Chapter 1
The scent of lemon verbena and old paper was the scent of my life. It was a comforting smell, one that clung to my father's robes and filled every corner of the Royal Archives, a labyrinth of whispering scrolls and towering bookshelves where I felt most at home. Here, I was just Elara, the Archivist's daughter. Not a girl with hands that sometimes glowed with a soft, cerulean light if she wasn't careful.
I was balanced on a ladder, dusting the gilded spine of a maritime history so old its pages felt like silk, when the silence shattered.
The main doors to the archives groaned open, not with the gentle push of a scholar, but with a jarring, forceful shove. The calm air stirred, sending a flurry of dust motes dancing in the slants of afternoon light. Boots—many of them, and heavy—echoed on the stone floor.
My father, Alistair, looked up from his desk, his quill frozen above a half-catalogued scroll. His eyes, usually crinkled with a quiet smile, were wide with alarm.
A man in the stark, silver-and-blue livery of the Royal Guard strode into the center of the room. His gaze swept over the countless shelves with cold efficiency before landing on us.
"Alistair, Keeper of the Archives?" his voice was a blade, sharp and out of place among the soft whispers of history.
"I am he," my father said, standing slowly. He subtly motioned for me to come down from the ladder. I obeyed, my heart beginning a frantic drum against my ribs. Royal Guards did not come to the archives. Ever.
"You are to come with us. Immediately. Bring your daughter."
The command was absolute. My father's face paled. "May I inquire as to the nature of—"
"The King commands it," the guard interrupted, his tone leaving no room for question. "That is all you need to know."
Fear, cold and sharp, coiled in my stomach. The King? What could the ruler of all Lysterium possibly want with a lowly archivist and his daughter? My mind raced through a thousand terrifying possibilities, each worse than the last. Had I been careless with my magic? Had someone seen?
Two guards moved to flank us, their presence a silent threat. My father gave me a look—a desperate, pleading look that said stay quiet, do as they say. He grabbed his worn satchel out of habit, and we were ushered out of our peaceful world and into the gleaming, sun-drenched corridors of the palace proper.
I had only ever seen the royal residence from the outside, or in the illustrations of books. To walk its halls was overwhelming. Sunlight streamed through vast arched windows, illuminating mosaics of sea serpents and conquering fleets. The air smelled of salt spray, polished marble, and a tension so thick it was hard to breathe. Courtiers in silks and velvets paused their conversations to watch us pass, their eyes sharp with curiosity and judgment. We were two sparrows who had stumbled into a aviary of peacocks.
We were not taken to a throne room or an audience chamber. Instead, we were led down a narrower, colder hallway, away from the public eye, and into a spacious antechamber outside what I could only assume were the royal family's private quarters. The air here was different—charged with a potent mix of fear and urgency.
A man I recognized from Father's texts as Lord Valerius, the King's stern-faced advisor, stood waiting. His eyes, like chips of flint, passed over my father and settled on me. It was a dissecting look, and I fought the urge to shrink behind my father.
"Alistair," Lord Valerius said, his voice low and gravelly. "You swore an oath of secrecy when you took your post. That oath is to be tested now, with your life and the girl's as the forfeit. Do you understand?"
My father nodded, his throat working soundlessly.
Valerius turned his gaze fully to me. "The girl. She has the water-touch. The purifying gift. Is this true?"
I felt the blood drain from my face. He knew. How could he possibly know? I looked at my father, who closed his eyes for a brief moment in resigned defeat before nodding again.
"She… she has a gentle talent, my lord," my father said, his voice barely a whisper. "For healing small things. Cuts. Fevers. Nothing more."
"We shall see," Valerius said cryptically. He gestured to a set of ornate double doors guarded by two more men. "Your daughter's presence is required. You will wait here."
Before I could process this, the doors opened just enough for me to be guided through, and my father was held back. His terrified eyes were the last thing I saw before the door shut, sealing me inside.
The room was a breathtaking conservatory, humid and lush with exotic plants. But my attention was instantly ripped to the centerpiece—a vast, sunken bath carved from a single, milky piece of moonstone, steam curling lazily from its surface.
And to the scene of horror unfolding beside it.
King Osric stood like a storm cloud, his face a mask of fury and fear. Court physicians huddled nearby, their faces ashen and helpless. But it was the figure on the divan that stole the air from my lungs.
Prince Theron. The Crown Prince.
He was writhing in silent agony, his body rigid. His skin, normally a sun-kissed bronze, was a horrifying, mottled grey-green. Dark, spider-webbed veins crawled up his neck and across his jawline, a stark contrast against the whites of his eyes, which were rolled back in his head. A low, guttural sound escaped his lips, a sound of pure torment.
"The poison is magical in nature," one physician stammered, wringing his hands. "We cannot counter it. It… it is as if the very sea itself is rotting him from within."
"Then find a way!" the King roared, his voice shaking the glass panes of the conservatory.
It was then that his furious gaze landed on me. He stalked over, looking me up and down with utter contempt. "This is the one? This… child?"
"She is our only option, Your Majesty," Valerius said from behind me. "The texts are clear. This specific venom cannot be cured by potions or poultices. It must be drawn out. Only a purifier's magic, channeled through a sustained aqueous medium, can possibly work."
The King's jaw tightened. He leaned down, his face inches from mine. I could smell the salt on him, the scent of absolute power. "Listen to me, girl. You will get in that water. You will do whatever it is you do. And you will save my son. If he dies…" He let the threat hang in the steamy air, more potent than any poison. "You will not leave this room. Do you understand?"
Terror locked my vocal cords. I could only nod, a stiff, jerky motion.
I was pushed toward the bath. Servants rushed forward, adding armfuls of herbs to the water—kelpweed, silverthorn, moonblossom—ingredients I'd only read about in books on advanced healing. Their fragrant, astringent scent filled the air.
My hands were trembling so violently I could barely unlace my simple boots. This was impossible. I mended papercuts and soothed headaches. I didn't battle ancient, magical poisons coursing through the veins of the future king.
But the alternative was death. For me. For my father.
Taking a shuddering breath, I stepped down into the bath. The water was blissfully warm, the herbs clinging to my skin. The guards, with a shocking gentleness borne of desperation, lifted the prince from the divan and lowered him into the water across from me. He was still seizing, his body a rigid line of pain.
"Now, girl!" the King barked.
I closed my eyes, blocking out the terrifying sight of the king, the helpless physicians, the dying prince. I focused on the water. On its warmth, its life. I thought of clean shorelines and clear, rushing streams. I thought of healing.
I called upon the fragile, hidden well of power inside me.
A soft, blue light emanated from my palms, flickering uncertainly. I placed my hands on the surface of the water, and the light spread, seeping into the bath, making the moonstone glow from within. I pushed my magic into the water, directing it toward the prince, trying to envision the vile poison as a stain, willing the water to pull it free.
For a long moment, nothing happened. The prince's agony continued. The King's furious impatience grew.
Then, a thin, black smoke began to leach from the prince's pores, dissipating as it met my glowing water. A fraction of the tension in his body eased.
A collective, hushed gasp went around the room. It was working.
But the relief was short-lived. The effort was immense, like trying to hold back the tide with my bare hands. The poison was ancient and vicious, fighting my magic with a sentient fury. My light flickered, my arms shaking with strain. A sharp pain bloomed behind my eyes. I was draining myself, and it wasn't enough.
"I… I can't…" I whispered, my voice breaking. "It's too strong."
The King's face darkened, and he took a step forward, his meaning clear.
Just then, the conservatory doors burst open with a force that made everyone jump.
A young man stood framed in the doorway, chest heaving, his travel cloak dusty and his boots muddy. His eyes, a startling shade of sea-green, wild with panic and fear, scanned the room and locked onto his brother in the water.
Prince Kaelen was here.
He took in the scene in a single, heart-stopping second: his brother's suffering, the terrified physicians, the king's rage, and me—a strange girl in the water with his brother, my hands glowing with dying light.
Without a word, without a moment's hesitation for protocol, he ripped off his cloak, kicked off his boots, and strode directly into the bath, fully clothed, his gaze fixed on mine.
"What do you need?" he demanded, his voice raw, his hands hovering over his brother's shoulders, not knowing what to do.
I was too stunned to speak. A prince was in the water with me.
"Your strength," I finally gasped, the words torn from me. "I can't… hold it alone."
He didn't question it. He didn't hesitate. He moved behind me, placing his hands over mine on the surface of the water. His hands were calloused and strong, a sailor's hands.
And the moment he touched me, something extraordinary happened.
A new, raw, and untamed power surged into the water. It wasn't gentle like mine; it was the wild pull of the tide, the crashing force of a wave. It crashed into my fading magic, not extinguishing it, but amplifying it. Our combined power—my precision, his raw strength—flared through the bath, a brilliant, blinding azure.
The black smoke pouring from Theron turned into a rushing cloud, the water around him churning as the poison was violently ripped from his body.
Prince Kaelen held onto my hands, his body a solid, shaking wall behind me, his breath warm against my wet hair. The King watched, speechless for the first time.
And in the steamy, chaotic, magic-thick air, the three of us were bound together in the water. The healing had only just begun, and the night stretched endlessly before us.