The palace.
Seren sits back, pulling the blanket tighter. The palace hums, pleased, then waits. Timelessly patient.
Harmony approaches with a chirp. No repentance for running from Seren’s anger, but she can brave his sadness. Her sleek form thuds against Seren’s chest. Tiny claws prick through lace and silk, then relax when Seren holds her close.
“I don’t know if I can stay,” Seren whispers.
His shields loosen enough to commune with fireplace and marble, waterfall and climbing vine. Enough to share a small piece of his hurt confusion.
The palace only listens. As the next sob wracks Seren’s body, that’s enough.
33
Where His Vow Should Be
UsuallyNevanderwouldfindsatisfaction in the sense of order. Blades line the armory walls, reflecting light throughout the chamber. More weaponry bristles in goldwood racks. An empty stone table dominates the front of the room. Everything is in its proper place.
But Nevander’s proper place has shattered. His leaf-scale armor feels hollow. He swore to protect Seren, and that impossible vow became a sword in his heart. Over the years, his soul scarred around it.
Until last night. Seren wrenched the blade out, and the bleeding won’t stop.
Nevander risked his life for love and devotion. He killed Morana, snuffing out centuries of skill and ambition, to defend Seren’s place in this realm.
And Seren doesn’t want it.
The armory is silent in the late morning, and Nevander both hates and welcomes the solitude. No voices to intrude on his tightly coiled misery. No distractions except the tasks he appoints for himself.
A trip to Brightwood will be useful. Investigate Morana’s connections, and rumors about the missing crown along the way. Remove himself from the palace before Seren banishes him first.
Nevander’s first unworthy thought had been to ignore Seren’s demand for space. He still isn’t sworn to obedience. He isn’t sworn to anything now. But if he can’t obey his prince, then he’s exactly what Morana claimed.
The armory’s true wealth hides beyond the stone table. Not beneath or behind—nobody is sure exactly where Elladar Palace hides its treasures. Nevander rests a gloved hand on the surface.
His role as Lord Guardian gives him nearly unlimited access to the armory’s contents. He can call up specific items, or categories, but he can’t decide what. Pain fogs his mind. Soreness from the duel. Bruised wings absorbed into his magic.
The empty wound where his vow should be.
Nevander could take something to hasten travel. Or a disguise. There are gemstones that will anchor a glamour to make it easier to hold. Nevander would rather not be recognized on his journey.
He could take an invisibility token. He doesn’t have to leave the palace.
No. That would betray Seren’s trust. But invisibility and illusion anchors are in the same category. No harm in reviewing his options.
“Concealment,” Nevander says, fingertips arcing across the stone table. Gold sparks trail his hand.
Nothing appears.
Nevander must be too scattered to connect with the armory. He tries again. “Concealment.”
The air cools, and the stone table darkens. Refusal.
Nevander frowns. So, the error isn’t his. “Show me what I seek.”
Refusal again.
The armory isn’t alive. It isn’t inanimate either. It’s a presence in between, a subset of the palace, as much spirit as stone. Nevander has never spoken with it before. He’s never needed to. The enchantments simply work.
“I have the right as Lord Guardian,” Nevander bites out, annoyed—before a sudden fear. Seren could have revoked Nevander’s title in preparation for casting Nevander out.