The first thing Elara felt was the cold. It was a deep, marrow-numbing cold that had nothing to do with the chill of the stone floor beneath her knees and everything to do with the magic being siphoned from her veins. The second thing she felt was the familiar, searing pain, a white-hot brand tracing the pathways of her power as it was drawn out into the great, hollow chamber.
Before her, the Heartstone of Liranel, once a brilliant orb of swirling opal, now stood gray and fractured. Cracks webbed its surface, a mirror of the blight that scarred the kingdom's farmlands and forests. From Elara's outstretched hands, threads of pure, silver starlight flowed, pouring into the stone. With every pulse of light, a tiny fissure sealed, the gray receding for a hand's breadth. And with every pulse, a piece of her frayed.
"More, Elara." Her father's voice, King Theron's, was not gentle. It was the sound of grinding stone, impatient and absolute. He stood a few feet away, his broad form silhouetted against the tall, narrow windows that showed a twilight sky. "The eastern fields are failing. The people need to see the Stone glow."
And what of what I need? The thought was a ghost, one she never gave voice to. Need was a luxury for those who were not living weapons.
She clenched her jaw, digging deeper into the well of power inside her. It was like grasping at smoke, the essence of her slippery and depleted. The starlight flared brighter, and a sharp gasp escaped her lips as a fresh wave of dizziness washed over her. The world tilted, the intricate murals on the vaulted ceiling swimming in her vision.
"Focus," the king commanded, his tone devoid of warmth. "Sentiment is a weakness we cannot afford. Not with the Shadowfell legions at our borders."
As if summoned by his words, a frantic knocking echoed through the chamber door. Before Theron could answer, it burst open. Captain Rhys, his armor spattered with mud and something darker, stumbled in, his face ashen.
"Your Majesty," he rasped, dropping to one knee, his chest heaving. "A report from the front. The Fellwood… it's fallen."
The air in the room solidified. Theron went very still. "Fallen? Commander Kaelen was to hold that pass at all costs. It is the key to the lowlands."
"He did not hold it, Sire," Rhys said, his voice trembling. "He took it. For himself. Our forces are decimated. The Shadowfell banners now fly from the Fellwood's highest peak. They… they are less than three days' march from the capital."
The silence that followed was heavier than any stone. Elara let her hands fall, the stream of starlight sputtering out. The pain in her veins receded to a dull, throbbing ache, overshadowed by the cold dread coiling in her stomach. The Fellwood was theirs. It had been the kingdom's primary defensive stronghold for a century. If it was lost, then Liranel was truly on the brink of collapse.
King Theron did not shout. He did not rage. He turned slowly, his eyes, the color of flint, finding Elara. In their depths, she saw no fear for his people, no grief for his fallen soldiers. She saw only a cold, recalculating fury.
"Kaelen," he breathed the name like a curse. "The Fae Lord thinks to break us with our own strategy."
"He has, Sire," Captain Rhys whispered. "Our armies are in retreat. We cannot withstand a direct assault."
Theron's gaze remained locked on Elara, a strange, unsettling light kindling within it. It was the look he got when he was about to move a piece on a game board, a piece he considered expendable for a greater gain.
"No," the king said, a slow, cruel smile touching his lips. "We cannot withstand an assault. But we do not need to. It seems the time for war is over."
He strode towards her, his heavy boots echoing in the silent chamber. He loomed over her, still kneeling on the floor, her body trembling from exertion and shock.
"Get up," he ordered.
She forced her weak legs to obey, rising unsteadily. He reached out, not to steady her, but to grip her chin, his fingers digging into her flesh as he forced her to look at the dying Heartstone.
"You see that, girl? That is our kingdom. Dying. And you are the only one who can slow its decay. But it is not enough. It has never been enough." He released her chin as if she were something unclean. "Kaelen wants a victory? He wants Liranel? I will give him a prize he cannot refuse. One that will bind his people to mine and secure my legacy forever."
A terrible understanding began to dawn on Elara, colder than the magic, sharper than the pain.
"What are you going to do?" she whispered, her voice hoarse.
King Theron's smile was a ghastly thing. "I am going to offer him peace. And as a token of my goodwill… I am going to give him you."
The words hit her with the force of a physical blow. She stumbled back a step, her heart hammering against her ribs. Marriage. To Kaelen. The Shadow Commander. The Fae lord whose name was spoken in whispers, a creature of darkness and nightmare, responsible for the deaths of thousands of her people. He was her people's monster.
"You can't," she breathed, horror stripping her of all protocol. "Father, please. He is a beast! He'll… he'll consume me. My magic…"
"Your magic is the only reason he will accept," Theron interrupted, his voice flat and final. "Your starlight is a power his shadowed kind has not seen in an age. He will see it as the ultimate trophy. And through you, I will control him. You will be my vessel, Elara. You will do your duty to your king and your kingdom."
Duty. The word was a chain she had worn her entire life. But this… this was a sentence to a fate worse than death. To be bound to the very darkness that sought to devour her world, to be a prisoner in a gilded cage, her power used to strengthen the enemy.
Tears she refused to shed burned behind her eyes. She looked from her father's impassive face to the terrified captain, to the cracked and dying Heartstone. She was a resource, a bargaining chip, a thing to be traded. Not a princess. Not a person.
"I won't do it," she said, the defiance a fragile, newborn thing inside her.
King Theron laughed, a short, harsh sound. "You have no choice, Daughter. The envoy leaves at first light. You will be on it. You will be perfect, and you will be compliant. Or need I remind you what happens to those who defy me?"
His gaze flickered meaningfully towards the darkest corner of the chamber, where the memories of past punishments lay etched in her mind. The isolation. The deprivation. The threat to the few servants she dared to care for.
The fragile defiance shattered, leaving only the familiar, hollow ache of submission. She lowered her eyes to the floor, the fight draining out of her.
"Yes, Father," she whispered.
"Good." He turned his back on her, his attention already returning to the maps of war. "Now, get out. You have preparations to make. You are to be the bride of our greatest enemy. Try to look the part."
Elara turned and walked on unsteady legs from the chamber, the heavy door closing behind her with a sound of finality. The cold stone corridor stretched before her, dark and empty. But as she walked, a new sensation began to stir beneath the numbness and the fear.
It was a spark. Small, and hot, and furious.
He thought she was a tool. A vessel. A thing to be used.
But as she lifted her hand, a single, defiant wisp of starlight flickered to life around her fingers, a secret promise in the oppressive dark. Kaelen, the Shadow Commander, thought he was getting a prize. King Theron thought he was securing a puppet.
Elara clutched that tiny, burning spark close to her heart.
Let them both try to use me, she thought, her steps growing steadier. They will find that even starlight can learn to burn.