The Jerikova Wars, Chapter One **UPDATED**

Chapter One: Wolfria

Keep Fethorr’n, Fethror 1319ҕ Third Era of Jerikova

There suddenly came a sharp, rapid knock at her chamber door, followed by the opening and closing of the solid oak. Wolfria looked up from her book as Ella, one of her ladies-in-waiting, escorted in her father’s newest page.

“Brenden Lathmer, milady,” Ella announced to her softly.

“Your Highness, the king has summoned you to his High Table. He said for you to come immediately,” Brenden squeaked, his blue eyes wide and nervous beneath the blond bangs that hung over his forehead.

“He’s summoned me to the High Table? Whatever could this be about?” she replied nervously, snapping her novel shut and standing to replace it on her bookshelf amongst the rest of her expansive library.

“I- I do not know, Your Highness,” Brenden answered, unable to meet her gaze and instead focusing on the swishing of her sky blue skirts, wringing his hands for a moment but then quickly forcing them down to his sides in self-reprimand.

“Very well. Let us be on our way, kind sir. Lady Ella, you may be relieved of your duties until I return,” she instructed.

“Yes, milady,” Ella nodded.

Wolfria followed Brenden out of her chambers and down the hall in a nervous silence. The castle was oddly quiet, especially with her younger sister Tatiana and her many ladies gone on holiday. Wolfria and Brenden’s footsteps echoed across the walls like horse hooves on cobblestone.

Empty suits of armor stood poised like sentinels methodically down one side of the hall, the metal painstakingly polished to shine like noonday sunlight. Rays filtering in from the open windows above reflected off of their lustrous surface every which way, a myriad of patterns. Wolfria even managed to catch her own likeness in the breastplate of the venerable Sir Allistan’s suit.

Sir Allistan had been her grandfather’s second in the Border Wars some forty years earlier. When he died, his armor was put on display in the hall, along with many other esteemed knights, nobles and royals from throughout Fethror’s history. Gone but never forgotten.

The gleaming breastplate rendered her delicate face big and round, her eyes like to monstrous golden-brown jewels and her brown hair a forest of briar bushes. Her slender, pink lips were the size of newborn baby arms and her petite nose was a landmark all its own. Had she not been so on edge she would have giggled at her own silly reflection, but instead she settled for an uneasy smile. Down the Hall of Defenders they went, making a right turn to pass through the magnificent throne room.

Silken banners of the Five Original Kingdoms streamed down on either side of her, followed by those of Tlavia, Rakkuzia, Archaea, Sverlath, and Mercade, hanging limply in the lifeless air as they moved through the bottleneck into the heart of the room. Grey-black stone tiles bordered the royal blue and silver embroidered rug under her feet, regal silver stags staring up at her as she crushed their flat bodies with her heels. The ceiling stretched high above her head, so high she had to crane her neck to see the center of the dome where the mural depicting a scene of yet more stags and huntsmen battling originated.

She meandered to the left side of the court and dais where her father’s enormous throne sat, stoic and strong. A buck's bust erupted from the top of the oak chair, wild and braying, nostrils flared with eyes wide and angry. Commanding antlers protruded from his head, lavished with blue sapphires and diamonds so they glittered harshly. Wolfria admired it inwardly. She had always thought her father’s throne had a brazen beauty about it.

“Please, Your Highness, we mustn’t tarry!” Brenden cheeped at her, drawing her attention to him once more.

“Of course, Mr. Lathmer,” she agreed, understanding his urgency. No one made the king wait.

They turned left into the King’s Hall. Brenden nodded at the two Royal Guard manning the door to the High Table Chamber and they were let in wordlessly. The little page was moving at a brisk pace for such a small body and quickly escorted her up the steps of the dais where her father, King Henrik of Fethror, and her brother, Prince Istvan, sat waiting at the Table.

“Good morning, father. Good morning, Istvan,” she greeted them softly, eyes lowered in deference.

“Good morning, Wolfria,” Istvan answered her with a thin, grim smile, his curly black hair hanging low over his forehead and shadowing his murky brown irises that swirled like an impending storm.

Her father ignored her altogether, instead addressing his page. “Thank you, Brenden. Go and fetch me some fresh meat and wine. I will be back in my chambers shortly to change into my riding cloaks.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” he murmured and bowed deeply then turned around and exited the room, the door slamming shut with an ominous boom.

Wolfria dared to venture a question, her gaze darting about apprehensively. “Father, what is the meaning of this? Women do not belong at the High Table.” Aside from herself and her two family members, she realized the room was otherwise empty, and it gave her the perfect opportunity to get a good look at everything.

The room was fairly large, probably sixty paces deep and forty wide. Much of the wall space was covered by bookshelves lined with old, leather-bound books. Still more was covered by maps and tapestries depicting ancient lands and battles. The wall at the back of the room was home to a large window looking out over the outer bailey where the Guard practiced their swordsmanship, archery and other skills.

The tall ceiling was painted with a mural very similar to the one in the throne room. A large desk sat to her right, scrolls and yet more maps strewn haphazardly across it. The map across the middle of the desk was dotted with miniaturized tents and ships that marked the locations of her father’s Guard in defense of the kingdom, as well as known locations of troops from other kingdoms. The High Table sat atop the plateau in the center of the room as if on display, five steps up on any side it was approached from. It was large enough to seat twenty-four advisors plus her brother and the king.

Speaking of the king, he was sitting silently, observing her with a critical eye. He looked the same as always: black brows low over his dark eyes, his high cheekbones pale and sharp, thin lips set in a brooding manner, thick black hair tucked behind his ears and his wiry hands grasping his chair arms proudly. His long, lean frame looked awkwardly shrunken in his seat, but when he stood he was a good foot taller than she. Above all, he always looked stern.

Wolfria remained uncomfortably at the end of the Table, waiting for the king to speak to her.

“Wolfria, come, sit with me,” he finally said, motioning to the chair at his left. “You know of our growing conflict with Guthror?”

“Yes, father, of course,” she answered as she sat down as gracefully as she could, pretending there were tacks underneath the seat fabric just as she’d been taught in her lessons. If she sat down too fast and heavily, the tacks would prick her bottom, but if she sat down with grace and elegance, she just might avoid that pain.

“Then it will not surprise you to learn that this pretender king, Alaric Vatrark, intends on assassinating our entire family.”

“What?” she gasped, absolutely surprised.

“Before the fall of Old King Tobias, Alaric Vatrark was Duke of Fellden, a large estate in the south of Guthror. He was also a warlord there, as there are many border skirmishes with the Southrons of the Wastelands. Alaric rose to power by killing, and his bloodlust will not be slaked until the royal families of the remaining Four are forever ended.”

“You mean he plans to murder Prince Grantos as well?” she asked, her heart leaping into her throat as images of her betrothed’s handsome, princely face flitted through her head. It’s not true!

“Not just Prince Grantos, my dear,” her father answered, crushing her hopes. “Vatrark means to wipe out the entire lineage of the Original Five: Lysteria, Fethror, Guthror, Hathror and Mithror, replacing it with his own. Winning Guthror isn’t enough. He needs to defeat the rest of us in order to hold his position.”

“Replace the Original bloodline with his own? New blood? But he can’t! Our bloodlines go back to the beginning of the Five themselves, over seven hundred years!”

“He’s already started. Rumor has it he’s preparing his son, Daren, to be the one and future king of the Five once Alaric is gone. This is a ruthless man, Wolfria. He will not tolerate anyone with any sort of claim to a throne. If he defeats us, the Five would merge into one kingdom once more, and then he will move on to the northern countries: Archaea, Mercade, Sverlath...”

“Oh, dear…” Wolfria paused for a moment to let everything sink in, wanting so badly to get up and pace but locking herself inside her body, mentally chaining herself to her chair. It wasn’t appropriate for women to do such things. Worrying was for men. “But why are you telling me all this, father? I’m not trained in war or battle strategy; I can do nothing with this knowledge.”

“Because I’m sending you into hiding.”

“Hiding? Will I be going to Lysteria to be with Grantos?” At the very idea her face lit up like hundreds of stars, her eyes twinkling with excitement and her lips curling into a dreamy smile. The memory of their last parting, three months ago at the Festival of Snow and Ice, rose to her mind - the smell of his golden-brown hair, the warmth in his sky blue eyes, the silky-smooth sound of his low voice as he whispered into her ear, the feel of his strong hands around her waist as he pulled her into him, the taste of his lips on hers... Already the memory was evanescing into the far reaches of her mind, getting harder and harder to pull out. Then her father’s voice shattered it further.

“No, King Viktor and I have decided it is safer to keep you and Grant apart. There’s no better way for Alaric to destroy our alliance with Lysteria than to kill you both, ending your betrothal.”

“I thought your alliance with Lysteria would still stand even if Grant or I died, even if we both died. Grantos’ brother Kindrekk and our Tatiana are still alive,” she said, minding her tone for she knew she was treading on uncertain grounds.

Fortunately, the king tilted his head and didn’t pursue what he would undoubtedly call her feminine intellectual inferiority. It wasn’t her place to question a man, especially if it was about something she should already know. “True, but it’s not a risk we’re willing to take. Tatiana is already in hiding. When she left last week, she wasn’t truly going on holiday. I’ve sent her somewhere safe.”

Wolfria hesitated before she asked her next question, unsure of what to expect his answer to be. “If not to Lysteria, then where are you sending me, father?”

“To your cousin Shyra Devereaux’s manor in Tlavia. It is best for you to be outside of the Five right now,” he said without missing a beat, seemingly unconcerned that she would be hundreds of miles away from her family.

“The Marquess of Ashwood? Father, no, you can’t!” she cried out in horror before she could stop herself. When she realized what she’d done, it was too late to take it back.

“Whyever not, Wolfria?” the king asked in return, a dark look growing in his black eyes, and she could have sworn the air around him grew colder, bringing gooseflesh to her arms as a chill slid down her spine.

“The Marquess means to marry Grant,” she answered obediently, honestly.

Her father snorted. “Nonsense! You are betrothed to the boy. What claim has she to him?”

Pausing to try and quell her trembling heart, she answered him again. “Shyra would butcher me in my sleep to get to Prince Grantos. She has said as such.”

“That’s ridiculous! Marquess Devereaux would never say such a thing! How dare you accuse her of conspiring to murder?” The veins in his fists, arms, and neck filled, looking like bluish-purple snakes under his skin that were waiting to slither out and consume her.

The rage was growing in the king, which was never good, but panic was growing in Wolfria and she couldn’t help the words bursting from her lips. “No, I swear it! Last time she was here at court she came to my chambers and-”

“Silence!” King Henrik screamed and hit her hard across the face. The sound was like a clap of thunder, repeating itself over and over again on the walls of the large, quiet room. Tears of pain and humiliation flooded her eyes and her cheek felt as if hot wax had been slathered on it in the shape of her father’s hand. Wolfria whimpered but held her tongue. She should not have yelled like that.

“Father, perhaps that was unnecessary,” Istvan finally spoke, glancing at his sister with concern, his jaw tense.

“No, son, it was completely necessary. She must learn to be an obedient, submissive woman. Do you think Grantos is going to want an insubordinate wife questioning his every decision when he becomes king?”

“She’s just scared for her safety,” Istvan offered, waving a hand casually through the air as if he could wave the entire situation away.

“Well she shouldn’t be! If I say she’s safe in Tlavia, she’s safe in Tlavia! The Marquess has already agreed to it!” King Henrik snarled like a rabid dog, barely able to remain in his seat.

The tears welling in her eyes were in danger of spilling down her face unchecked, but she couldn’t let the king see her cry. That would only make him angrier, he hated weakness. Yet her life was being threatened and her father was sending her right into the fray. Surely this is just a nightmare!

“Go pack your things, girl,” the king growled, his eyes flashing.

Istvan stared at her helplessly, not daring to say another word for fear of making things worse.

Silently she stood, forced a curtsy, and hurried out of the room, keeping her head down as she rushed back to her own and flung herself onto her bed in a miserable heap. Lady Ella was there playing cards at the table with Lady Malka.

“Milady, what’s wrong?” Malka asked worriedly.

“Please, just leave me be,” she begged.

“But-”

“Go!” The wretched shout was formed half from fear, half from outrage at the king. Her fingers clutched the fur pelts on her bed so tightly the blood seeped away from her knuckles, leaving them ghostly white.

“Yes, milady,” the two women muttered quietly. Ella wordlessly pulled the cooling salve out of the wardrobe and set it on the nightstand next to her, then scurried out of her sight. It was a new tin, Wolfria realized. She hadn’t known she’d gone through the previous one so fast.

Wolfria sullenly stared out her window at the distant treetops, half-heartedly debating with herself about getting up to begin packing her things. There was nothing she could do to change her course, she could only do as she was told, like always. But her father was wrong about Grantos.

Grantos didn’t want her to be submissive and unquestioningly obedient. He was the one who had told her to stand up for herself more often. He was the one that decided to teach her swordsmanship when they were both still children, because he’d found her hiding in her pony’s stall one morning after being struck by her father. He was the one that asked her opinion about important issues in his kingdom, wanting to know what she would do if she were in his place. Nothing about Grantos’ actions had ever suggested that he wanted a mouse-like, submissive wife.

But what if she was wrong? What if he changed his mind when he became king? She didn’t think he’d ever hit her, but what if he stopped caring about her opinion once they were married and she’d borne him a few sons? After all, Grant had never told her he loved her, not once even after all these long years. Perhaps there was a reason for that, a dark, terrifying reason.

“Stop this, Wolfria, you’re being foolish. You know Grant will never be like your father. He’s a good man,” she muttered in irritation, trying to reassure herself as she pushed all her doubts into the background. Instead she moved to apply the cooling salve to her cheek as she read through Grant’s letters for the hundredth time, breathing in the red pine scent from his room that still lingered on the paper. His letters always made her smile.

An hour later, just as she’d resigned herself to pack, a violet haze descended over her vision. She blinked to clear it away but the haze remained and confusion blossomed in her as she sat up and rubbed her eyes. Unable to discern whether the shifting violet hues were in her eyes or in her room, they cast an ominous pallor over everything like shadows under the light of the moon.

“What is this?” she murmured, fear and awe battling within her, each demanding to be felt over the other. The haze grew brighter and she shielded her face from a violet sun that filled her quarters with a deafening roar like that of an angry, thundering rain. Suddenly an invisible, unknowable force slammed her back and down onto her bed, pressing heavily on her chest and throat, the air from her lungs expelled in one single gasp, and then she was choking. Wolfria tried to move her hands up to her throat, to claw at it as if she could scratch holes through her flesh and breathe through them, but they were leaden and paralyzed.

“Help!” she tried to scream, but nothing came out. The purple haze constricted into a ball in a single instant with an otherworldly boom! and the strange power reverberated through her chest, her entire body buzzing painfully. The violet sun drew nearer, ever changing size and shape, a type of liquid air, flowing and ebbing like water. As it came to hover above her, Wolfria’s body wrenched up awkwardly and her limbs hung limply beneath her like a deboned fish. She couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe - even her eyes were frozen in their sockets.

The purple mass moved toward her, menacing and monstrous, but it radiated warmth that slid over her skin like silk. Without warning it shot down into her gaped open mouth and stuffed itself inside her ribs. Every muscle, every bone, every nerve in her screamed with agony as wrenching, searing, boiling pain thrashed through her as if she were being melted alive. Still she couldn’t breathe. Black stars flashed in her head and her lungs begged for air. Tears would have streamed down her colorless cheeks if they could have escaped her eyes.

The invasion taking place went on for only a few seconds but to Wolfria it felt like a hundred lifetimes.

I want to die, I want to die, I WANT TO DIE!

This was the kind of pain she wouldn’t wish upon even her worst enemy, not Alaric or Shyra or whatever demons may lurk in the night. And just like that her body dropped like a rock back onto the bed and the last of the violet mass disappeared within her in a blinding flash. Far too slowly the pain receded and she sucked in air in immense gasps, thinking it had never tasted sweeter. Her quivering lungs burned, her bones ached like someone had driven nails through them and her head now felt much too crowded.

You’ll get used to it, a woman’s voice said as if from nowhere.

The princess leapt off the bed at the sound of it, glancing around like a panicked animal looking for the predator they’d heard in the brush. “Who’s there?” she asked fearfully, her trembling hands searching for some kind of weapon, closing over the gold-gilded hand mirror sitting atop her nightstand.

There’s no need for that, my dear, the voice said gently, high and sweet like a piccolo.

“Who are you? What do you want?” Wolfria asked a little bit louder. Though she couldn’t see the source of the voice, she felt the woman pause.

You may call me Ysolara, princess. And as for what I want, that is a long story.

“I- I don’t understand.”

You will in time.

Wolfria looked down at the mirror in her hands, puzzled, then let out a bloodcurdling scream that had to have been heard all through the castle and perhaps even all through Fethror. Her eyes were violet, glowing the same shade as the monstrosity that had just attacked her. Her entire eye was consumed by it, even the whites, and the soft glow reflected off the mirror and onto her grey, stone walls in all shades of lavendar, grape, plum, amethyst, orchid and mulberry. It was beautiful and it was terrifying. The floor rocked beneath her like a ship in a gale and she clutched at her carved bedpost, her legs suddenly unable to support her weight and buckling weakly.

You shouldn’t have screamed, Ysolara said in a warning tone, like there would be consequences for the scream, like she had angered the invisible woman in her head.

Ysolara sounded close and far away at the same time, her words echoing in Wolfria’s ears but not against the walls and ceiling of her quarters. Her voice was constantly changing: syrupy then raspy, sweet then vicious, soft and gentle then cold and foreboding. First she was a snake, then a harmless rabbit, then a dangerous jungle cat, then a songbird.

Three Guard burst into her quarters, swords drawn and eyes glinting like steel. “Princess, what’s wrong?” one asked as they surveyed the room, expecting to find some sort of assailant or assassin.

“There’s something inside of me!” she cried and rushed toward them frantically. Only the words didn’t come out, and her feet remained rooted to the floor. “Please, help me!” she tried again, with the same results.

“Princess?” the Guard asked again, staring at her.

Can’t they see my eyes? Can’t they see something’s wrong?!

No, they can’t, Ysolara answered, still hidden from sight, and then to Wolfria’s surprise her lips parted and she spoke, but it wasn’t her speaking. It was her own voice but she hadn’t summoned it. “Oh, please! You must help me! I was out on my balcony and I saw a man watching me from the garden. He was dressed all in forest green and he had a sword. When he saw me looking at him he made a cutting motion across his neck,” and involuntarily Wolfria demonstrated for them, “before he ran off into the garden. I think he means to kill me!”

The three Guard all drew in a deep breath in the same moment. It was well known that the ruthless, barbaric mercenaries from Sverlath dressed completely in forest green, and that the phony King Alaric had been rumored to have bought the services of many mercs with his stolen gold stained with the blood of Old King Tobias. “We’ll go search for him straight away,” the first one, Barcroft, said in a deep voice, his face stern.

“How could he possibly have gotten into the castle grounds?” she heard herself ask them.

“I’m not sure, Your Highness, but we will find out as soon as we can. In the meantime stay in your chambers with the doors locked. Montrose and I will remain outside and guard the doors,” the second Guard, she thought his name was Rosehill, said, his voice throaty and unnerved.

Barcroft turned back to her. “I will inform the other Guard immediately and four more will be sent to protect you.”

“Thank you, Barcroft,” she nodded.

Barcroft, Montrose and Rosehill strode purposefully back out the door, leaving Wolfria in silence with Ysolara. As soon as the door shut something released Wolfria, like she’d been a puppet and someone had been tugging on all her strings. “You- you controlled me,” the princess whispered, horror throbbing through her as she realized what exactly had happened. “You’re the violet monster. You forced your way into my body and now you control me.” Now that she’d actually said it, she could feel the woman inside her, like she had a second skin that was completely controlled by a second mind.

Well done, princess, Ysolara said plainly.

“What- what kind of demon are you?!”

Demon? I’m no demon, my dear.

“Then what are you?”

You’ll figure it out soon enough, Ysolara replied, and she felt the woman, or demon or creature or whatever she was, shrug from within her.

“What are you going to make me do?” Wolfria asked slowly, not entirely certain she wanted to know the answer to that. As princess of Fethror, Ysolara could force her to do many unspeakable things: killing her own family and starting wars being the two that terrified her the most. Then there was Grantos, Crown Prince of Lysteria and her betrothed. What would Ysolara make her do to him?

Like I said, Ysolara interrupted her racing thoughts, you’ll find out in time. I can’t reveal all my plans to you, but I can give you a hint: You’ll not be going to Tlavia, you’ll be going to Guthror.

“Guthror?!” Wolfria cried, choking on her gasp and slamming back into her vanity desk. “But I’ll be killed there just as surely as I’d be killed in Tlavia.”

No, you won’t. Obviously I can’t allow for such a thing to happen as I intend to inhabit your vessel for quite some time. There are many things I must accomplish before I can be done with you.

Forcing herself to bite back the fear and bile that rose into her mouth, Wolfria pushed for more information. “And how, exactly, do you intend to keep my vessel, as you call it, from being killed by one of Alaric’s men?”

Don’t worry about that, I have everything under control.

“Quite literally,”the princess muttered. She thought long and hard, trying to remember if she’d ever heard of anything like this happening to anyone else, trying to come up with a way to get rid of Ysolara. It wasn’t magick, it couldn’t be. Magick was a thing of fables and myths. So if it wasn’t magick, what was it?

“Maybe this is all a dream. Maybe I fell asleep after reading Grantos’ letters, and I’m having an awful dream because of my father’s orders,” she whispered meekly, pacing even though she knew she shouldn’t.

It’s not a dream, princess. Don’t be so naive, Ysolara said flatly.

“But it has to be! This- this isn’t possible! It can’t be happening!” she yelled, pulling at her hair.

It is possible, it is happening, and there’s nothing you can do about it. So just accept it and let’s move on, the woman huffed impatiently, crossing her arms and tapping her foot inside Wolfria’s body.

Frantic, Wolfria circled her room, her world spinning. “How can I get you out of me?”

You can’t.

“There must be a way!” she cried, refusing to believe Ysolara and anything she said. Suddenly an idea flitted through her mind and she raced for her knitting chest, snatching up a pair of scissors and intending to slash at her arm, thinking maybe the blood dripping to the carpet would suck the purple woman out and back into the air.

As she raised the blades up, Ysolara jerked her arm back, physically forcing her to put the scissors away. Don’t. The order was stern, as stern as one her father would give. Hurting yourself won’t get rid of me, Ysolara told her.

Near to tears, Wolfria begged, knowing it wasn’t acceptable for a princess to do so, and yet begging anyway. “Please! Please! I don’t know what you want with me, and I don’t know why you want me to go to Guthror, but I’m begging you to please leave me alone! Don’t make me do this...” Her heart thudded in her chest like a racehorse, going faster and faster until she was sure it would burn up like water under a hot sun.

Ysolara sighed. I know you don’t understand, but there is no other way. Someday I will tell you everything, but I can’t right now, I’m sorry. I can only hope that you take comfort in my promise that I am here to do good, not evil.

The princess rested her head in her hands, her long, brown hair slipping forward over her small shoulders and shadowing her strained face. “When do I leave?” she croaked.

Midnight tonight.

“What?! I can’t possibly be ready for such a journey by midnight!”

Wolfria - you don’t mind if I call you that, do you? - You will come to learn that nothing gets in my way, that nothing and no one can stop me. So don’t fret. I will tell you what to do, where to go, what to say, everything really. And you can bet on Grantos’ life that you will be out of this castle at midnight. Do you understand me?

She gulped, a bitter taste on her tongue at the fact that Ysolara had used Grantos’ life as a betting chip, knew enough about her to know that Grantos was important to her. How did she know these things? “Yes.”

Good. Now sit down and act distressed. Your brother is coming.

“Huh? How do you know that?” No answer. Swallowing nervously, she walked quickly to her tea table and sat down, precariously perched on the edge of her chair. Only moments later Istvan was allowed entrance by Rosehill and Montrose.

“Wolfria, are you alright?” The question left his lips almost before he was through the door. Worry swirled in his brown eyes and contorted his smooth, handsome face, his dark reddish-brown stubble of a beard and bags under those same eyes hinting at just how much worrying he’d done of late.

“I’m- I’m fine,” she said uneasily, and they both knew it was a lie. Ysolara was there, lingering in the background, ready to step in and take control if Wolfria fell astray of whatever it was she was plotting.

Istvan sighed heavily, his shoulders sagging as he closed the distance between them and pulled her into a tight hug. “Do you see now why we must send you away? It’s too dangerous here.”

Instantly she jerked out of his arms. “It’s too dangerous in Ashwood!”

With a frustrated groan he looked up at her ceiling, trying to compose himself, to think of how best to convince her that their plan was the only plan, even though he, himself didn’t like the plan very much. Deciding it was useless to argue about, he changed the subject. “Wolfria, you shouldn’t have yelled at father like that. You know how he is, especially with you,” he said slowly as he lowered himself onto her bed.

“I know,” she mumbled, sitting down next to him, gracefully like a princess should. “But he is sending me to my death. I couldn’t stay silent. The Marquess would sooner flay me alive than protect me. You know that, I know that, Tatiana knows that… Why can’t father see? He should be sending me to Lysteria to be with Grantos. Alaric’s reach is not yet that far.”

“Wolfria, that’s not wise-”

“I don’t care! We are to be married in a year anyway!” she pointed out emphatically. “It would be an excellent opportunity for us to get to know each other better before the wedding, and for me to get to know his people.”

He shook his head. “But you already know each other quite well, Wolfria, I’ve seen the way you two look at each other. And his people are going to love you, just as ours do. How could they not? You are everything that’s good in this world.”

“Stop, Istvan. You don’t know what it’s like for me. I’ve been engaged to Grant since before I was even born! Do you have any idea how it feels to grow up knowing your life was sold away like that, knowing you have to be perfect and obedient and submissive so you don’t ruin an important alliance, terrified that your fiance isn’t going to like you or that you won’t live up to his expectations?” Wolfria paused and pressed her palms to her face, trying to reign in her emotions before they exploded out of her like lava from a volcano. “You will be king someday, no matter what. But if I mess up with Grantos, if I embarrass father like that, he could disown me! I could be kicked out onto the streets!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he scoffed, casually resituating himself on her bed.

“I’m not. Can you imagine how father would react if I had to tell him that Grantos didn’t want to marry me?” she asked.

Evidently he could, because at that he fell speechless, staring down into his hands. “I’m sorry, I hadn’t thought of it like that,” he told her, pity suddenly surging through him as he realized just how much weight she had on her shoulders. If Grantos decided he didn’t want to marry Wolfria, not only would it shame her and ruin her chances of finding another suitor, it would publicly shame their whole family. Both he and Tatiana would be hard-pressed to find someone who would willingly marry them, marry into a ruined name.

For a moment Wolfria wanted to ask him if he’d known of their father’s plan, about why Tatiana had actually left, but then the answer slammed into her. Of course he had. She’d seen it on his face when she entered the High Table. “Why didn’t you warn me of this, Istvan?!” Betrayal rained down on her, drowning her still stinging lungs and wrenching at her stomach like he’d stabbed her with a red-hot blade.

“What good would it have done? You could not have changed his mind,” he answered plainly, reaching for her hand, pain registering in his face when she pulled hers away.

“But how could you allow him to send me there? Why didn’t you stop him?”

“Don’t you think I tried?” he snapped in exasperation, standing up to pace her floor. Wolfria’s anger faltered. Istvan never paced, it wasn’t appropriate for royalty to show worry so visibly; if he was pacing it meant he was very seriously concerned about her situation.

Instantly the rage that had just boiled in her veins cooled and her bitterness deflated. None of this was his fault, she had no right to be upset with him. “I’m sorry, Istvan, I know you did,” she murmured and stared hopelessly at the angry stag on the rug that brandished the floor next to her bed. With a heavy sigh he sat back down next to her. “What about you and mother? Is father shipping you away as well?” Wolfria asked, Ysolara’s keen attention preventing her from saying anything about the strange woman creature that had taken root inside of her.

“As soon as you arrive safely in Ashwood, I am leaving here to do some training in secret, but mother will be staying.”

“So we are all to be separated…” she whispered sadly.

He nodded. “Yes, I’m afraid so.”

Silence fell between them like an invisible wall, almost as if they were already separated and on opposite sides of Jerikova. Briefly she wondered if she would be allowed to send him or Tatiana any letters, not that she knew where Tatiana really was anyway, or where Istvan was going to end up. So that answered that question.

We don’t have time for this, you need to start preparing for your journey. Make him leave, Ysolara commanded, and Wolfria felt her puppet strings being pulled again, giving her little choice in the matter.

“Istvan, I must ask you to leave now,” she said quietly, her eyes downcast as she motioned toward the door.

His black brows bent into a confused expression. “Why?”

“I’m feeling rather exhausted and I would like to get some rest before this long trip, and I need to start packing as well. I’m sure you have plenty of other duties to attend to, anyway.”

“Well, yes, I suppose so, but I can stay if you would like the company-”

“No, that’s quite alright,” she said quickly, too quickly.

Istvan crossed his arms and gazed down at her intently, and for a moment she thought maybe he could see the purple of Ysolara’s presence in her eyes, but the invisible woman chose to inform her then that no one could see her violet eyes unless she allowed for them to see it. “Wolfria, is something wrong? Something other than your concerns about Ashwood?” her brother asked observantly.

None of the words she truly wanted to say left her mouth, she could only say what Ysolara ordered her to. “No.”

“Okay, if you’re sure...” He stood up, hesitantly moving toward her chamber door.

“I am, I’m just shaken by that Sverlath merc. Thank you for everything, Ista.” She used his nickname not because she wanted to tip him off that something was wrong, but because she knew she was going to miss him while she was gone and it was the closest thing to a goodbye she could give him. With no clues as to how long she’d be in Guthror or what she’d be doing there, she couldn’t help but wonder if she’d ever see him again, and the very thought made her heart twist agonizingly.

“Always, Wolfie,” he replied with a forced smile. Her nickname, Wolfie, had started as a joke when they were children. In recent years Tatiana and Istvan only used it when they were teasing her, and even then they rarely said it outside of their chambers. Father had insisted that such a nickname was childish and improper for a princess.

Still it brought a smile to her face and she stood on her tip-toes, pulling his head down so she could kiss the center of his curly, black hair. “Now go,” she said, ushering his large, muscular body out into the Hall of Defenders, locking the door after him. Time to get to work, my dear. We have not a second to spare.

A prisoner in her own body, Wolfria was jerked about her room while Ysolara bid her hands to pick up certain items or dresses that would be packed into saddlebags she’d be forced to obtain later that night after darkness fell.

“Can’t you tell me anything at all? I know I’m going to Guthror, but why? What could I possibly do there? And to go alone is absolute madness, you must know this. If Alaric gets wind of my being there, he will send out every last man in the kingdom to find me, no matter how long it takes. I can’t outrun him forever…”

Ysolara clucked forebodingly. Don’t worry, princess. You won’t be running, not for long at least. Soon Alaric Vatrark will see that there are more important things to worry about, bigger things, and you will no longer be of any concern to him.

Wolfria snorted doubtfully, the one thing she managed to do of her own bidding before the purple woman silenced her and ordered her about the room with such ease it made her nauseous with terror. She truly had lost all control of her life, if she’d ever had any to begin with.