The solar was warm with firelight when I entered, though the day beyond its windows was sharp with frost. Heavy curtains framed the tall panes, filtering the morning sun into muted gold. My mother sat near the hearth, a sheaf of letters spread across her lap like fallen leaves. The seal of each one glittered with wax: crimson, sapphire, black, gold. Nobles from every corner of the realm had written, each one eager, each one calculating.
“Sit,” she said, her voice soft but clipped, as if gentleness had long ago curdled into duty.
I lowered myself into the chair opposite, the upholstery stiff and cold beneath my hands. A servant slipped in with a tray—tea steaming, sugared almonds in a porcelain dish—before vanishing again.
Duchess Elira lifted the top letter. “Lord Ravencourt. He writes that his son has recently come of age and is of fine temperament. Strong, courteous, learned in both sword and statecraft.” Her eyes flicked up, gauging my reaction, then slid back to the parchment before I could form one.
She read another. “Baron Redwyne. His heir is newly returned from the academy and eager to secure a marriage that might elevate their line. They are respectable, if provincial.” A faint frown touched her lips, dismissive, before she set it aside.
I folded my hands in my lap, pressing them tightly together. My heart drummed with every name. Men I had never met. Futures I did not want.
She did not pause. One letter after another, name upon name. All dressed in the language of alliances, advantages, inheritance. None of them spoke of love. None of them cared who I was.
At last, she placed the stack aside and looked directly at me. Her eyes were a pale green, so much like Emerson’s, but dulled by exhaustion and fear. “You understand, Alora, this is not optional. Our house cannot afford weakness. Not now. Not ever.”
I swallowed against the tightness in my throat. “And what of what I want?”
For the first time, something flickered in her gaze—pity, maybe, or regret—but it passed too quickly to be sure. She reached for her teacup, hiding her mouth behind its rim. “You are seventeen. Old enough to wed. It will happen soon.”
Her words landed like iron.
She set the cup down carefully, as though arranging her thoughts with it. “There is also the matter of the ball. The capital has arranged a gathering—a debut, of sorts, for the eligible houses of this generation. Even some of the foreign princes will be in attendance. Your name has been added to the list.”
My chest constricted. “A ball?”
“Yes.” Her tone brooked no debate. “You will attend. You will be dressed, presented, and spoken for. For the sake of Everthorn’s name, and for your own future, you will be visible. Available.”
I turned my face away, letting the firelight blur as heat stung my eyes. My hands dug into my skirt, clutching fabric that offered no comfort. I wanted to tell her that I was not some ornament to be displayed, not some pawn to be pushed across the board. But her expression had closed like a door, leaving no space for defiance.
“You will thank me, one day,” she said, her voice softening as though that might disguise the finality beneath. “You will understand.”
But in my chest, something stirred—hot, restless, disbelieving. The mark on my collarbone flared faintly, a whisper of heat beneath my skin. I pressed my spine against the chair, willing it to still.
When the meeting ended, I left in silence. The echo of her words trailed me down the corridor, but the heat in my shoulders burned louder still.
The corridor outside my wing was as silent as a tomb when I slipped back from the solar. My mother’s words still echoed in my ears—suitors, alliances, the ball—as heavy and suffocating as iron chains. I had thought I could cry once I reached the shadows, but even my tears seemed too loud for these walls.
And then I saw him.
Emerson leaned against the wall as if he belonged there, arms folded, chin lifted in that boyish way that always carried more confidence than he should have possessed. His hair—chestnut gone wild from wind or running—fell into his eyes, and there was a book tucked under his arm, its spine cracked with use.
“Finally,” he said, pushing off the wall. His grin was small but stubborn, the kind that tried to carve light into the cracks of a dark room. “You look like you’ve been dragged behind a horse.”
Despite myself, I almost laughed. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“You say that every time,” he replied, brushing past me as if he were the one who belonged in my wing, not I. He plopped down onto the stone bench beneath the narrow window, patting the empty space beside him. “Come on. Sit. I brought you something.”
I hesitated, glancing down the hall for any sign of passing servants. If Father’s guards saw us together… but Emerson was already cracking the book open, his thumb marking a page. The bench had never looked so inviting.
I sat. The stone was cold through the thin fabric of my gown, but my brother’s presence warmed it. He pressed the book into my lap. The leather was old, worn thin at the edges, but the gilt lettering still gleamed faintly.
“It’s a history of the southern coast,” he explained. “Smuggled it out of the library before Father could lock it away with the others. Thought you might want to read about places you’ll never be allowed to see.”
My throat tightened. “You risked getting caught for this?”
He shrugged, as if it were nothing. “You’re worth it.”
The words were said so simply, so matter-of-fact, that my breath caught. I ran my fingers over the cracked leather, tracing grooves pressed by countless hands before mine. The world beyond Everthorn suddenly felt closer, its salt winds and wide harbors breathing through the faded pages.
Emerson leaned back against the wall, folding his arms behind his head. “So? What did she say?”
I closed my eyes. “Suitors.” The word nearly broke me. “And a ball. They mean to parade me in front of nobles like a mare at market.”
His body stiffened. When I opened my eyes, his expression was hard, his mouth set in a line I had rarely seen on him. He looked older in that moment—older than fourteen, older than me, perhaps.
“Of course,” he muttered bitterly. “Because that’s all they see when they look at you. Something to sell. Something to hide. Never you.” He spat the last word as though it were a curse.
I hugged the book to my chest. “It isn’t their fault entirely. I was born—different.” My voice cracked on the word.
“Different doesn’t mean wrong.” His hand shot out, gripping mine with a strength that startled me. “You’re my sister. And I won’t let him—or anyone—decide your life for you.”
His eyes burned into mine, fierce with a conviction I had never seen before.
“One day,” he swore, “I’ll take you away from here. Away from him. Away from all of this. I don’t care if it kills me.”
Tears blurred my vision. “You can’t promise that.”
“Yes, I can.” His voice was steady, unflinching. “And I will.”
The mark at my chest seared faintly, a hot pulse that spread like a ripple beneath my skin. It startled me so badly I nearly gasped, but I forced my face still. Emerson didn’t notice; his gaze was fixed upward, through the narrow strip of window that showed only a sliver of sky.
“You’ll breathe free air every morning,” he murmured, softer now, almost to himself. “Not stolen moments in the garden. Not shadows in the hall. Real freedom. I swear it, Alora.”
The heat at my back surged again, echoing his vow, as though some ancient power had been listening all along. My chest ached with it, with love and fear and something I could not name.
I pressed my palm hard against the book in my lap, clutching its worn spine like an anchor. “Then I’ll hold you to it,” I whispered.
His grin returned, crooked and boyish, but his eyes stayed fierce. “Good.”
For the first time all day, I believed him.
The corridor outside my wing had grown hushed again, that heavy kind of silence where every candle flicker sounded like a shout. Emerson still leaned against the wall, grinning as if his promise had been carved into stone and the world had no choice but to obey it.
I wanted to keep that moment forever—the warmth of his hand in mine, the fierce light in his eyes—but footsteps broke it.
A scrape of boot leather. The faint metallic clink of armor.
Emerson froze, his grin faltering. His head turned, quick and sharp, toward the bend of the corridor.
“Go,” I whispered, shoving the book back into his hands. “Now.”
But it was already too late.
The guard appeared from the shadows, broad-shouldered, helm tucked under one arm. His eyes swept the hallway in a soldier’s practiced scan—and landed on us. They narrowed.
“My lord Emerson,” the man said, voice stiff but not unkind. “Your chambers are in the western wing. You know you’re not permitted here.”
My stomach knotted. I rose to my feet, standing half in front of my brother, but Emerson didn’t flinch. He squared his shoulders in a poor mimicry of our father, chin lifting defiantly.
“I was only delivering a book,” he said. His voice cracked, just slightly, but he pushed through. “My sister needs something to read.”
The guard’s mouth tightened. His gaze flicked to me, then back to Emerson. “Orders are orders. The duke—”
“I don’t care about his orders,” Emerson cut in, too sharp, too loud. The words rang in the empty hall like a blade drawn from its sheath.
My heart stuttered.
The guard’s expression hardened. “You will care when he hears of this.”
Panic surged in me. Father could not know—not like this, not with Emerson standing here proud and unafraid. He would see it as rebellion, not affection. And rebellion was the one sin he would never forgive.
“Please,” I said quickly, stepping forward. My palms trembled, but I pressed them together, trying to look calm. “He only came for a moment. It won’t happen again.”
The guard hesitated. His eyes softened briefly—he had served our family long enough to remember when I was a child running the halls with bare feet. But duty was duty.
“Return to your chambers, my lady,” he said at last, voice low. “And you—” His eyes locked on Emerson. “Come with me.”
“No.” Emerson’s jaw set. His fingers clenched so tightly around the book that I heard the leather creak. “I’m not a prisoner.”
The guard reached for his arm. Emerson jerked back, and for a terrifying heartbeat I thought he might strike. His face flushed red, eyes blazing. I had never seen him look so much like Father in his fury.
“Emerson, please,” I whispered, grabbing his sleeve. My fingers dug into the fabric, begging him to relent. “Don’t fight. Not here.”
His chest heaved, his breath ragged, but after a moment his arm went slack in my grip. The fire in his eyes dimmed, smothered by the weight of inevitability.
The guard clasped him by the shoulder, firm but not rough. “This way.”
I wanted to scream. To beg. To throw myself between them. But my father’s shadow loomed behind every thought, and the words curdled in my throat. I stood frozen as they turned the corner, Emerson’s back straight, his chin still high even as he was led away.
The corridor fell silent again, but not with peace. With loss.
I pressed my palm to my shoulder, to the crescent hidden beneath my gown. It throbbed hotly, furious at my stillness, furious at the chains tightening around us. My breath shook as I whispered into the emptiness, “I’ll find a way. I promise.”
The mark pulsed once, sharp and searing, as though it had heard me.