I hum in agreement.
All is quiet, and then he nudges me. “Can I see?”
I turn to look at him, and though it feels counterintuitive, I smile. “Absolutely.”
Chapter 9
ARLET
Our entrance to Shvathemar is accompanied by hundreds of elves crowding the streets, attempting to catch a glimpse inside the carriage.
The procession is small. They don’t crowd around the coach, nor do they spook the elk that carry us onward. There is a calm sort of order to their behavior. Most of the onlookers are men, but when a woman is spotted, she’s usually half hidden behind a male counterpart.
I see absolutely no children as we move through them. Not totally a surprise as I am very aware of the fact that the elves are in the middle of a birth rate crisis.
Perhaps the children are just inside their homes, safe from any onlookers, so that the adults might be able to help protect the ones that they have worked so hard to bring into this world.
Shortly before continuing our journey, Thorn had opened the trunk of gifts from the Elf King and given me a new dress to wear. The neckline dips low, and the fabric is loose as it flows down my body, skimming over my curves without suffocating them. It’s a rich, deep green color, with silver thread and long, wide open sleeves that extend a few inches past my fingers.
I have been in two elven cities at this point, the first being theEnclave, entirely crafted from nature magic, which ensured not one branch was cut to craft a single structure. The women there, violent and deadly as they were, still preserved nature above all else.
These people, in contrast, look clean-cut. They do not seem to exhibit the same care for the forest in which they find themselves. The wood around the city is cut, carved, and expertly cared for. The pale, polished color remains unblemished by weather and mold.
Pointed, arched roofs reach up to the sky, creating long lines that make everything seem taller, elegantly so, than it actually is. The city facade, set against carefully manicured trees, is beautiful.
I think of Dragonsreach. The city carved into the mountain, full of another faction of elves, ones so dedicated to remaining unknown by the crown so they can raise their dragons in peace. It is an interesting contrast.
All of it is.
This city is to be my new home. If I bear a child and thereby earn the right to live.
My stomach clenches. That same sick feeling that has been following me around rears itself yet again.
When I was younger, I thought my entire world would revolve around children. In the years since, and during the blissful time I spent with the Enduares, I’ve started to realize that those dreams were an expression of the deeper parts of me.
While in a bad place, in one of the most dehumanized, ugly situations the young me experienced, a natural instinct to give love and to protect awoke in my soul. Because I saw the happiness they brought, it had me believing that my life’s purpose could be to bring a child of my own into the world. It was my chance to defy the ugliness of life, to believe in something better—a chance to make the next generation of humans better.
My life has progressed, and I have seen and experienced people and places I never thought I would ever encounter. I don’t want a child any less, but I have changed.
Could a child complete my life? Maybe, with the right person. Not because it would give me purpose or help me escape from reality, but because I have so much to give.
Who could’ve known that I, a woman stuck behind books and wefts of fabric, would love flying a dragon? Or trying new foods like honeyed berries and meats? How could I have known all of the things I would learn developing Lorepath, all of the history I’ve been able to read? Hell, that I would ever be able to read more than one language?
But I won’t have a child with the right person. I’ve agreed to do it with a sadist.
Sadness impales me once more as reality sets in.
Life’s cruelest trick to this point is making me believe I could have it all. Family, a home, a job, love…
I’ve lost something precious.
As more faces of elves pass me by, I realize it hasn’t just been life that’s made me feel this way. It was also the Enduares. Specifically, one Enduar with a cleaver and empty promises.
I wish he hadn’t helped me find so many pieces of myself, but he did. He was guarded and layered, and I enjoyed peeling back each of those new stages as much as I’d enjoyed any romance scroll.
He was brusque and harsh with most people, but he took time to tend to the memories of those who had passed. He killed ruthlessly, but used those same battle-blood-soaked hands to paint. He barely spoke some days, but his mind was filled with poetry. He could face an army, yet he feared heights.
I hate him for leaving me with all these memories, because now I have chosen to turn my back on who I’ve become.