All the Sacrifice of Shadows (Starstorm #2)

Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

C reslyn stared out the door of her balcony as gray mist obscured the mountain peaks in the distance and droplets of rain slid down the glass like fallen tears. Today she was finally leaving the wing and had hoped to at least tour the castle grounds—with an escort—but going outside into the steady drizzle would ruin her gown.

She glanced down, admiring the way soft, rosy pink chiffon shifted to gold when she moved. The bodice was low, revealing the constellation tattoo of Vespira’s staff across her heart, and was embellished with rows of tiny pearls around the waist. Sleeves of the same fine material draped off her shoulders then tapered at her wrists, and the voluminous skirt flowed around her like sheer, candy pink clouds.

Again, she glared out the window.

Still, it might be worth it.

But the minutes continued to tick by and there was no sign of her apparent escort.

Heaving a sigh of discontentment, she rummaged through her jewelry box, searching through the velvet-lined drawers, and decided on a pink sapphire choker with a pair of earrings that twinkled like roses covered in stardust. Adjusting the clasp of the necklace, her gaze landed on her unmade bed.

For a brief moment, she considered the satin linens.

Creslyn supposed if she really wanted to, she could tie the linens together into a makeshift rope and attempt her hand at a daring escape. Besides, it had worked for her eldest sister, Novalise.

Originally, Ariesian had chosen Novalise to marry the Prince of Brackroth. It had been her name on the contract Ariesian signed in blood, but a mating bond had formed between Novalise and Lord Asher Firebane and nothing, not even the Shadowblade Assassin, could keep them apart. So, Creslyn’s hand had been offered instead.

Second best.

She wondered what it would be like to share a bond like that, where she could hear her mate’s thoughts if his mind was open to her, where she could sense his emotions, and perhaps always know if he was thinking of her. It must be quite wondrous to be so in love, to be completely infatuated with the other half of one’s heart.

Creslyn snorted, a most unladylike noise.

She held no such illusions with Prince Drake. He hardly seemed like the type to profess his undying devotion.

She flopped onto the bed on her back, staring up at the canopy of gray silk that reminded her of a storm cloud. There was no way of knowing how long she would remain trapped in her quarters until she was allowed some semblance of freedom. If she wanted to pass the time, she could always attempt to draw, or try again at needlework. Both terrible hobbies had been forced down her throat by her mother. Not only that, but they were painfully dull, and she was far from proficient.

A sudden knock sounded on the door, jarring her from her thoughts of melodramatic boredom.

She jumped up off the bed and darted across the room, half expecting to find the prince standing on the other side. The moment she yanked the door open, she faltered, and a faint blade of panic wedged its way into her spine.

There was most definitely a man on the other side of her door.

But he was certainly not Prince Drake.

He was dressed in rich brown leathers, the same ones she’d seen the prince wear when he rode atop his magnificent dragon, Svartos. Except this man didn’t wear gloves. His boots were polished yet scuffed from use and unusual runes were carved into his vest and the cuffs at his wrist. A strap lined with daggers was slung across his waist, and an ornate silver pin in the shape of a dragon was fastened to his chest. He wasn’t quite as tall as the prince, but he was obscenely muscular, and she had no doubt he was capable of crushing windpipes with his bare hands.

The man towering above her had hair the color of rustic gold with half of it pulled back into a knot, while the rest of it fell down past his shoulders. His eyes were as blue as the summer skies in Aeramere and though his beard was well-trimmed, she could just make out a scar along his bottom lip, as though someone had attempted and likely failed at ripping open his mouth.

“Can I help you?” Creslyn asked, wary.

She hated the slight wobble of her voice.

He bowed, tucking one arm in front of him and the other behind his back. “Kjeld Holtstrom, General of the Brackroth Dragon Legion. At your service, my lady.”

She edged back a bit, preparing to slam the door in his face and lock it, though she sincerely doubted it would hold against him. “At my service for what, exactly?”

“Your escort, my lady.” He arched a brow, eyeing her curiously with those cool blue eyes of his. “At the request of the prince.”

Oh.

She’d been expecting a female escort. Or a guard. Certainly not a general.

“I see.” Creslyn rubbed her lips together, not quite ready to let down her defenses. Just in case. “So, General Holtstrom?—”

“Kjeld, my lady,” he interrupted smoothly.

“Kjeld,” she repeated, rolling his name off her tongue, mimicking his Northernlands accent. “Do I get to choose where we go today, or are you choosing with the intent to make me think it’s my idea?”

The corner of his mouth lifted. “The latter, my lady.”

Oh, that was going to get annoying rather quickly.

“Very well.” She clasped her hands together and rolled her shoulders back. If she was eventually going to be a princess, she might as well start acting like one. “You may choose on one condition.”

“And what’s that, my lady?”

“That you stop calling me ‘my lady.’ I much prefer my given name.” She dropped into a practiced curtsy. “You may call me Creslyn.”

Kjeld offered her his arm. “As you wish, Lady Creslyn.”

She rolled her eyes to the door frame separating them. There would be no swaying him to change his mind.

Creslyn accepted his arm and allowed him to guide her out into the hall and down the corridor. She glanced over at him, tucking some strands of her lavender and pale pink hair back behind her ear. “I take it you’re under strict orders to keep me out of trouble?”

Another almost-grin. “More or less. I follow my prince’s instructions without hesitation or question.”

Ah. So Prince Drake trusted his general.

Creslyn filed that information away in case it became of some use for later. “Loyalty is an admirable quality, Kjeld. I hope to earn yours one day, without the prince demanding it.”

Considering she was in a foreign realm and hundreds of miles away from her friends and family, she could use any alliance she could find.

Kjeld inclined his head in acknowledgement. “You already have.”

She smiled in return, not entirely sure if she believed him or not. But for now, she would allow herself to think she wasn’t completely alone anymore.

“You know,” she continued as they reached the end of her wing, “you’re one of the only people who have spoken to me since my arrival.”

There was a shift in his demeanor then, and his arm stiffened where her hand rested. “Again, Lady Creslyn, we follow the prince’s orders.”

Her mouth fell open, and she stumbled to a halt. Tilting her head back, she glared up at the mountain of a general. “He told everyone to ignore me?”

Kjeld ducked his head, reaching for the door. “I’m not at liberty to say.”

“Can’t?” Creslyn asked, removing her hand from the crook of his elbow and crossing her arms like a scorned child. “Or won’t?”

He flashed her a quick smile that illuminated the whole of his rugged face. “Both.”

Was every man in Brackroth so infuriating?

“Fine,” she snapped, huffing out a breath of annoyance. “Then what does my agenda consist of today? I’m assuming my time has already been scheduled according to the prince’s demands?”

“It has indeed.” He yanked open the door, allowing her entry. “First, a tour of the castle.”

Castle Brackroth was…underwhelming.

Creslyn wasn’t foolish enough to expect something lavish and glittering like the houses of Aeramere, but she had secretly hoped it wouldn’t be so drab. Most of the walls were made of stone and the long planks of hardwood creaked beneath her every step. It was well-lit with arching windows reflecting the dismal skies, all of them echoing the constant patter of rainfall. Kjeld showed her the dining hall, the throne room, and a library that was vastly larger than most of the other rooms. There were long corridors and some grand halls, including a ballroom which looked as though it hadn’t welcomed the rhythmic footfalls of dancers in far too long. Gilded chandeliers dropped from the ceiling, covered in a fine layer of dust, and a piano stood in the far corner of the ballroom, draped in a worn white cloth.

Kjeld continued to guide her through the castle, and she listened to his stories intently, ever curious about the ways of a human land. Their warriors were chosen at a young age, taken from their families so long as their parents agreed, and then rigorously trained in the art of warfare. There were forges where weapons of steel were crafted—swords, axes, and daggers—the thought alone made her skin crawl with unease. She would have to be mindful to keep her distance from any sort of weaponry made of cold iron. Though steel would make her bleed, cold iron was lethal to all fae. The metal would dull her magic, confound her senses, and eventually…kill her.

Kjeld told her how both men and women joined their ranks, how only the most elite were chosen to fly on the backs of dragons and mentioned some mystical world of the afterlife. He seemed rather intent on being destined to die a warrior’s death, if it meant he would be granted entrance into this otherworld of esteemed heroism. And while she enjoyed his story about the eternal resting place, all the while she couldn’t help but notice that he never once mentioned the late queen—Prince Drake’s mother. There were no portraits of her, nothing at all to commemorate her honor. It was as though she simply ceased to exist.

A number of servants scurried by them as they passed, some of them plastering themselves against the wall to avoid being noticed. Not one of them dared look in her direction. As much as she imagined Prince Drake had warned them against it, she couldn’t help but wonder if the true reason for their avoidance was because she was fae.

Nearly everyone was dressed in some monotonous shade of gray or brown, and Creslyn became acutely aware of the fact that she stood out among them like a glowing beacon. Her rosy pink gown that glinted like it had been kissed with gold swirled and swooshed around her as she walked. She was a Midsummer sunrise amidst the doom and gloom of Brackroth.

Finally, Kjeld paused in front of a large set of bronze doors which looked as though they led outside. Two floor-to-ceiling windows were positioned on either side and though she couldn’t see out of them clearly, the distinctive gray hue of the outdoors beckoned her.

Hope sparked deep within Creslyn, a tiny little flame waiting to combust. Perhaps she would get to see some of Brackroth after all. If not the city itself, then maybe even a glimpse of the gardens.

Assuming they had gardens.

She smiled up at him, excitement causing her magic to stir. All she wanted to do was send dozens of sunbursts and rainbows up into those dreary heavens. “Where to next, Kjeld?”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Now it’s time for training.”

“Training?” Creslyn gaped at him, as though he’d insulted her very birthright. “Do you mean training in etiquette? Because in case you have forgotten, General Holtstrom, I am a lady, albeit not a very good one. But I have been trained in the rules of decorum and proper manners since?—”

“Not that kind of training, Lady Creslyn.” Kjeld shoved open the door. “Welcome to the Trench.”

Creslyn gasped, clamping one hand over her mouth.

She was going outside for certain, but it looked like she was walking right into a war zone. The Trench, as Kjeld called it, was filled with soldiers squaring off and battling one another. Men and women alike fought side by side with swords, bows and arrows, daggers, and an otherworldly number of weapons she couldn’t name. Their movements were precise and measured, the slick mud beneath their boots never hindered their stances. The clang of metal and the sound of painful grunts echoed in her ears as she took in the sopping field littered with soldiers whose rigor and accuracy caused her knees to tremble.

Or perhaps it was simply the gust of cold wind blasting through the thin material of her skirts.

Kjeld held out his hand. “Are you coming with me, Lady Creslyn?”

Her gaze darted to his, but there was no mischief to be found in his eyes. They were steady. Keen.

This was a test.

Surely, it had to be some kind of test.

“I…” She swallowed, slowly accepting his hand. “I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do.”

“Never mind about that.” Kjeld led her out into the Trench where walls of ancient stone rose around them. “I’ll teach you.”

Icy rain pelted her skin, plastering her gown to her legs. She clamped her teeth together to keep them from chattering as the howling wind raised goosebumps across her flesh. With each step, her shoes sank an inch deep into the thick, mucky grass. She locked her fingers around his firm grasp, certain she’d already lost feeling in her toes as he led her further into the fray. Her entire body was trembling from the wet and cold, but she steeled her spine, refusing to cower from whatever it was she would be forced to endure.

“But Kjeld, I’m not dressed like…” she hesitated, glancing around her. None of the soldiers spared her a glance. To them, she was a phantom. A brilliant wraith they couldn’t see. Invisible. “Everyone else.”

“Brackroth can be dangerous at times. Not only the city itself but also within the castle walls.” He shoved some damp strands of fallen hair back from his face, and she caught sight of a series of rune tattoos crawling up the side of his neck. “When you learn to fight in a gown, it will be even easier for you in leathers.”

Creslyn bobbed her head in understanding, but in truth, none of it made sense.

This had to be the prince’s doing, if for no other reason than to simply humiliate her.

She inhaled a deep, shaky breath, trying to catch the scent of him. But only the smell of fresh rain, wet grass, and lingering sweat clung to the air. Shivering, she focused on the tiny ball of heat, the rise of anger building inside of her. She was going to hate every minute of this, and as soon as she saw Prince Drake again, she was going to slap him across his face.

Kjeld took her hand and curled it into a fist. “Oh, and one more thing, Lady Creslyn.”

Creslyn blinked the raindrops from her lashes and squinted up at him, preparing for the worst. “Yes?”

He winked. “No magic.”