Please, Endu, I beg my own god.Don’t let me die.
As my consciousness fades again, I hear one last word: “Fine.”
Chapter 4
ARLET
When the boat makes contact with the port near Shvathemar, my insides coil themselves so tight I feel both nauseous and lightheaded. Smoothing the fabric over my arms and belly, I wait for guards to come.
I know this means I will soon be face-to-face with Arion again. Knowing that I was nothing more than a pack creature, bringing his magic across dangerous lands so that he might make a play for ultimate power, doesn’t give me high hopes that I will have any sort of sentimental sway over him. He might as well be a weapon poised at my throat.
Attraction means nothing when it comes to him. He holds no tender feelings for me.
All that will be left in our relationship is for me to give him a half-human heir, like another type of pack mule. Just the thought makes me want to vomit. I ball my fists and return to my planning.
Once in the palace, surely there will be a maid assigned to me. I’ll feign sickness and pretend my courses have come. I’ll ask her to find a personal doctor under the guise of wanting to be especially fertile, and offer her something of great value.
That will have to work.
The acid pooling in my stomach doesn’t seem to agree with me.And my mind? It continues to spiral. What if I am caught? Even if I desire a child, am I capable of bringing one into this world in a situation where I will have no power to protect them from their father?
The thought of sleeping with a man I hate, when there is someone—the one I…truly care for—out there, makes me sick to my stomach.
I catch myself. Loved. I loved the Enduar, but those feelings have faded, much like my happiness.
I turn away from thoughts of him, instead landing on the thought of passing through gestation with a partner I hate, without the comfort and support of my friends, gives me full-body chills. My shoulders tighten, rising up to my ears.
What if my plan works, but I give him a daughter? Would I be able to get pregnant again? Or would he declare me a failure and kill us both?
I think of my interaction with Mrath when we went to the Sisterhood’s Enclave to ask for help. She was hardened by her time growing up in the elf court. She was the way she was because of tragedy, and her ability to lead now only speaks to her strength and resilience. Her leadership is a testament to the work she put in to become someone rather than be eaten alive. Yes, she is wise and fiercely protective of her sisters. Of all elven women, truly.
And yet…she is also cruel and consumed by revenge.
A part of me worries that I am too passive, that I am allowing myself to be broken.
But perhaps that isn’t so bad? When I boarded this boat, my only thought was of others. After the betrayal on the island, it was all I had left.
I knew that my agreement to marry the king, to abandon the life I thought I wanted for myself, would give me nothing, but the number of people it would protect would mean doing more with my life than I ever had the capacity for. I was working for good.
I am a good person, and that is something no one can take away from me.
At least, telling myself so is what helps me wait for the guards to knock on my door.
As soon as they arrive, I still jump. I am not a fearless, unfeeling being. I am still bound by the limitations of my character and soul. Perhaps unfortunately, perhaps not.
I take a deep breath, rising from the bed that has been my refuge for so long, and walk to the door. My ankle is still sore due to the unhealed wound, but I am well enough to avoid limping.
On the other side of the frame, I see two elven soldiers. They wear a similar armor to what I have seen from the others: chain mail over long sleeveless tunics embroidered with silver threads in King Arion’s insignia. Curved and polished pale wooden bows are strung at their backs, with an array of throwing knives tucked into their belts.
They avert their gazes, and I take a deep breath.
“Good morning,” I say softly, knowing from the small port window on the side of the boat that the day is still young.
“The leaves rustle softly in the forest, milady,” one of them responds.
I’m used to this phrase—it’s the same one they’ve used each time I say “good morning.”
I hum a simple response, and a gust of wind blows into the room. I breathe deeply.