel's common bearing.
And the acolyte archivist to her left, a small grey man almost lost in his voluminous brown robes, gave clear indication with his rigid posture that he discouraged any attempt at connection.
The rejections might have stung, but Amriel was too consumed by other thoughts to care and, if she was truthful, she appreciated the silence.
She was about to go before the king himself, and hoped he believed what she had to say.
So she let the silence settle.
The warrior stood nearby, in the shadow of one of massive pillars, his stance casual yet alert, emerald eyes continuously sweeping the room. Those same eyes had once stared up at her, fever-bright and desperate, as he'd whispered a single word: Fha'lear.
A word she still didn't understand.
Before she could dwell on it any further, the sound of the King's herald cut through the hall—the final chord from the musicians' gallery. Silence rippled outward as all eyes turned toward the grand arched doorway at the far end.
The King had arrived.
Courtiers straightened their spines, smoothed their garments, adjusted their expressions to display the appropriate blend of reverence and confidence. Like actors taking their positions before the curtain rises.
Through the doorway stepped the royal family—first the King himself, dressed in black and deep purple robes edged with gold, his gold and obsidian crown, studded with brilliant amethysts, gleaming atop silver-streaked hair. He moved with the assurance of a man who had never needed to question his place in the world. The very air seemed to bend around him, acknowledging his authority.
The Queen followed, her purple gown rippling like dark water with each step. Unlike her husband's practiced confidence, her power was something innate—the kind that couldn't be learned or earned, only born into.
The Queen was a Witch.
A truth known to all. It was whispered about in the same breath as her beauty, her wisdom, and—more recently—the inheritance of her gifts by the princess who walked in her shadow.
Princess Irina followed closely behind her parents. The young princess, just newly turned six and ten, looked absolutely radiant in her gown, a soft yellow detailed with delicate white Darish lace. The beautiful fabric shifted like liquid sunshine as she moved. The glow of witch light caught in the delicate yellow canary diamond stars woven through her hair, making her look almost ethereal. She was a vision of youth and power yet to be fully realized.
A princess coming into her power. A kingdom waiting to see what kind of woman—and witch— she would become.
The royal family ascended the dais, taking their places beneath the velvet canopy embroidered with the kingdom's crest. The King stepped forward, raising one hand to call for attention he already commanded.
"Honored guests, loyal kin, and devoted subjects of Khymarh," he began, his resonant voice filling the hall without apparent effort. "Tonight, we gather not only to celebrate, but to bear witness."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd before subsiding at another gesture from the King.
"For sixteen years, my daughter has been raised beneath the watchful eyes of this court, a child of both her mother's wisdom and my own rule. She has been well educated in diplomacy, in the histories of our kingdom, and in the weight of her duty." His gaze rested on Irina with unmistakable pride. "But now, another path opens before her. A path written in her very blood."
The Queen's rings glinted in the witchlight as her fingers rested lightly on Irina's arm, a gesture both comforting and affirming. Princess Irina lifted her chin slightly, her composed expression betrayed only by the tightness around her eyes.
"As she steps forward into her inheritance, she will no longer walk as a child of this court, but as a student of a greater power," the King continued. "And in this, she shall be guided by one who has stood at my side in both war and peace, who has long been the keeper of knowledge and the blade in the dark when the realm has needed it."
The hall turned as one to Kortana.
The Coven Leader didn't bow—Amriel suspected such a thing was below the Coven Leader's Power and dignity—but delicately inclined her regal head in acknowledgment. The gesture contained neither surprise nor humility; clearly, this moment had been arranged long before tonight's ceremony.
"Coven Leader Kortana," the King addressed her directly. "It is to you that I entrust my daughter's training and the safety of her well being. As you once honed your own gifts, you will shape hers. As you once served this kingdom in times of war, you will prepare her to do the same—should the gods demand it."
Amriel's eyebrows lifted, genuine surprise momentarily replacing her caution. "Kortana fought in the war?" The words escaped before she could contain them.
The Witch to her left immediately hushed her with an angry hiss.
The image struck her with unexpected force—the elegant, composed Coven Leader, with her immaculate robes and perfectly controlled expressions, standing amid the chaos and carnage of battle. It seemed almost incongruous, like trying to imagine a delicate porcelain figurine surviving a landslide.
And yet, when she calculated the years, it made perfect sense. Kortana would have been in the prime of her power during the last conflict with the Fallen, roughly the same age as Amriel's father had been when he marched away to that same war. A war that had returned him broken and hollow, a mere shadow of the man who had once swung Amriel onto his shoulders with effortless joy.
Of course the crown would have deployed every weapon in its arsenal against such a threat. And what more formidable weapon than the kingdom's most powerful wielders of Power?
Though her father never told her of the horrors the Fallen had unleashed, they had been enough to break a man as strong as he. What kind of strength would it have taken for someone like Kortana to emerge with her composure still intact?
The King paused, the silence weighted with meaning that seemed to press against the walls themselves.
"We do not know yet what fate has planned for her. But what we do know is that she carries the strength of her ancestors, and she must be ready for what is to come."
What is to come. The words echoed in Amriel's mind, carrying the same ominous resonance as the prophecy that had brought her here. Was it mere coincidence, or was fate already weaving its threads around them all?
The King raised his goblet. "To Princess Irina. To the path ahead."
"To Princess Irina!" The crowd echoed, glasses lifting in unison.