Mrath, the sister of King Arion, leads an elven rebellion. She is our only ally, currently. Taking down the giant court would not have been possible without her and her assistance of two thousand troops. Part of our agreement was that we would help to get her the High Elven Throne when we were ready. The consensus is that we aren’t. Not until the new settlement is finished and we have a secure home for every new family.
As is to be expected, Mrath is impatient. A month ago, we sent a new letter to King Arion, trying to offer solutions that would smooth our relationship over, and ensure that no war breaks out while we are still teetering along like toddlers.
According to Teo something arrived from them today, and that’s why we are here.
“Welcome to your first council meeting, Lady Arlet,” the dual-blessed queen says brightly. “I’m sorry it’s not about a more pleasant topic.”
My eyes shift to the doorway—to the reason for the celebration. If I had a heart, it would have stopped at the sight of Arlet, undone from her pristine emerald-green ceremony attire.
Her shoes are gone, her hair half-falling from the bun atop her head. A rare sight indeed—a wild evolution of a usually well-trained creature.
The corners of her mouth quirk up, pride and nerves glimmering in her eyes.
She gives a small dip. “Happy to be here,” she responds.
Svanna, an enduar woman, grins. She is leader of the miners and training facilities for new warriors, but looking at her, I almost laugh. She wears simple clothes to such an important event—leather pants with a white tunic. When she begins to clap, her braid shifts to show off the two mating marks proudly glowing on her neck. The rest of the council follows.
My hands stay folded, fingers pressing into the fabric of my doublet. The weight in my limbs is spreading—a creeping numbness that starts in my fingertips and rolls up my arms like ice weaving through my veins.
“Iryth told me you still managed to dance with a hoard of men before slipping away,” Svanna teases Arlet.
“It’s true!” Thorne, the Elven Emissary, calls from the back. “I was even graced with a dance.”
Gods, he’s insufferable. Even being a half-human, he is every bit as irritating as any elf.
Arlet giggles, her cheeks tinged pink.
My mouth parts slightly, a familiar pressure forming in my chest—one I know isn’t truly there. But it spreads, dull and aching, like a phantom limb trying to remind me of something long lost.
“Where is Iryth now?” Arlet asks, ignoring Thorne’s flirtation as she scans the room for Svanna’s mate, another enduar woman. Her and Svanna are one of the oldest mated pairs in Enduvida.
“Home with Sama. She’s still spared from excessive meetings,” Svanna says, casting a mock glare at Queen Estela.
Estela grins, and more people take their seats. Arlet, however, remains standing in the center of the room.
“Forgive my ignorance, but I’m not sure where to sit,” she says, slipping her feet into her shoes and brushing a few wavy strands of ruby red from her face.
Ra’Salore smiles. He is the leader of a group of enduares with the ability to stone bend. Most of his days are spent tending to his newfamily and toiling in front of a forge, but he looks relaxed tonight. “There’s no order to this chaos. Perhaps you should sit next to Lord Vann.”
Her smile falters as she looks at me.
I hate bearing the brunt of her disappointment—it drudges up resentment. Most enduares accepted the humans with ease. I suppose it was their way.
But I grew up in a time when we hardly deigned to mix with our own allies.
Humans think they understand us, but they have no idea what it was like before, in the golden age of my people. The pride and glory of being enduar is dead. It will never be resurrected through books, renovations, or children’s lessons.
Arlet tries too hard. Gives too much. She isn’t ungrateful like the others, but she’s desperate to make everyone like her.
Everyone… except me.
It’s strange, given she once saved my life. A fact she doesn’t seem to consider often, though it constantly plays through my mind.
The numbness creeps further through my upper body. I flex my fingers beneath the black marble table, trying to force warmth back into my limbs.
My condition always works the same. It starts with something triggering an intense emotion of any kind—anger, fear, longing, desire, irritation. Muted versions of said feelings then echo in the space where my heart once was, and a slow, crushing cold ices my veins. If I’m not careful, it will eventually lock up my joints and make me immobile.
I take a deep breath and turn away as Arlet sits down. I don’t breathe in the scent of freshly washed cloth. Don’t notice the way her thighs press together as she crosses her legs.