Elara clutched the forged parchment to her chest, its wax seal cool against her fingers as she returned to her chamber. The mist outside the window swirled like a living thing, the distant cries of harpies blending with the northern winds, a haunting symphony that mirrored her unease. The document promised safety—a fabricated lineage tying her to Thornwick's nobility—but it felt like a noose, tightening with every step she took toward the court. Sylvi's sly smile lingered in her mind, a reminder of the debt she owed, while the kiss with Draven burned in her memory, a fragile thread of love she clung to amid the deceit.
The next morning, the great hall buzzed with an unnatural energy, the air thick with the scent of burning sage and the low hum of magic. Draven sat on his obsidian throne, his golden eyes steady, but the lords and ladies below were restless, their murmurs a tide of suspicion. A gaunt elder, Lord Eryndor, rose, his voice cutting through the noise. "The queen's lineage remains unproven," he declared, his staff tapping the stone floor. "Veyra's accusations linger. We demand a blood test—magic to reveal her truth."
Elara's heart sank, the parchment in her hidden pocket a useless shield against sorcery. Draven's gaze flicked to her, a silent question, but before he could speak, Eryndor raised a crystal orb, its surface swirling with violet light. "This will show her royal blood—or its absence," he said, stepping forward. The hall fell silent, the weight of their stares pressing down on her.
She forced herself to stand, her legs trembling beneath the green gown. "I've faced your trials," she said, her voice steadying with effort. "Test me, if you must." The lie tasted like ash, but she lifted her chin, meeting Draven's eyes for strength. He nodded, his expression unreadable, and motioned for the ritual to proceed.
Eryndor pricked her finger with a silver needle, a sharp sting that drew a bead of blood. He pressed it to the orb, and the violet light flared, tendrils of magic curling around her hand. The crowd held its breath as the crystal pulsed, its glow shifting—first a faint red, then a murky green. Elara's stomach twisted; the forgery couldn't withstand this. The elder frowned, his brows knitting. "The blood is… muddled," he muttered. "Not pure royal, yet not common. A anomaly, perhaps."
Relief flooded her, though it was tinged with dread. The magic had faltered, the scribe's skill holding just enough to blur the truth. Draven rose, his voice a commanding rumble. "The test is inconclusive. My queen stands proven until clear evidence says otherwise." His hand rested on her shoulder, a protective weight, and the lords murmured, some nodding, others scowling.
But the reprieve was short-lived. As the hall dispersed, a cloaked figure slipped from the shadows, a dagger flashing in hand. Elara gasped, stumbling back, but Draven was faster, his scales rippling as he intercepted the attacker. The blade clashed against his armored arm, and with a single blow, he sent the spy crashing to the floor. The hood fell, revealing a gaunt man with Veyra's insignia etched into his cloak. "A remnant," Draven growled, his eyes blazing. Guards dragged the man away, but the attack left Elara's hands shaking.
That night, in Draven's chambers, the firelight danced across the walls, casting shadows that mirrored her turmoil. He tended to a shallow cut on her arm, his touch gentle, his scales warm against her skin. "You're in danger because of me," he said, his voice low, laced with guilt. "Why do you stay?"
Elara's throat tightened, the lie a wall between them. "Because I care," she whispered, her hand covering his. The truth hovered on her tongue—her common roots, her family's peril—but she swallowed it, leaning into him instead. His lips found hers, the kiss slow and deep, a desperate connection that erased the world beyond. His hands framed her face, his breath ragged as he pulled her closer, the heat of his body igniting a fire within her. When they parted, his forehead rested against hers, his voice a murmur. "You're my anchor, Elara. I'd burn the court for you."
The words pierced her, a love she didn't deserve, and tears stung her eyes. She clung to him, the moment a sanctuary, but as he stepped back to stoke the fire, the reality crashed back. The blood test had bought time, but the spy's attack meant Veyra's allies still hunted her secret. She needed to strengthen the forgery, perhaps with Sylvi's scribe adding magical wards, but the risk grew with each layer of deceit.
The next day, she sought Sylvi again, finding her in the stables, brushing a shadow wolf's dark fur. "The blood test nearly failed," Elara said, her voice urgent. "Can your scribe add magic to the document—something to fool sorcery?"
Sylvi's lips curled, her eyes glinting. "Possible, but costly. A ward-spell requires rare ink—dragon's breath resin. I know a source, but it's guarded by harpies in the eastern cliffs. You'd need to retrieve it." Her tone was a challenge, testing Elara's resolve.
Elara nodded, her mind racing. "I'll go. Tell me where." The thought of facing harpies sent a shiver down her spine, but the alternative—exposure—was worse. Sylvi sketched a map on a scrap of leather, her movements precise, and handed it over. "Dusk tomorrow," she said. "Bring a blade."
Alone, Elara studied the map, the pendant's glow a mocking light. The kiss with Draven had deepened their bond, a love she yearned to protect, but the mission ahead loomed like a storm. She wondered if she could survive the cliffs, if the forgery would hold, or if her truth would shatter Draven's trust when the harpies' cries revealed her frailty. The northern winds howled, and she braced herself for the fire to come.