Chapter 66
There was no grand reception waiting at the gates of Aethelgar. No royal procession. No golden carpets or honored hosts. Only a handful of guards and a few stewards directing the new arrivals to the guest quarters.
It had been five days on the road. Their cloaks were heavy with dust and snow, and the cold wind nipped at their skin like unwelcome hands.
Alissa's horse walked beside her father's. She kept her face calm, regal, though her heart twisted with unease. The capital of Aethelgar loomed before her—grand, proud, and cold. She watched as other carriages pulled in from different parts of the continent: powerful lords bringing their daughters, each one a potential bride.
She was no longer exceptional here. Just another name on the list.
Mathias remained silent for most of the final stretch. But his eyes scanned the city with a look Alissa recognized—a memory buried beneath his calm.
"It hasn't changed," he murmured at last. "The last time I came here… it was cold then, too. Not the weather. The people. The air. It made it hard to breathe."
She turned to glance at him, surprised by his honesty. "Did they welcome you?"
He gave a bitter smile. "Not like we welcome guests in Valla."
Alissa nodded slowly, holding his words in her chest. She'd never seen her father afraid to speak his mind. But here… even his voice felt guarded.
As they entered the palace gates, their party was led to a side courtyard. No banners, no music. Just stone, frost, and the subtle reminder: You are not the center here.
And then—something shifted.
Alissa's breath caught.
She looked up, instinct pulling her gaze to a window high above the courtyard.
A figure stood behind the frosted glass. Distant. Tall. His face was half-hidden in the veil of the curtain—but his eyes were clear. Piercing.
They met hers.
It wasn't familiarity. She had never seen him before. But something in his gaze made her spine go rigid.
The world seemed to quiet. The cold, the movement around her, even the ache in her shoulders from days of riding—it all slipped away.
She couldn't look away.
For a moment, it felt like he saw through everything—her name, her titles, her masks.
Then the curtain shifted, and the figure was gone.
Alissa blinked, her breath misting the air.
She didn't know his name.
But something told her—she would.
Behind her, Adam dismounted. He looked toward her with quiet longing, a familiar sadness in his eyes. But Alissa didn't return his glance. Not this time.
She faced forward, lips tight, eyes hard.
---
Asriel had followed her since sunrise.
Through crowded streets, past merchant stalls and wandering minstrels, Morgana moved like a flame—wild, unpredictable, drawing all eyes. She entered one tavern after another—places with names like The Wounded Boar or Crimson Horn—laughing, drinking, and whispering sweet lies into the ears of foolish men. Each time she leaned into them, Asriel watched from the shadows with a clenched jaw.
His mother would never have done this. She had been a woman of grace, quiet strength, and virtue. To see a woman wield beauty like a weapon—it disgusted him.
By nightfall, Morgana led her final victim, a wealthy noble drunk on lust and ale, into a quiet alley behind a chapel ruin. Her steps were slow, deliberate, her voice like silk soaked in poison. Asriel crept across the rooftops above, watching her every move.
The man stumbled forward, breathing hard, his eyes glazed.
Then Morgana spoke—not in the common tongue, but in something older. Her voice echoed low and ancient. The man's knees buckled, and he collapsed at her feet. She placed a hand on his forehead. Light flickered briefly beneath her palm.
And then she froze.
"How long are you going to keep following me?" she said, without turning.
Asriel stiffened.
He had been careful. Silent. A shadow among shadows. And yet—
She turned slowly, her eyes meeting his.
Only his eyes were visible beneath his wrapped cloak, but they were unmistakable. Cold. Burning with judgment.
"You," she murmured. "From the other night."
A smirk curved her lips.
"Who sent you?" she asked.
Asriel said nothing. Instead, he stepped forward and unsheathed his sword. It gleamed silver in the moonlight, silent and menacing.
The noble she'd lured in was already unconscious, slumped by the wall.
Morgana sighed dramatically. "Fine. If that's how you want to do this."
She didn't draw a blade.
Asriel lunged.
She dodged with fluid grace, spinning just out of reach, and slammed the heel of her palm into his jaw. He staggered, but struck back with precision, slashing where her throat had been a second ago. She ducked, twisted, and struck his wrist, sending vibrations up his arm.
Still, he did not fall.
They danced in the alley—steel against bare hands, brute force against magic-laced agility. His blade tore across her cheek, leaving a deep gash.
But then—it healed.
Instantly.
She touched her cheek, then smiled darkly. "You're good."
And then she moved.
Faster. More vicious. Her fingers were like claws as they struck him, slashing both his arms in a blink. Blood spilled.
But before her eyes, the wounds sealed.
He stared at his own hands, breathless.
Morgana stepped back, startled for the first time. "You're… Zar'vahl en Norith," she whispered in the old tongue. "The Forbidden One."
Asriel looked up at her, his gaze sharp with something between fear and realization.
But then—voices.
Shouts in the distance. Guards.
Without a word, Asriel vanished into the shadows—leaping, disappearing into the night.
Morgana ran after him but found only silence and a shred of torn cloth caught on the alley's broken stone.
She lifted it, brought it to her face, and smiled.
"So… it's true," she whispered.
Then she turned and vanished into the shadows.
---
The long hallway of the eastern wing was silent, the muffled echo of footsteps swallowed by thick stone walls. Alissa walked beside her father, her cloak trailing behind her like a shadow of home. Every step they took away from the great hall was a reminder—she was now in the heart of Aethelgar, not as a daughter or a dreamer, but as a symbol of peace.
They stopped in front of a towering oak door.
The maid gestured. "This is the shared chamber for the candidates. You'll be staying here until the selection is concluded."
Alissa glanced at the door, then turned to her father. Mathias studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable—pride, worry, and resignation all tangled into one look.
"You don't have to smile for me," he said quietly. "I know this isn't what you want."
Alissa's eyes softened. "It's not about what I want, Father. I know why I'm here."
He reached out, gently gripping her shoulders. "Just don't forget who you are in all this. Even in their walls, you're still Valla's fire."
She nodded.
They embraced briefly—tight, wordless—and then he stepped back. She watched him walk away until he disappeared around the corner.
Alissa turned and pushed the door open.
The room was warm with golden candlelight, but the air inside was colder than the corridor. Silks and perfumes filled the chamber like smoke, and every eye in the room turned to her at once. Young women from distant kingdoms—daughters of powerful lords—watched her entrance with thinly veiled curiosity.
Some offered polite nods. Others didn't bother hiding their disdain.
"That's the girl from Valla," one murmured.
"She doesn't look like she belongs here," another whispered.
Alissa heard every word. She didn't care.
Let them whisper.
She wasn't here to impress them. She wasn't here for silks or jewels or the attention of a crown prince. Her heart already belonged to someone else—someone with calloused hands and a soft voice who once told her she was his dream.
Adam.
This palace, this contest, these girls—it was all a performance. And she would play her part, not out of ambition, but out of loyalty. For Valla. For peace.
She walked to the far end of the room and placed her things by an unclaimed bed, ignoring the stares and the smirks. One girl, draped in blue velvet and too much perfume, leaned toward another and said with a sneer, "She didn't even bow to the statue when she passed it. No grace at all."
Alissa turned, her voice calm and unbothered. "I wasn't aware I needed to bow to stone to be considered worthy."
A few girls blinked. The girl in blue went quiet.
Alissa sat on the edge of the bed, back straight, eyes steady. She looked like someone who had nothing to lose—and nothing to prove.
Because she didn't.