He shoots me a warning glare, and my nerves ease.
Antagonizing him is the only thing that seems to bring me peace anymore.
As we move into the palace, my head naturally falls back to takein the beauty inside. From floor to ceiling, everything is made out of wood. The rich, pale color so popular around the city seems even finer here, more expertly chosen. The wood grain of the wall cladding matches up perfectly with that of the planks on the ground, creating a sea of curving lines. Carved columns support the tall coffered ceiling, where grids of sunken panels are framed by beams and moldings resembling leaves dangling from branches.
Crystal chandeliers hang from wooden frames, and ahead, farther down, where the entrance meets the hallway, long windows reach up on either side. I step onto one of the rich, pine-green carpets and blink at the sensation. It’s like stepping on a cloud. Under the light, I realize they are woven from silk fibers. The direction of the threads changes, creating another image of the Elder Tree.
Tall, gleaming vases in pale pastels with gold trim house flourishing plants, giving life to the space that takes my breath away.
I’ve never seen anything like this. All the wood…I didn’t even know there were enough trees in an entire forest to create the level of perfection achieved in this one room.
And the fabric? My gods. Almost enough to forget this place could be my tomb.
As we cross into the hallway, I realize there is a pale, silvery fabric pasted to the walls, adding more opulence to the scene. When I gaze out the windows lining the hallway, I see extensive gardens on either side. A few decorative fountains with strikingly lifelike statues also capture my attention.
As I walk into another large, sweeping room with three sets of stairs, a strange feeling takes hold of me. Like I’m being watched. I scan the space, but find only large mosaic depictions of elves plastered into the walls. I study the representations of people, clearly the royal family, finding several who look strikingly like Arion. I even see one that almost resembles Mrath.
My future husband. The potential father of my future children.
“There will be time to gawk later,” Thorne says brusquely. “The king is waiting.”
I take another deep breath and follow him up the staircase at the end of the room to a set of large gilded double doors. Guards stand ateither side, and they grip the gleaming handles and push open the doors, revealing the throne room.
It’s somehow taller than the room we were just standing in. Both sides are lined with sweeping arches, their vast frames carved from rich, polished timber. Pillars of dark wood, their surfaces etched with spiraling motifs I don’t understand, rise up to the vaulted ceiling.
Sunlight spills through tall, arched windows with lattice frames just behind Arion. Banners woven with green and silver cascade from the walls, some of their tassels brushing against more luscious foliage.
And just like that, there he is. The man I am meant to marry and sleep with for the rest of my life. Arion’s figure is softened by the honeyed light that pours into the room and is reflected off varnished beams and paneled walls.
The thought of being forced to bow to him—to touch him—makes my stomach roil. I want to vomit. This is all wrong.
Like a hissing serpent, Cursed One comes to full attention.
Him, she says.
Questions fill my mind about her reaction. Why doesn’t she like him? Why, and how, did he choose her? But instead of voicing my thoughts, Thorne shifts at my side, bringing me back to the moment.
A wide staircase leads to the dais where Arion sits on his throne, a seat fashioned from interlaced woods—mainly deep mahogany inlaid with lighter ash. A faint magical resonance is felt in my Fuegorra, and I realize what I’m standing in front of.
A line from a scroll I once read enters my mind: “The throne is the trunk with roots that connect to Doros. The sovereign is the fruit.”
I had all but forgotten about the Living Throne, made from the wood of an Elder Tree. Its function is mostly obscure, but it’s got a dark power to it that surprises me.
“Approach,” Arion says coolly.
Thorne and I do just that, and I dip my head down. The floor bears a mosaic of polished planks that flow toward the dais, ever guiding my eye back to the man I am meant to marry. Just before the steps, I realize darker shapes of woods have been cut to form a half star around his throne.
The sight makes more information from my studies spark, and I remember that the elves studied the stars just as much, if not more, than the Enduares. The specifics of the legends evade me, but I recall the idea that the king of the Elven Dominion is called the Burning Star in some accounts.
I wish that I had paid more attention—that I could remember more. Surely, in this palace of vipers any information would serve me well.
We reach the bottom of the steps, and Thorne clears his throat.
“Bow,” he hiss-whispers, and I do at the exact moment he does.
Despite the tilt of his head toward the ground, his voice is clear as he says,
“King Arion, ruler of the Elven Dominion, I bring the spoils of my journey. First, your human bride in good health and”—he pauses, glancing over at me—“perfect condition.”