They were escorted through the Tower's massive doors, carved from ancient ironwood and inlaid with silver sigils of protection and containment. Amriel felt the tingle of powerful wards as they crossed the threshold.
The young acolyte with hair the color of summer wheat awaited them in Kortana's private apartments atop the Tower, reached after a dizzying ascent via a spiraling staircase that seemed to go on forever. Amriel's legs burned with the effort, unused to so many steps, while Princess Irina and Kortana showed no signs of fatigue.
"Kharla," Kortana addressed the waiting acolyte, "take the princess to her chambers. See that she is settled in for the night." Her voice softened almost imperceptibly as she turned to Irina. "Rest well, princess. Training begins tomorrow morning."
Princess Irina hesitated, her composure faltering for a heartbeat before she visibly gathered herself. In that moment of vulnerability, Amriel saw not the royal daughter, not the future Witch of Power, but simply a sixteen-year-old girl facing a frightening unknown.
"Good evening, Coven Leader," Irina responded, inclining her head slightly before following the blonde acolyte from the room, her violet robes whispering against the stone floor like secrets being exchanged.
As the door closed behind them, Kortana's rigid posture softened by the barest degree. She crossed to a cabinet of dark, intricately carved wood—blackthorn, Amriel recognized, a wood imbued with natural protective properties—and withdrew a crystal decanter filled with amber liquid that caught the witch light in honeyed facets.
"A trying evening," Kortana remarked, pouring two small glasses and offering one to Amriel. The unexpected gesture of camaraderie from the austere Coven Leader momentarily stunned her into silence.
Amriel accepted the drink cautiously, her fingers brushing against Kortana's. The older woman's skin was cool and dry, but Amriel could feel the Power thrumming beneath the surface—controlled, contained, but immensely potent.
The liquor burned pleasantly on her tongue, warming her from within—Sethian brandy, she recognized, distilled with vervain and meadow salt, herbs known for their restorative properties and their ability to clarify muddled thoughts.
An interesting choice for a casual nightcap.
"The princess seems... composed," Amriel ventured, not quite ready to dive back into discussions of ancient tomes and prophecies and whatever connection her mother might have had to the royal family. The brandy's warmth spread through her limbs, easing some of the day's accumulated tension.
Kortana swirled the amber liquid in her glass, studying its movement with those penetrating grey eyes. "All of Queen Elara's daughters have been preparing for such a moment all their lives," she said. "In case they inherit their mother's gift and are required to enter training. The moment Irina's Power manifested during last month's Lunar Eclipse, this path became inevitable."
Amriel hadn't known that detail—that Princess Irina's Power had awakened during an eclipse, a time when the boundaries between the mundane world and the realm of magic grew thin. Such awakenings were rare and often heralded exceptional strength.
"There's a saying among the Covens that the older the Witch when she comes into her Power, the stronger she will become," Amriel said, recalling scraps of lore from books she'd bartered traveling merchants to borrow for brief nights of study. "At sixteen, the princess is older than many when the gift manifests."
"Indeed," Kortana agreed, something unreadable flickering across her features. "Queen Elara was seventeen when her Power awakened. And I was nearly eighteen. Late bloomers, all three of us."
The casual comparison of Princess Irina to her mother and herself sent a chill down Amriel's spine. Three generations of exceptionally powerful women. What did that portend for the realm?
Amriel opened her mouth to ask, but a yawn escaped instead, much to her horror.
Kortana's lips curved in what might have been the ghost of a smile. She set down her crystal tumbler with a decisive click against the polished stone table and raised her right hand. The movement was so subtle that Amriel might have missed it had she not been watching closely—a mere twitch of fingers, a whispered word that seemed to vibrate the air between them.
Amriel felt rather than saw the flicker of Power—a ripple in the fabric of reality, there and gone in an instant.
Moments later, the door opened to admit Lyana. The young acolyte whose features marked her Sa'Dral heritage—the slight upturn of her eyes, the warm bronze undertone of her skin, and the intricate tattoo at her wrist that Amriel recognized as the mark of one of the coastal trading families.
"You handled yourself well today, Amriel," the Coven Leader said. The rare compliment hung in the air between them, weighty with unspoken implications. "Get some rest. I believe you are going to need it."
Kortana turned to peer out the grand, arched windows of her apartment and as Amriel made to follow Lyana, the Coven Leader spoke over her shoulder, "His name is Thalon, by the way. The warrior who walks with the crown prince. Commander Thalon."
To stunned to speak, Amriel found herself following Lyana through a bewildering series of corridors and halls.
Was I that obvious?
The Tower was far larger inside than it appeared from without—whether due to clever architecture or magical expansion, she couldn't tell. Tapestries depicting the history of the Coven and the royal line adorned the walls, interspersed with alcoves containing artifacts that hummed with contained Power.
The chamber Lyana led her to stole the breath from Amriel's lungs. Not for the room itself, which was approximately the size of her entire cottage, but for the massive bed that dominated it. Carved from pale gold Lysean oak, the canopy bed was draped in midnight-blue silks that shimmered like the night sky itself, tiny crystals sewn into the fabric catching the light like stars.
And no doubt that mattress is down-filled! Amriel almost forgot herself and her worries in that moment. Having slept on pallets or straw bedding all her life, she'd never imagined that one day she might sleep in such a bed, in such a room.
"Will this suit?" Lyana asked, a rare smile playing at the corners of her mouth as she watched Amriel enter the room.
"It's... excessive," Amriel whispered, but couldn't hide the wonder in her voice. Excessive, yes, but also beautiful in a way that made her chest ache. A reminder of how far she stood from the world she'd known yesterday.
Lyana's fingers were already crackling with Power, "Shall we remove the court trappings? It's late, and I imagine we would both prefer to retire."
Seated near the lulling warmth of the hearth, where a gentle witch fire glowed with unnatural steadiness—never flickering, never smoking, and exactly the right temperature—Amriel's eyes grew heavy as Lyana's magic unraveled the elaborate hairstyle and dissolved the layers of cosmetics that had transformed her for the court appearance.
She watched in the mirror through half-lidded eyes as the pins removed themselves one by one, floating to a small silver tray while the braids unwound like serpents returning to slumber. The kohl that had darkened her lashes, the rouge that had brightened her cheeks, the subtle shimmer of powdered crystal that had given her skin an otherworldly glow during the demonstrations—all slowly vanished from her face until, finally, she looked like her old self once more.
Yet the face that stared back at her seemed somehow changed, as if the events of the day had rewritten something fundamental in her features.
Amriel let out a breath of relief when the last of the laces came undone, releasing her from the corset's confines. The structured garment had compressed her ribs for hours, forcing her into the perfect posture demanded of Coven representatives at court. As she inhaled deeply for what felt like the first time that day, her ribs expanded gratefully.
The soft sleeping shift that Lyana helped her into felt like a cloud against her skin, so different from the rough-spun fabric she'd grown up wearing. As she slid beneath the impossibly soft covers of the canopy bed, the down mattress enveloping her like an embrace, Amriel released a sigh that seemed to carry the burden of the entire day.
Sleep claimed her almost immediately as her head settled onto the down-filled pillow, her last conscious thoughts drifting to the warrior, to the man she'd saved during the height of a savage spring storm. Commander Thalon, with his scarred face and penetrating gaze that had swept over her without recognition.
Bastard didn't even recognize me, she thought, though there was little malice behind it. How different he looked. How well he looked.
Perhaps it was better this way. She already had enough on her plate. Especially now, with ancient tomes and cryptic prophecies and her mother's mysterious past suddenly complicating everything she thought she knew about herself.
As unconsciousness claimed her, Amriel could have sworn she heard a voice—neither Kortana's nor the queen's, but somehow familiar nonetheless—whispering from very far away: "The time comes, daughter of Nythia."
Amriel was already awake, seated in the bay window overlooking the Lyceum, by the time Lyana arrived to help her bathe and dress. The sun had just begun to crest the eastern hills, bathing the city in golden light that transformed the dew-covered gardens below into fields of diamonds.
Sleep had been more elusive than she'd expected in that luxurious bed. Dreams had plagued her—fragmentary visions of her mother's face, of the tome's pages turning by themselves, of Commander Thalon lying pale and still on her cottage floor while a storm raged outside. She'd woken well before dawn, her heart racing, the echo of that strange voice still ringing in her ears.
From her vantage point in the window seat, Amriel could see much of the city sprawled below the Tower. Beyond the city walls, the fertile plains stretched toward the Vhengal Forest and distant mountains, their peaks still capped with snow despite the spring thaw.
She'd already searched the room for any sign of her own clothes, opening ornately carved wardrobes and delicately inlaid chests, but only found extra plush throws for the bed and fine linens that seemed too delicate to actually use. Her familiar, comfortable garments—patched in places but serviceable—were nowhere to be found.
The door opened without a knock, and Lyana entered carrying a copper tray laden with towels and vials of scented oils. Her Sa'Dral heritage was even more evident in daylight—the intricate tattoo at her wrist seemed to shift and change as she moved.
The moment the acolyte entered the chamber, Amriel could feel the Power's presence, radiating from the younger woman in waves. Though it was coarse and lacking refinement, there was substantial strength behind Lyana's Power. No wonder Kortana kept her close—properly trained, this girl could become formidable.
"Your clothes were taken to be laundered," Lyana informed her, setting down her burden beside a copper tub that hadn't been there the night before. Her tone carried the faintest hint of disdain as she added, "Or burned. I could not be certain from the look of them. Or from the smell."
A flush rose to Amriel's cheeks. Her cottage often carried the scent of the healing herbs she worked with—pungent and earthy rather than the delicate floral perfumes favored by court ladies and Coven witches. She'd grown so accustomed to it that she hardly noticed anymore, but to others, it likely seemed rustic at best.
"I've prepared your bath," Lyana continued, gesturing toward the steaming tub. "Coven Leader Kortana requests your presence at breakfast within the hour."
Amriel bit back a sigh. "I am perfectly capable of bathing myself, you know." She stood from the window seat, pushing the hair that had escaped her sleeping braid from her face, aware of how defensive she sounded but unable to stop herself. "I've managed it this far without assistance."
"Have you, really?" Lyana's expression remained pleasantly neutral, though her eyes scanned Amriel from head to toe in a way that felt like both assessment and judgment. "I see. Well, my orders come from the Coven Leader. Not you." She gestured toward the bath once more, more insistently this time. "Now, please. We shouldn't keep the Coven Leader waiting."
The unspoken message was clear: This wasn't a negotiation.