All the Sacrifice of Shadows (Starstorm #2)

Chapter 19

CHAPTER NINETEEN

D rake felt Creslyn’s absence keenly.

She had gone off with her sisters to make the final preparations for Novalise’s wedding, leaving him to his own devices. He’d spent the better part of the day on the cliffs of Moonfall Peaks with Kjeld, tending to Svartos and Odryss, generally avoiding the flurry of festivities. Now, he stood outside of House Celestine as fae from all five houses of Aeramere milled about, admiring the excessive decorations of stained glass stars that floated overhead and an abundance of overly fragrant flowers dusted in starlight.

It made his skin crawl.

Perhaps if he’d chosen another path, if he had not been bound to an immoral disposition, he might be more inclined to tolerate such idle revelry laced with potent glamour and fake smiles. But alas, his patience for enduring such atrocities was threadbare.

For years, he was trapped in between worlds, lost to the shadow realm. He moved between the darkness mindlessly with no purpose, watching as kingdoms rose and fell, as magic was both created and snuffed out of existence, as lands were renewed with life and touched by death. Prophecies came to him in the form of wakeful dreams, visions of fate not yet foretold. All the while, he traced the threads of destiny, curious as the woven tapestry unfolded before him, connecting lives and stories in one grand design. Eventually, his interest in the divine morphed into bitterness. For what gods or stars would seek to condemn him to a life of nothingness? To merely stand by as others endured love and loss, triumph and failure? Years bled into centuries, while he remained cursed to survive only in the shadows.

His existence was useless, one without feeling, without emotion, and it blackened his heart. The curse spread like a disease, rotting him, until he was nothing more than a hollow husk of a soul.

Drake vowed that if he ever broke free from the shadow realm, he would find a way to rid himself of the curse set upon him. But he lusted for power, he craved the wicked dark, and the cold, cruel grip that violent, vengeful nature held on him was inescapable. He was shadows, deceit, and death.

Until her.

Only her.

Creslyn claimed there was light inside of him, but she was wrong.

There was only her .

She was the cataclysm of everything he never wanted. She was a storm of sunlight and pearlescent rainbows fractured by a splintering shard of darkness—his endless obsession.

He was half-tempted to follow the tug of the burning mating bond, to seek her out and claim her again, when the thundering of wings jarred him from his thoughts.

A gilded coach pulled by two pristine white Eponians touched down along the main path to House Celestine.

Queen Elowyn had arrived.

She emerged from the carriage in a sweeping gown of emerald with thin, tree-like embroidery that crawled up from the hem. Her earth-colored hair was piled high on her head, twisted into an elaborate crown that seemed to tug her eyebrows up across her brow. The Aeramere queen carried herself with lethal poise, her magic swirling around her like the Veil she kept in place over the whole of the realm. But it was different somehow. Like a carefully crafted enchantment he couldn’t break.

Lady Trysta Starstorm possessed a similar type of magic, though hers was more like a spell, something she used to pretend to read the stars she so often misconstrued to her favor.

Drake scowled at the thought of the Starstorm matriarch and redirected his attention to the queen’s arrival.

She was accompanied by a tall, lanky blond fae male whose nose was slightly upturned, and whose mouth seemed to curl at the corners as though he’d tasted something foul.

He wore the same green shade, a perfect match to Queen Elowyn’s dress, except he was armed with a strap of vine-like daggers across his chest, and a sword at his waist. A cape of black billowed behind him in the steady breeze.

Drake stepped directly into their path, offering the queen a curt, if not hasty, bow. “Your Majesty.”

“Prince Drake Kalstrand.” She smiled, but it pinched her cheeks and she shifted uncomfortably. “Always a pleasure.”

Drake arched one brow and looked pointedly at the blond fae.

He bristled, drawing himself up to his full height—which still required him to look up at Drake.

“Bastian Valewood.” He inclined his head, his hair tumbling over one half of his face. “High Councilor to Queen Elowyn Willowblade.”

“How curious,” Drake mused, roughing his knuckles along his jaw. “I thought in order to be on the queen’s council, one must be a lord or lady of one of Aeramere’s five houses.”

“Exceptions can be granted.” Bastian pulled his shoulders back, though it did little to erase the fact that Drake continued to loom over him.

“Apparently.” Drake bit back on his own growing dislike for this particular fae.

“Bastian has been in my confidence for many years, Your Highness.” Queen Elowyn cut in, attempting to diffuse the animosity. “He has given me no reason to doubt his loyalty.”

“Indeed.” Drake cocked his head to the side, shoving his hands into the pockets of his more formal attire. “And does your counsel extend to Prince Aspen, Valewood?”

He sized up the councilor, his gaze analyzing him for any tells. But Bastian remained unwavering, his expression one of bland indifference.

However, it was Queen Elowyn who flinched at the mention of her son. The movement was nearly imperceptible, but Drake saw it all the same.

“My allegiance is to the queen,” Bastian stated evenly.

Yet there was so much hidden behind all the words he did not say. It was clear Bastian did not support, nor likely trust, Prince Aspen. But then again, loyalty could easily be bought. The prophecy Drake had observed in the shadow realm surrounding Aeramere showed an impending war, which was validated by the star reading Lady Novalise conducted during Midsummer, but the vision itself was not entirely transparent. The images were hazy, coated with a sheen of melding colors. It portrayed a scene of royal versus royal, of toppled crowns and rotten earth, of celestial storms and destructive magic.

The only thing Drake couldn’t discern was which royal would be the cause of such a war.

Queen Elowyn or Prince Aspen.

Another gilded carriage, this one emblazoned with a wolf-like skull adorned with horns, cut through the fading hues of sunset. The wings of the stone gray Eponians stretched like silver clouds, their hooves thundering against the ground, mist puffing out from their nostrils as they tossed their midnight manes.

“Ah, I see Prince Aspen has arrived as well.” Drake cast his gaze upon the prince in question, who exited his carriage with a cool, lackadaisical air. “Lady Novalise and Lord Asher’s wedding must be a rather special occasion indeed.”

“Lady Trysta Starstorm is a dear friend of mine.” Queen Elowyn stiffened, and her magic rippled around her as her gaze darkened. “It would be an insult if I?—”

Bastian stepped between the queen and Drake, his mouth stretching into a sneer. “The Queen of Aeramere does not need to explain herself or her choices to a prince .”

He practically spat the word out.

“No explanation was demanded.” Drake’s hands coiled into tight fists, and he ignored the thrum of the Shadowblade sheathed at his waist. It would be far too easy to grab it and slit Bastian’s throat in one fluid movement. He inhaled slowly, determined to remain in control, to not give into his more villainous temper. At least not until he garnered more information. “I merely found it curious that Queen Elowyn would want to be in the same vicinity as her son, given the current rumors surrounding their volatile relationship.”

Bastian bared his teeth, the tiny points of his canines gleaming in the wake of dimming sunlight. “Mind your tongue or else.”

Drake moved closer and his shadows flared, crawling like tendrils of spilled ink. “Or else what ?”

“That’s enough.” Queen Elowyn tugged Bastian to the side, pulling him from the confines of Drake’s spreading darkness. “If Prince Drake has questions about the rebellions or my son’s involvement with them, I am more than happy to discuss such matters with him elsewhere.”

She smiled, but it was sharp and unpleasant. “And not during such a joyous occasion.”

Perhaps Drake would take her up on such an offer.

Prince Aspen strolled toward them with his jaw set, a masked look of practiced boredom plastered on his face. His appearance was similar to his mother’s in that they both possessed the same dark brown hair, high cheekbones, and angular chin. But whereas Queen Elowyn’s eyes were brown, Prince Aspen’s were a deep, interesting shade of green. Cold and dark, they looked almost black. He didn’t wear the same emerald attire as his mother or Bastian but was instead outfitted in pants and a coat the color of a woodland forest. Around his neck hung a gold necklace with a replica of the wolf skull adorned with horns that was embellished upon his carriage.

The prince dipped his head in acknowledgement. “Mother. Bastian.”

His cunning gaze slid to Drake. “Kalstrand.”

“Willowblade.” Drake arched a brow, gesturing to the company surrounding him. “We were just discussing the rebellions.”

“Rebellions?” Prince Aspen rolled his neck, as though he’d rather be anywhere else. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, I’ve received no such reports.”

“No,” Drake muttered, taking note of the way Prince Aspen seemed far less concerned about the apparent rumors shading his reputation and character. “I imagine not.”

Just then, Lady Trysta Starstorm came bustling out of the front entrance of House Celestine, her obnoxious bangles announcing her untimely arrival. She had one hand clamped upon the wrist of Lady Sarelle, dragging her daughter down the steps. In her wake, Creslyn’s sister struggled to keep up while attempting to maintain some sense of decorum despite her mother’s hasty footfalls.

Lady Trysta barreled forward, drawing up short only when she caught sight of Drake. She slowed her pace, barely, but continued to haul her daughter behind her.

“Lady Trysta, I am so delighted to see you.” Queen Elowyn clasped her shoulders, planting kisses of air on Lady Trysta’s cheeks. “And Lady Sarelle, you’re looking as lovely as ever.”

Sarelle blushed, a hue of pink spreading across her cheeks. She clasped her hands before her and lowered her head.

“Isn’t she, Aspen?” the queen asked, swatting at her son with a flick of her wrist.

Prince Aspen’s frigid gaze settled upon Lady Sarelle, and she froze beneath his scrutiny, the flush from before bleeding out of her. She fidgeted with the ribbons of her light purple gown, idly toying with the moonstone gems dotting the velvet fabric. Unease radiated from her, and she shifted on her feet before tucking a strand of her shimmery midnight hair behind one ear.

The prince clicked his tongue.

“Lovely.” His tone was mild and lacking enthusiasm, his agreement in her appearance reminiscent of the way one might describe freshly papered walls.

Lady Trysta shuffled her daughter forward, and pieces of the unknown puzzle clicked into place. She and Queen Elowyn were trying to pair Lady Sarelle and Prince Aspen together, neither of whom looked too pleased by the forced suggestion.

The queen sighed dramatically, looking up to the sky where the heavens were blending like a watercolor, streaks of fiery orange and pink painted over with shades of violet and navy.

Her lips stretched into a tight smile. “It is such a fine evening for a wedding. And I recently received word that Lord Solarius is to be wed to Lady Narissa Seaborne.”

“Indeed!” Lady Trysta replied, far more exuberant than necessary. “Solarius and Narissa will be wed in the winter. We are all quite thrilled with the arrangement. It will be the blessing of the stars to have House Celestine and House Azurvend united. And I can scarcely believe that after today, I shall finally have one daughter already married.”

“Two,” Drake corrected smoothly.

Lady Trysta’s head swiveled in his direction, and a deep-set line creased across her forehead. “Pardon?”

“You will have two daughters married.” Drake held up his fingers to emphasize his point, enjoying the way she immediately shrank back in fear. “Unless it has slipped your mind that Creslyn is my wife.”

“Of course not.” Her mouth opened and closed, her lashes fluttered wildly. “That is…I simply…”

Forgot.

The word reverberated through him, and Drake snarled at her lack of regard toward her youngest daughter.

“I was just telling Aspen it was time he took a wife.” Queen Elowyn interrupted, shifting the strained conversation back to her own personal scheme. “Our realm is in need of an heir.”

“Ah, yes.” Drake rocked back onto his heels, chuckling at her foolish intentions. “Because an heir will subdue all forms of unrest.”

“Will you not soon be in need of an heir yourself?” Queen Elowyn shot back, her ruthless guile sneaking out from behind her sophisticated facade. Challenge flashed in her eyes, and she lifted her chin in spite.

Stunned silence befell the group as Drake navigated the flood of unwanted emotion attempting to drown him. An unbidden image of Creslyn crashed into the forefront of his mind, her belly round and swollen with child. It caused something wretched to twist inside him, scouring him like a blade freshly heated over a raging forge. He blinked, erasing the vision from his mind.

“An heir is not of great importance to me, Your Majesty.” Yet now, he couldn’t quite escape the notion of Creslyn carrying his child. “There are more significant matters at stake.”

“Agreed.” Prince Aspen spoke with abrupt iciness dripping from his tone. Then his gaze shot to his mother. “If you’d excuse me, Mother, I find myself in need of a drink.”

“Oh!” Lady Trysta flitted over to him, her hand pressed firmly against Lady Sarelle’s spine. “Sarelle was just saying how she was terribly parched.”

Drake made a derisive, scoffing noise. She’d made no such mention of being thirsty enough to have to withstand more of the prince’s company.

If the color could leach more from Lady Sarelle’s delicate complexion, it did. She looked aghast at the notion, swallowing hard, knowing exactly what her mother was trying to do.

“Aspen,” the queen drew his name out with all the poison of a snake. “Be a darling and escort Lady Sarelle indoors for a beverage.”

The lines of the prince’s face hardened into stone. He inhaled deeply, barely sparing Lady Sarelle a withering glance. “Of course, Mother.”

He held out his arm, his gaze latching onto Lady Sarelle’s hand as she hesitantly curled her fingers around the crook of his elbow. A vein along the prince’s temple pulsed and his jaw locked. Then he inclined his head.

“Mother. Lady Trysta. Bastian.” Prince Aspen shot Drake a calculated look. “Kalstrand.”

Drake tilted his head. “Willowblade.”

When Prince Aspen departed with Lady Sarelle on his arm, Drake turned and bowed before the queen. “Enjoy the wedding, Your Majesty.”

Her thin brow quirked. “Leaving so soon? You seemed rather eager to discuss the politics of my realm but a moment ago.”

Bastian sneered, and Drake flashed the queen a bland smile.

“So I was, yet now with all this talk about marriage and heirs, I find myself in want of my wife’s company.”

Queen Elowyn startled at his blatant remark, and Lady Trysta blanched, her pallor fading further.

Drake turned to abandon them when Bastian’s voice cut through the heavy silence.

“I’m watching you, shadow prince.”

Drake smirked. “You can try.”

He vanished into the darkness, melding into the shadows. Through murky shades of gray and garbled noises, the prophecies of the shadow realm made themselves known. They swirled before him like smoke rising from dying flames, eddying in and out of focus. The one that plagued him the most was the clash of stars and earth. They fell like a rain of fire, plummeting from the sky, scorching the ground, leaving nothing behind but a trail of ash. Oceans roiled, boiling and frothing in angry waves that lashed against a crumbling coast. The skies were a torrent of raging clouds and whipping wind, carrying the screams of battle and the stench of death.

A betrayal of royal blood, but with no clear outcome, and no way to determine friend from foe.

The fae of Aeramere were blind to the ways of the world. To them, war and other atrocities were learned through histories, stories, and ancient texts. Their world was its own kind of glamour, protected and held in place by Queen Elowyn’s Veil. She claimed to keep them safeguarded, granting the five houses fragile promises of fraudulent freedoms in exchange for absolute loyalty.

It seemed most of Aeramere had forgotten that it was the Willowblade bloodline who, centuries ago, toppled the Starstorm crown and seized control.

Until Drake could determine who was the true enemy of Aeramere, he would trust no one.

The prophecy ebbed away, fading into nothing more than a fine mist, and Drake focused on the distinctive tug in his chest, following the thrum of the bond to Creslyn.