THE SUMMONS
The journey began at dawn, when the mist still clung to the valley and the sun struggled to break through low-hanging clouds. Elara had been given no time to gather her belongings, no time to say goodbye. She rode in silence between two armored soldiers, her wrists chafing where the cuffs had been replaced by tight leather restraints.
The horse beneath her shifted with every step, unfamiliar and restless. She had ridden ponies as a child, but this beast was a warhorse massive, muscular, bred for battle. Its every movement made her feel small, fragile, unsteady.
The captain of the guard rode ahead, his back impossibly straight, his cloak snapping in the wind. His silence weighed heavier than his armor, though occasionally his sharp eyes darted to her as if to remind her that every move she made was noticed.
Elara kept her chin lifted, though inside her stomach churned. She thought of her mother's last words: Remember your fire. But what fire could survive when smothered beneath iron and decree?
The landscape shifted slowly as they left the valley. Rolling green gave way to rocky hills, then dense forest where branches clawed at the sky like skeletal fingers. The world she knew her village, her stream, her safe little corner of existence faded behind her with every clop of hooves.
By midday, they stopped at a clear open part to rest. The soldiers dismounted in silence, efficiently and organized. One tossed Elara a flask of water, which she caught clumsily. The leather was worn, its contents cooled against her parched throat.
She drank, then forced herself to speak, her voice low but steady. "Where are you taking me?"
The captain glanced at her briefly. His face was angular, cut from stone, his eyes sharp as daggers. "To the capital. To the king."
Her heart stuttered. "And then?"
"Then," he said flatly, "you will wed him."
The words sounded like a death sentence cloaked as duty. She swallowed hard. "Why me?"
For the first time, something flickered in his gaze, something like pity, quickly masked. "Because of what you are."
Elara's hands clenched in her lap. "And what am I?"
He did not answer. Instead, he turned to bark orders at the others, leaving her question to hang in the air like smoke from a dying fire.
The silence of the forest pressed in, broken only by the rustle of armor and the creak of saddles. Elara's mind whirled. What did he mean? What are you? The prophecy, the whispers, her mother's fear they all pointed to a truth she had never wanted to confront. But if her bloodline was truly cursed or blessed then she was not being taken as a bride. She was being taken as a vessel.
The realization curdled in her stomach.
When the journey resumed, Elara forced herself to memorize everything: the twist of the road, the shape of the trees, the rivers they crossed. If escape ever became possible, she would need to know the way back.
By the second night, they reached the outskirts of the capital. The city rose from the earth like a beast of stone and smoke. Towers pierced the sky, walls bristled with spears, and the banners of Valemont snapped in the wind. The closer they drew, the more oppressive it became. The air smelled of forge fires and damp stone, and the streets teemed with eyes that followed her curious, pitying, some even envious.
Elara kept her head high, though shame burned hot beneath her skin. She felt exposed, paraded like cattle before slaughter.
At last, the palace gates loomed ahead tall and black, wrought with iron serpents that seemed to slither when the torchlight hit them. The gates opened with a groan that echoed like thunder, and Elara was led inside.
The palace was unlike anything she had ever imagined. Marble floors gleamed like mirrors, chandeliers dripped with crystal, and walls soared with tapestries depicting kings of old men with cold eyes and crowns heavy with conquest. But it was not beauty that struck her. It was the chill. The grandeur was cold, lifeless, meant not to inspire but to intimidate.
Her footsteps echoed too loudly in the vast halls. The soldiers marched her through corridors lined with guards who stood like statues, their spears gleaming.
Finally, they stopped before towering doors carved with serpents entwined around a crown. The captain nodded to the guards, who pushed them open with a deep groan.
Inside was a throne room vast enough to swallow the entire village square. Gold and black dominated the space, from the inlaid floors to the banners hanging like watchful eyes. At the far end, upon a dais of obsidian steps, sat a throne of iron.
And on that throne sat the king.
Adrien Valemont.
The first thing Elara noticed was not the crown upon his head, nor the gleam of his rings, but his eyes. Gray as tempered steel, sharp as blades, fixed wholly on her. He was younger than she expected, no more than thirty yet the weight of power settled on him like armor. His posture was relaxed, almost languid, but beneath it coiled something dangerous, like a predator biding its time.
The soldiers knelt. Elara did not. She stood rooted, her fists clenched, her heart pounding.
Adrien's lips curved slightly. "So," he said, his voice low, smooth, carrying across the hall with ease. "The girl of prophecy."
The words sank into her skin like hooks. She fought the urge to flinch.
"I am Elara Quinn," she said, her voice steadier than she felt. "Not a prophecy. Not a prize."
For a heartbeat, silence reigned. The soldiers tensed, as though bracing for his wrath.
But the king only leaned forward, his gaze locked on hers, unblinking. "We shall see," he murmured.
And in that moment, Elara realized two things:
That she had just defied the most powerful man in the kingdom.
And that his interest in her had only sharpened.