Blood Bond

Sunlight, bright and warm, spilled over the plush velvet cushions where I lay. It touched my face, gently waking me, and my fingers tightened on the down-filled duvet. The fabric pooled like liquid silk around me. That's strange. It had never felt this way to me before. I rolled over on a bedding that held me like a gentle cloud—a sensation that I had never thought of as a luxury. But it is.

I was back in my own bed, yet after all the others—the hay in the barn, the stiff mattress in Moonshade, the hard foam of the hospital, the unforgiving ground beneath the bedroll, and even the hi-tech mattress in Blackwood—it was this one that felt the most foreign.

A familiar cramp tightened deep in my stomach, and I clutched at the ache. Why does it have to be today of all days?!

My insides twisted, and an insidious thought followed: I could suppress this. Just reach in, connect my blood... But the uncertainty of what that might actually do to my body stopped me cold. I raised my hand, turning my palm toward me. My fingers flexed, and the muscles in my forearm caught against the unnatural hardness beneath the skin—the fang was still there, embedded between my bones, a permanent part of me that I had no idea how to remove.

A long skirt swished at the edge of my vision. Anya. She had been there since early morning, a quiet presence I should have been accustomed to. But I was aware of her now, in a way I hadn't been before. No matter what Meris had said, I was different than what I was before.

Dressed in her standard black and white uniform, Anya leaned toward me as she approached the bed. "Your Highness," she started. "Would you like your morning—" Her words caught in her throat when her eyes dropped to my chest. I followed her gaze. Spots of blood and a larger red blotch were caked on the delicate lace-work of my nightgown.

Another one ruined.

"I will call a healer, right away!" Her voice was in full on panic as she spun on her heel.

Of course, she's panicking, I realized. This is the first time she's seen physical proof of what her Diviner abilities revealed to her. "Anya, wait. I'm fine."

She stopped a few steps from the door and slowly, hesitantly turned back to me.

"It's already dry." I dabbed at my chest with my finger. "It only bleeds a little at night." The admission was strangely humiliating. "There's another issue. It's that time of the cycle for me. Could you bring me some lady's linens?"

"Of course." Anya took a step toward the door, then paused. Her eyes darted around the room, scanning the corners as if checking for listeners. She then turned back to me. "Ela," she whispered. "Are you sure you're okay? Please. I'll do anything I can to help."

I exhaled a sigh, wanting to tell her how completely broken I am. Perhaps she can see it. But this was no time for self pity. If she called me by name, then she's sure we're alone. This time is precious.

"There is something I wish to ask of you."

—

Anya returned with the linens, but she did not return alone. She was escorted by four guards, each bearing the sigil of a different usurper. Taking up positions outside my chambers, they faced each other, as if watching their supposed allies was more important than watching me.

A short while later, Meris arrived with my breakfast, and she too was stopped, her tray subjected to a thorough, humiliating inspection before she was allowed to pass.

The message was clear: I was a prisoner in my own room. Father, Mother, are they treated like this as well? Astrid?

A delegation arrived an hour later, led by a stern-faced woman with pins bristling from her collar. She introduced herself as the head dressmaker, sent on the Regents' direct orders. Behind her, attendants carried bolts of shimmering fabric and boxes of tailoring tools. They spread the fabrics across my chaise lounge, a cascade of color that felt like an insult in the quiet room.

This was to be my costume for the evening's gala. A pony show, and I was the prize pony. A dressed-up doll to show everyone who now held the leash. They can play with a high royal princess however they like.

"If Your Highness would be so kind as to remove her jacket and collar," the head dressmaker said, her voice devoid of warmth, "we can begin the measurements."

"That will not be necessary," Meris cut in, stepping between us. "Her Highness requires a dress with a high, formal collar. You may take your measurements accordingly."

Their touch impersonal and their eyes focused on their task. One of them, a young man with nervous hands, tried to loop a measuring tape around my neck, but it kept snagging on my high collar, tugging awkwardly on my neck.

A bitter, fatalistic wave washed over me. This is ridiculous. What does it matter if they see? It's not like the rumors are false.

"What difference does it make?" I asked, a hollow laugh almost escaping my lips. "Jarlen already said everyone thinks my Soul Seed is broken. Fine. Let them see how truly useless I am."

Before Meris could protest further, I reached up, my fingers finding the clasps of my high collar. With a sharp, definitive pull, I ripped it free.

A collective gasp filled the room. The Master Dressmaker took an involuntary step back, her apprentices staring with a mixture of shock and morbid curiosity. Their reactions: the quick glances, the eyes that darted away in disgust, the soft murmurs of pity. They saw what Master Steffan had seen: a dull red, runeless orb—a deformity, a broken thing where a faceted crystal ought to be.

I stared back at them. Let them look.

The head dressmaker recovered first, her professionalism a thin mask over her revulsion. "Very well," she clipped. "The fabrics." She gestured to the bolts of silk. "We have brought a vast selection, fit for your station."

She presented them one by one. A sky blue, a deep sapphire, a shimmering teal. All beautiful. All shades of Aethelgard blue. They meant to dress their little bird in the colors of her cage, her own colors—colors for which the blood of so many had stained the ground. This is a mockery.

My lip curled in disgust, and I swept the blue silks aside with the back of my hand. The head dressmaker let out a sharp, offended gasp, her face paling.

"No," I said, my voice low and firm. I met her gaze. Slowly, deliberately, I gathered a lock of my metallic-red hair and held it up so it caught the light.

"Give me fire."

—

I stepped through the massive doors of the grand ballroom, and a hush fell over the crowd, leaving only the music—a lonely little waltz—to punctuate the air. A sea of eyes fixed on me. I strolled forward, chin held high, pushing down the memory of another dance, another lifetime ago—of that clumsy, little boy drowning under a sea of pointing fingers.

This, I can handle, Mother had taught me well.

My dress was a cascade of deep crimson charmeuse that clung to my waist before flowing to the ground in liquid ripples, the style reminiscent of a fiery flamenco dancer. But I was certain no one cared about the gown or me. Their eyes were surely fixed on my chest, where the dress was cut low to deliberately display the drab, red, runeless orb of my Soul Seed.

Across the room was a glittering assembly of nobles, priests, teachers, and students. So many familiar faces, all wearing identical masks of stunned silence. For a moment, my eyes found those of Lady Blaire standing near a marble pillar. Her head tilted and her eyebrows arched, surprised and not quite believing what she saw. There was a question in her gaze.

I pulled my eyes away, refocusing on the path toward the dance floor.

Farther on, Lady Joseny and the circle of my so-called friends were giggling beside a table laden with an obscene amount of food. They finally turned at my approach and when they saw me, their laughter died on their lips, their jaws slackening in unison.

I paid them no heed as I stepped up to a bowing herald. Meris and Kael backed away from me as he gestured to a spot right before the floor of smooth granite, its surface polished to a mirror where the light of a dozen massive chandeliers fractured into a thousand glittering diamonds.

High on a balcony overlooking the dance floor, Astrid stepped forward on cue. Of course. This whole thing had been well orchestrated.

She wore her gleaming Aethelgard silver armor, looking as proud and untouchable as ever. But she wouldn't meet my gaze. Behind her, my parents sat on gilded chairs. Mother was a statue of elegance, as still and composed as always. But Father… the sight of him sent a pang of pain through me, sharp enough to blot out the ache in my lower abdomen. That bear of a laughing man was gone: his great shoulders were slumped, his eyes hollow and sunken.

This was all so wrong.

Astrid's voice rang out over the silent hall, perhaps amplified by some magic. "People of Aethelgard! I, Astrid, First High Royal Princess of Aethelgard, the Chosen of Aetheria, am here to proclaim the coming of a new Age! To tell you of this grand vision, I present Marshal Domin Quintus of Rodinar!"

Her voice was pitched evenly, with no hint of the strain or conflict. But still she refused to look my way. As my eyes scanned the balcony, a knot of unease made the ache in my stomach twist even tighter. Vanda was nowhere to be seen. Was she still injured? It couldn't be. Or perhaps she was the leverage.

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

If true, it felt like bitter irony.

Behind my sister, seated beside my parents on a row of gilded chairs, were the four Regents. They presented a united front of silks and jewels, a stark contrast to the rugged utilitarian outfits they had worn in the throne room.

Quintus rose and stepped forward, his movements smooth and confident. He smiled down at the crowd, a reassuring, paternal expression on his wrinkled face, but his amber eyes peered out like a hawk's. He began to speak, his voice resonating with practiced charisma.

It was the same speech he had given in the council chambers. He spoke of ending the "Age of Strife" and building a stronger, more unified Concord. He called upon all in attendance to help them convince the kingdoms of the realms to abandon their petty squabbles and join together to forge an "Age of Harmony." His rhetoric was flawless, the promise alluring. He concluded with a grand, sweeping gesture.

"Follow us, and we will finally have peace for our time!"

The words sent a jolt of ice through my veins. A history lesson echoed in my mind, along with the searches I had done on war and battles. Peace for our time. Those exact words had been spoken before, as a prelude for war, World War, the bloodiest one ever.

A long pause after the speech settled, and a new waltz started playing, one that is light, with simple springy notes.

The herald's voice boomed across the hall.

"Her Royal Highness, High Princess Elara, will be joined in the first dance by Prince Tamas of Ironfell!"

I watched him approach. He had his father's square jaw but none of the beard, and his shoulders were wide, but otherwise seemed like a normal teenage body, lacking any dwarven features. He had none of Stonehand's brutish bulk. His short, orange hair stood up in stiff peaks, and he had the same unnerving yellow eyes as his father. Dressed in a clean-cut, functional military uniform, he looked starkly out of place amongst the silks and jewels of the other guests.

He offered a stiff, formal bow. I accepted with a curtsy, and he led me onto the floor.

The waltz was simple, its tempo forgiving. His hand on my back was rigid, his steps hesitant. This was not a boy who frequented ballrooms. He moved with a focused, almost clumsy determination. After a few awkward beats, he leaned in, his voice a low rumble that barely carried over the music.

"What are you doing with my father?" he asked, dispensing with all pleasantries. "What is he planning?"

I remembered Stonehand mentioning that Tamas was trained in tactics in Rodinar. He was direct, at least. A small smile touched my lips.

"Is it customary in Ironfell to discuss state secrets during a waltz?" I shifted my weight, subtly guiding him through a turn he almost missed. His surprise was a flicker in those yellow eyes. "But since you ask," I continued smoothly, "Perhaps you can tell me what our plans here are? After all, Ironfell has many pieces on the board in the keep..." I studied his eyes for a reaction. "And around it."

Tamas's eyes narrowed, his focus sharpening on me as if I were a puzzle he was just now noticing.

"You're nothing like the rumors implied," he said, his voice flat.

Just then, the music swelled to a conclusion. The dance was over. He gave another short, stiff bow, released me, and stepped away without another word, leaving me alone in the center of the floor.

The moment Tamas left, the music shifted. The light waltz was swept away by a driving, complex rhythm, full of sharp staccato beats and a fiery, almost combative melody.

The herald's voice rang out again. "Her Royal Highness will now be joined by Princess Serine of Serephos!"

The name was a surprise, but the person who strode toward me was a shock. It was a young woman dressed in the fine-cut trousers and waistcoat of a nobleman's son. She was a brunette, her hair pulled back in a severe ponytail, and her face was all sharp, angular lines, bearing no resemblance to the cunning elegance of Eris Corin. But it was her eyes that truly startled me; they were a hard, furious brown, and they were fixed on me with undisguised anger.

She stopped before me, forgoing any pretense of a bow.

"So you're the brat," she spat, the word laced with venom.

I was so taken aback I almost missed my cue as she grabbed my hand, pulling me into the dance. The steps were nothing Meris had ever taught me, but they were viscerally familiar. It was a tango, aggressive and demanding, its patterns echoing the steps Julia had trounced into me the night before.

Serine led with punishing force, her movements sharp and precise. This wasn't a dance; it was a duel. She attacked from every direction, spinning me with a force meant to unbalance, her steps crowding mine. I had to fall back on lessons from Master Steffan, using my core strength to maintain my balance and turn her aggressive momentum into my own.

The spins became so fast the world blurred into a smear of color, and I had no choice but to reach for that other awareness. I connected with my Soul Seed through my blood, and the world snapped into a new kind of focus—not through sight, but through the molecules in the air. I could sense the subtle disturbances in them as Serine moved, the vibrations in the interconnected web, the very presence of her body as an imprint upon the sea of points. My feet moved on their own, guided by this new, molecular sense.

My blood pounded in my ears to keep up with the furious pace. But as the dance continued, a strange shift happened. The initial struggle and panic gave way to a fierce thrill. The darting back and forth, the sharp turns, the way I had to anticipate and pivot around her aggressive lunges—I began to enjoy the challenge.

The music built to a crashing crescendo. In the final sequence, I let her spin me out, then used the momentum to wind back in, draping myself over her outstretched arm in a dramatic finish just as the final chord struck, leaving us both breathless, our chests heaving against each other.

We separated, stepping back. I was still trying to catch my breath, but a genuine smile spread across my face.

"That was... quite fun," I gasped.

Serine's scowl was still fixed in place, but she shook her head, a flicker of something—grudging respect, perhaps—in her eyes. "It was a challenge," she conceded. "But this isn't over."

And with that, she turned and stormed off the floor, leaving me standing alone once again, utterly perplexed.

My heart pumped hard, a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I could sense my blood rushing to mend my burning muscle cells. The recovery was swift, but it came at a cost. That void deep inside me, that ravenous hunger, was creeping back. The fullness I had attained after draining the elves was depleted another notch.

The aggressive tango was replaced by a beautiful, flowing melody, like a serenade. The herald announced the next partner: Cassian.

He strode toward me, every bit the polished prince. He wore the formal regalia of Rodinar: a tunic of deep black, sharply tailored to his military physique. Golden thread formed the radiant sun of his house on his chest, and more gold glittered at his collar and cuffs, catching the light with every move.

He took my hand, his touch surprisingly gentle for someone who last held a blade to my throat, and led me into the slow, graceful dance.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, his voice low and earnest. "About… everything. The betrayal… and for leaving you there. I heard about what Jarlen tried to do. I never wanted you to be harmed."

I looked at him sharply, my movements in the dance not faltering. I wanted to spit in his face. He's apologizing now, after I've been nearly killed, after my entire family has been ruined and desecrated. What good is an apology after all that?

"Really?" My voice was dangerously low. "You're apologizing for then? What about now?" My eyes swept across the gathered crowd, the sea of eyes focused on us. "You brought me back here to be paraded around like a prize mare. Are you happy now? Is your father?"

A pained look crossed his face, his expression almost pleading. "I didn't want this for you, Elara. This wasn't how I envisioned things going."

I scoffed as he spun me in a slow, perfect circle. "Tell me, then," I demanded, my voice a low whisper. "What do you want? With me, and with this whole damn thing?"

Cassian was silent, his expression reflective, the apology on his lips replaced by a conflicted stillness. The music came to a gentle close. We parted with a formal bow and curtsy, my question left unanswered.

It was only then, as I stood straight, that I felt the weight of their eyes. The entire ballroom was locked onto my every move. It wasn't just shock anymore; they were watching with a rapt fascination, as if under a spell. A smattering of applause broke out, hesitant at first, then growing with surprising warmth. It died just as quickly, however, as a wave of nervous glances swept upward toward the high balcony.

My gaze followed theirs, upward, until it found Cassian's father. Marshal Domin Quintus, the Lord of Rodinar, was staring directly down at me, his eyes narrowed, his expression contemplative.

He surely knows what he wants, but does he know what he is about to truly ignite?

The music stopped, a clear signal as a new set of musicians replaced the previous ensemble.

As the beans general, Valerius, had promised, his son was the next to approach me. Saleic didn't wait to be announced, but strode directly toward me, a snide, snobby grin plastered on his face. Except for the change of Veridian green for Rodinar's gold, his finery was a perfect match for Cassian's

He stopped before me, forgoing any pretense of a bow.

"So, we meet again, High Princess," he said, his voice dripping with condescension. His eyes drank in my fiery dress and my figure. "Surprisingly, you're dressed nearly right for the part."

He clapped his hands once, a sharp, arrogant sound in the quiet hall. On cue, a lone guitar began to play, its notes sharp and demanding—the beats made me think of the flamenco videos I'd stumbled upon.

He didn't take my hand, but began to circle me, his boot heels clicking on the granite floor in a precise, hard rhythm. With a flourish, he held the edge of his fine-cut jacket and waved it like a cape, a strange gesture that felt almost taunting.

"Arriba!" he barked, a guttural shout.

It was then I realized with a jolt what he was doing: he was the matador, and I was the bull he intended to tame for the crowd's amusement.

I didn't have the proper shoes for this, but there were other ways to dance. I needed to improvise.

I let the music seep into me. The rhythm was familiar—not from any of Meris's formal lessons, but from my other world. It was in the aggressive, fast-paced dances Julia had drilled into me. It was in the countless videos I had watched in my deranged, desperate attempt to head off another possible dance fiasco.

Saleic thrust his chest forward, expecting me to retreat. Instead, my dress flared like a red blossoming cape and I stepped into his space, forcing him onto his back foot. I refused to be his bull. I would be the dancer, even if I had to make up the moves. I took control of the dance, using aggressive, flowing steps, dictating the pace, my arms cutting through the air, my dress a weapon of crimson silk.

His snide confidence melted away, replaced by a frantic focus as he tried to keep up. His eyes, wide now, tracked my every move. He nearly stumbled twice on his own intricate steps, and both times I was there, my hand bracing his back for a moment before spinning away, saving him from humiliation.

The music built to a rushing crescendo. In a final, classic move, Saleic reached to grab me, intending to dip me back in a show of dominance. I sidestepped his grasp, spun under his arm, and in one fluid motion, slipped my leg between his. With a firm push, I forced him down onto one knee. As the final chord crashed through the hall, I spun away, flinging the hem of my dress into the air with a triumphant, breathless, unrestrained, "Ha!"

For a heartbeat, there was stunned silence. Then, the ballroom erupted. It wasn't the hesitant, fearful applause from before; it was a wave of uninhibited, roaring approval.

My gaze flew to the balcony. My father was on his feet, clapping, with tears streaming down his face. Beside him, my mother gave me the barest, most meaningful incline of her head.

Stonehand had one foot on the railing, bellowing over the noise. "That's my girl!" His outburst earned him furious glares from everyone up above, but he ignored them, thrusting his flagon into the air. "To High Princess Elara!"

Unexpectedly, as if a cork had been pulled from the crowd, a sea of voices echoed his cry.

"To Elara!"

It was my name, shouted in adulation! Something neither of my selves had ever experienced.

In that deafening din, my eyes found Quintus. He remained seated, a pillar of calm amidst the chaos, his chin resting on his joined hands as he stared down at me.

I stared back at him defiantly, my hand clenched into fists as the waves of my name crashed over the dance floor.