Chapter eight

Lythera’s POV

The carriage slows so abruptly that my injured head knocks against the wooden wall, sending a sharp burst of pain through my skull.

I squeeze my eyes shut, biting down on the inside of my cheek as I wait for the throbbing to settle. For a moment, I cannot remember where I am. The darkness inside the carriage has become so familiar that I have almost forgotten what the outside looked like.

Then the carriage comes to a complete stop, the horses snort in protest, and I hear unfamiliar voices beyond the door.

“We have arrived.”

The words barely register before the carriage door is pulled open, allowing a rush of cold air to sweep across my face. I flinch against the sudden brightness, blinking several times as I attempt to make sense of what lies beyond the doorway.

Beyond the gates, I catch glimpses of imposing buildings, pointed towers, and a road that winds toward what must be the heart of the Shadow Kingdom. Everything looks strangely beautiful in a severe, almost haunting way, but I have neither the strength nor the inclination to admire it.

“Is the bride coming out?” a man asks.

There is a brief silence.

I hear someone shift impatiently, followed by the clinking of metal as a guard approaches the carriage. “Perhaps she is waiting for an invitation.”

I want to tell them that I am trying. I want to explain that my body feels as though it has been dragged through a battlefield, that every movement hurts, and that I can barely lift my head without the world tilting around me.

But my throat is dry, my tongue feels heavy, and even the thought of speaking exhausts me. I press my palm against the carriage seat and attempt to push myself upright. My arm trembles almost immediately, and I collapse against the wall with a strangled gasp.

Outside, the men fall silent.

“Something is wrong.” The voice sounds closer now. “Check the carriage.”

Two sets of boots approach. I hear the guards exchange a few hurried words before one of them bends to peer inside. Whatever he sees makes him freeze.

“Gods above.”

The second guard moves beside him. “What happened to her?”

I cannot answer.

I barely have the strength to look at them, but I can see their expressions change as their eyes travel over my face, lingering on the blood dried around my temple and the dark stain that has spread across the front of my ivory gown. My hair is tangled, loose strands sticking to my cheeks, and the embroidered sleeves that once concealed every mark I carried.

“Can you hear me, my lady?” the first guard asks, his voice suddenly gentler.

I manage a weak nod.

“Then let us help you down.”

I try to reach for the edge of the carriage, determined not to make an even greater spectacle of myself, but my fingers slip against the polished wood. The guard extends his hand. I grasp it, using what little strength I have left to pull myself toward the open doorway. My feet find the step, and for one foolish second, I believe I might actually manage to stand.

Then my knees buckle.

A startled cry escapes someone nearby as I pitch forward. The guard catches my arm, but my weight pulls us both off balance, and I fall against the front of the carriage before sliding helplessly toward the ground. Pain explodes through my forehead. Several people gasp, and the sound of hurried footsteps fills the air as hands reach for me.

“Careful! Do not move her too quickly!”

“Fetch the healer!”

“What in the name of the Seven Shadows have they done to this woman?”

I try to lift my head, embarrassed by the commotion, but a wave of dizziness forces my eyes shut. Someone slips an arm behind my shoulders while another carefully supports my legs.

“She is the bride sent to the Shadow King,” one of the guards says in disbelief. “How could House Amberton deliver her in this condition?”

“Perhaps their carriage was attacked on the road.”

“Attacked by whom? We have received no report of an ambush.”

“Then perhaps you should ask the people who sent her.” His companion lowers his voice, glancing toward the towering gates. “The king will demand an explanation. What do you imagine he will do when he discovers that the bride promised to him has arrived bleeding and barely able to stand?”

Neither man answers. They do not need to. The fear that settles over their faces tells me enough.

The Shadow King.

The healer’s chambers are warmer than the courtyard, filled with the scent of crushed herbs, clean linen, and something faintly floral. They settle me on a narrow bed while an elderly man in dark robes approaches, his silver-streaked hair pulled away from his face. He examines me with an expression that shifts from professional concentration to undisguised alarm when he sees the injury on my forehead.

“Who did this to you?” he demands.

I turn my face away.

The healer pauses, then looks toward the guards who have followed us inside. “How long has she been bleeding?”

“We do not know, Master Healer. She arrived like this.”

“Arrived like this?” He repeats the words as though he cannot believe them. “You mean to tell me that the kingdom which promised this young woman to our king sent her across the border with an injury this severe and did not even provide an explanation?”

“We were not present when she was placed in the carriage.”

“That is hardly an answer.”

The guards exchange uncomfortable looks. One of them opens his mouth, apparently prepared to defend himself, but the healer has already turned back to me. His expression softens when he sees me struggling to keep my eyes open.

“Forgive me, my lady. I should not be questioning you while you are in this state. Let me see what I can do.”

He dips a cloth into a bowl of warm water and begins cleaning the dried blood from my forehead. I flinch when he touches the wound, my fingers curling into the sheets, and he immediately eases his pressure.

“I know it hurts,” he murmurs. “But the wound must be cleaned properly. You have lost enough strength already.”

I stare at the ceiling while he works, allowing the tears gathering in my eyes to remain where they are. I have cried enough for one lifetime.

I will not cry here.

The healer presses two fingers lightly against the skin surrounding my wound, then closes his eyes. A faint silver glow spreads beneath his fingertips, warm against my cold skin. The magic seeps into the injury in gentle pulses, easing the sharpest edges of the pain. My shoulders loosen despite myself, and I release a breath I had not realised I was holding.

“There,” he says after a while. “The bleeding has stopped, and I have managed to close the worst of the wound. You will still need rest. The injury is not something I would dismiss lightly, and your body is terribly exhausted.”

He continues examining me, checking the bruises along my arms and the places where the journey has left me aching. His expression darkens more than once, but he asks no further questions about who caused them. Instead, he gives me a bitter draught to drink and orders one of the attendants to bring fresh water.

When he finally steps back, I feel quite better. The pounding in my head has reduced to a dull ache, and I can focus on the room without everything spinning quite so violently. Yet the rest of me remains heavy and weak.

“You must rest,” he insists, helping me settle against the pillows. “I would prefer to keep you here until tomorrow, at the very least. Whatever business awaits you can wait until you are strong enough to attend to it.”

The door opens before I can answer. A tall man wearing dark armour steps inside, his expression stern as his gaze moves from the healer to me. Unlike the guards at the gate, he carries himself with the quiet authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed. A sword hangs at his side, and the insignia fastened to his shoulder marks him as an officer of considerable rank.

“Master Healer,” he says. “Is the king’s bride ready?”

The healer straightens. “Ready for what?”

“To meet His Majesty. The king has ordered that she be brought before him immediately.”

For a moment, the only sound in the chamber is the faint crackling of the fire.

Then the healer lets out an incredulous breath. “Look at her! She has only just arrived, and I have spent the better part of an hour treating her injuries. She is weak, barely able to sit upright, and needs rest. Surely His Majesty can allow her a little time to recover before demanding an audience.”

The commander’s expression does not change, but something in his eyes grows colder. “His Majesty has given an order.”

“And I am telling you that she is not well enough to walk across a palace!”

“Then arrange for someone to assist her.”

The healer looks at him. “You cannot be serious.”

“I assure you, Master Healer, I have no desire to argue with you.” The commander glances in my direction, and for the first time, I feel the full weight of his attention.

The healer draws a breath, clearly preparing another protest. “She is a young woman who has been delivered to this kingdom in a deplorable state. Whatever the king wishes to discuss with her, it can wait until—”

“Please.”

My voice is so faint that both men turn toward me.

I swallow, wincing at the dryness in my throat. The healer immediately moves closer, but I reach for his hand before he can speak.

“It is all right,” I whisper.

“No, my lady, it is not.” His brows draw together. “You should not have to leave this bed in your condition.”

“I know.” I take a careful breath, gathering what little strength I have left. “But if the king has ordered me to appear before him, I would rather go than have you suffer the consequences of refusing him on my behalf.”

The commander’s expression shifts almost imperceptibly. Perhaps he had expected tears, complaints, or a desperate plea for more time.

The healer, however, looks deeply unhappy.

“At least allow me to help you stand,” he says. “And you will take someone with you. I will not have you collapsing halfway down the corridor without anyone there to catch you.”

I nod, though the thought of standing makes my stomach tighten with apprehension.

The healer squeezes my hand once before releasing it. An attendant approaches with a dark cloak, draping it around my shoulders to cover the worst of the stains on my gown, though the blood along my sleeves remains visible. She carefully gathers my tangled hair away from my face, and the healer helps me shift toward the edge of the bed.

My feet touch the floor.

For one terrifying moment, the room tilts, and I clutch the healer’s arm to keep myself upright. He steadies me without a word, waiting until the dizziness passes. Even then, my knees tremble beneath me, and I know I will need assistance to make it through the corridors.

The commander steps aside to clear the way.

“His Majesty is waiting.”

I lift my chin, although my body protests the movement and my heart begins to pound against my ribs.

I have no idea what the king expects from me, what he will think when he sees the state I am in, or whether the stories I have heard about him are even half as terrible as the truth.

I take a slow, unsteady breath as the commander turns toward the door.

And with the healer supporting one side of me, I prepare to meet him.

The shadow king.